I waited inside until the store started closing for the day. When the lights turned off, I headed to the clinic, carrying a shit load of strawberries. Damian wasn’t there. No one was seated in the waiting room.
“Is anyone in with the doctor?” I asked the receptionist.
“No, but we’re done for the day. Sorry, you’ll have to come back tomorrow.”
I stumbled back outside, lugging the strawberries behind me.
He’d left me. It had been his plan all along—drop me off at the clinic, have them call it in.
We think it’s the same girl. She came in with a severed finger. That’s what tipped us off. It’s been all over the news, how her father received a piece of it. Gruesome stuff. No sign of the guy.
When that hadn’t worked, he’d made up an excuse to go in himself. Maybe he did get his stitches removed. Maybe he came out, saw me waiting with two bags full of strawberries and decided that leaving me was the best thing he could do. For both of us. And yes, that made sense. I should find the nearest police station and contact my father. I could be back in La Jolla tomorrow, in my sweet room that was twice the size of Damian’s island house, being fussed over and pampered and catered to. That made sense. Not this. Not me running down the streets that led to the harbor, hailing a cab in the mad hope that I could still catch him, clutching on to cartons of strawberries as they spilled all over the seats.
“Stop! Right here!” I threw some bills at the driver, recognizing the dock where we’d anchored, and got out before he came to a full stop.
I ran to the end of the pier just as Damian’s boat was pulling out of the harbor.
“Damian!” I tiptoed at the very edge, as close to him as I could get, trying to catch his attention. “Damian!”
He turned around.
Yes.
There was no clearer way for me to show him that I had forgiven him, that what I felt went way beyond the hurt and pain I’d suffered. I understood the why. I understood him. It was his turn now, to let go, to take a chance, to let me stand up for him, to let me stand with him, come what may.
All you have to do is turn the boat around and come back, Damian.
He heard me, even though I didn’t say a word. Our eyes met and I could see everything he felt. For a few, sky-blue, suspended moments, my heart and his were the same; they wanted the same thing. Then he turned back around and continued steering away.
I let go of the stupid strawberries. I let go of the stupid hope that had swelled up in my chest like a big, stupid balloon. I let go of my stupid pride and sat on the stupid pier and let myself stupid cry.
I had chased after Damian’s boat, just as he had chased after my car all those years ago. But this was different. This was no dry, dusty road. This was clear day, clear sky. Nothing had obscured me from him. He had seen me, and he had heard me, and he had chosen to keep going. Because where there’s hate, there can be no love, and Damian still hated my father.
“You have no right to punish me for it!” I chucked a strawberry after the boat. It was getting smaller and smaller by the minute. I was about to throw another one after him, but he didn’t deserve any strawberries so I stuffed it into my mouth and wiped my tears.
“What’s the matter, dear?” I felt a warm hand on my shoulder. It was an elderly lady wearing a sheer, fringed kimono over a tube top and long skirt. Her fingers sparkled with chunky cocktail rings.
“I missed my ride.” I felt an instant kinship with the big, busty woman. She jingled and jangled from all the colorful necklaces and bracelets she was wearing.
“That one there?” She pointed at Damian’s boat.
I nodded.
“It’s not too late. We can still catch up. Ken and I were just getting ready to leave. Hop on, we’ll give you a ride.”
I followed her to a small sailboat on the pier.
“I’m Judy, by the way. And this is my husband, Ken.” She gestured to a man with a large, kind face.
“Nice to meet you.” I shook hands. If they thought it rude that I’d omitted my name, they didn’t say anything. They seemed like nice people, and I didn’t want to lie to them, but I wasn’t taking any chances, in case they’d heard the news.
“Nothing like a lover’s spat on the high seas,” said Ken, after Judy explained the situation.
“I didn’t say they were lovers. Please excuse my husband.” Judy turned to me. Her blond hair was so bright it looked almost white. “All this sun is getting to him. We don’t get much in Hamilton.”
“Hamilton?” I asked, as we cast off. “Where is that?”
“In Canada. We run a little vintage store, but we sail a fair bit and sometimes we find all kinds of local knick-knacks to take back.”
“She’s wearing half of them.” Ken winked at me. “If we sink somewhere off the Pacific Coast, it’ll be from all of her shopping.”
A fellow shopper. No wonder I’d felt an instant connection.
“Would you like some strawberries?” I asked. It was all I had to offer for their kindness.