Chez Whitecomb is on the beach, about a half-mile away from the portal. Compared to the house in California, it’s small—single story, recessed slightly from the beach and painted white and weathered from years and salty air.
Later, as I stand on the wide, wrap-around porch, I tell him, “I love this house, too.” And he nods once more, because it’s obvious he loves it, too.
I lean back against the railing when he drags an Adirondack chair over to stand on. Even on the chair, he’s on his tiptoes to reach up under one of the eaves. “Whatcha looking for?” I ask, trying my best not to ogle his long, well-toned limbs.
“This.” He brandishes a small, tarnished key.
I laugh. “You just leave your key here, for anyone to use?”
He chuckles and unlocks the door. The house is sparsely decorated, with just a few well-worn pieces of furniture in each space. I move from room to room, dragging my fingers across various objects reverently, feeling like I’m being shown a great secret.
Once back into the living room, I ask, “How is it that Callie hasn’t already put her stamp on this place?” He’s silent, so I add, “You know. Like your apartment.”
He turns away to open up a window. “Well, this place isn’t solely mine. It’s Jonah’s, too.” Another window is opened before he says quietly, “I suppose you’ll be the one to pick out how this place gets decorated, if you want it changed. Since it’ll be yours, too, when you two get married.”
I stare at the hardwood floors, because I cannot meet his eyes.
We’re sitting at a tiny beach shack, ten minutes away from his house, one where you order at a window and eat at weathered white tables overlooking the ocean. The fish tacos, as Kellan guaranteed on the walk over, are the best I’ll ever taste. He’s right. And as we eat, we talk some more. It’s now Q & A time, with me trying my luck at asking the most ridiculous questions ever.
“Favorite comfort food.”
He thinks about this. “Boxed macaroni and cheese.”
I nearly spit out the bite I’d just chewed. “No!”
“I’m afraid so.” He grins ruefully. “Let me guess. Yours is hot dogs?” I laugh and he adds, “It’s so weird I never knew that about you, although, I guess maybe I should have. You used to eat more hot dogs on our dates than anyone I’d ever met before.”
“You say it like it’s a bad thing,” I grin, “but I refuse to take offense. Actually—my true guilty pleasure are churros.”
He visibly shudders, which only makes me laugh all the more. “Alright, Mr. Food Snob,” I tease, picking a piece of lettuce from my taco. “How about this: favorite number?”
“I don’t have a lucky number.”
Interesting. “I do. It’s thirty-one.”
His head cocks to the side as he sips his soda. “Why thirty-one?”
“When I was little, I always assumed that when I was thirty-one, I would be so worldly, so independent that I would no longer have to do anything my parents ever told me again. Honestly, I think I saw someone on TV who was that age, and their life seemed ideal. So it stuck.”
“Huh.” His little half-grin slides across his face, and my heart lurches so strongly that I lose my breath.
I rush to continue talking. “If you don’t have a favorite number, then what’s your favorite nail polish color?”
He stares at me incredulously before I break out in more giggles. “Just kidding. What about your favorite dessert? And don’t tell me churros, because I know you’ll be lying to me, mister.”
“How about I show you, rather than tell?”
After we finish eating, we walk up the street a little ways, and he explains that what we’re about to have is quintessential Hawaiian. My mind entertains a wealth of exotic desserts, all built around some kind of tropical fruit, so when we stop in front of a tiny, orange shack with bright yellow rimmed windows, I’m momentarily taken aback. Because one of the boys walking out of the shack is carrying a snow cone. “Um,” I murmur, turning towards Kellan. “Are you kidding me? Snow cones?”
Someone in the rather long line snaking out of the door shoots me a look dripping with derision, like I’m a moron or something. Amusement glitters in Kellan’s eyes, despite the dark around us. “They’re not really snow cones. It’s shave ice.” A quick glance at the sign above the door confirms this. Shave Ice, it reads.
“It’s spelled wrong,” I tell him, but Kellan only chuckles, shaking his head.
“No more talking,” he says, and there’s this fantastic smile to go along with his words. “You wanted Hawaiian, didn’t you? I’m giving you exactly what you want.”
But we do talk, all the way until we get our cups and then all the way back to his house. And I’m feeling so happy, so content with this afternoon, or rather evening in Hawaii—with the water, and the beach, and my fish tacos, and shave ice, and most importantly, time with Kellan—that I choose to ignore my phone when it rings.