“If you look, you can make out a natural staircase, although you’ll have to really stretch for that third rock.”
He’s right. Upon closer inspection, there are a series of small, flat, footholds previously invisible to me. After a few scary moments, where I shriek a little too loud and cling to his shirt a little too tight, we reach the sand, where he’s already spread out a black-and-red buffalo blanket. Bennet abandons me with the cooler to resume his post by a rusty fire ring filled with the ash of previous fires.
He piles driftwood into a teepee formation, while I put sand in the mason jars and set the candles. I place them around the campfire, lighting them with Bennet’s fire starter. When finished, I brush the sand from my hands and take a look around. It’s perfect.
“Should I go get my own blanket?” I ask.
“Of course not,” he says. “Have a seat.”
His blanket is between the base of the bluff and the fire ring. The bluff is steep enough to provide a backrest when I sit down, and I lean into the natural lounge chair while the waves crash gently on the shore. The first faint stars are beginning to show themselves. The only thing to disturb the scene is Bennet’s rustling of newspapers as he crumples them into balls and shoves them under the tower of kindling.
“You look like you know what you’re doing.”
“Former boy scout,” he says, giving me a little salute. “Later, if you want, I can cook you some beans in the can and whittle you a spoon to eat them with. I think you’ll find I’m a handy guy to keep around.” He winks and—to my horror—my face flushes hot. Thank God it’s getting dark. And where is Natalie?
Her reaction to my invitation had been similar to Bennet’s surprised interest, but she said she was coming. If she ditches, this is going to be so incredibly awkward.
Bennet crouches low, his cheek practically in the sand, and blows into the base of the fire. The paper flares and the kindling takes. He stands up and watches the fire for a while, adding some more dry wood, then he comes over to stand by the blanket. He looks down at me but says nothing.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“Well, it is my blanket,” he says. “Are you going to move over, or are you going to make me sit in the sand?”
I move over, and he sits beside me, his right leg pressed against my left. He leans back against the bluff and puts his left arm behind his head.
The night is silent, except for the lush lapping of the waves against the sand, the cracks and sparks of the campfire, and the bass drum of my heart slamming in my ears. My mind is racing as I try to think of something clever to say, but everything sounds dull in my head. He probably thinks I’m dull.
I bite the side of my lip and grasp at alternatives. It’s possible he’s the kind of guy who’s good with silence. Maybe he thinks this is perfect, sitting here, saying nothing.
No. That’s not it. I twist my fingers in the edge of the blanket. I wish I hadn’t asked him to come. He has become a temptation that I have no business succumbing to.
A streak of light flashes in front of me, and for a second I think I’m losing control of all my senses.
“Did you see that?” he asks.
“Oh, thank God,” I say on an exhale. “I thought I was imagining things.”
“Shooting star. Keep your eyes open. There’ll be more.”
I ponder that and continue to search the sky, finding Polaris then tracing the Big Dipper with my finger. When I’m done, I drop my hand back to my lap.
“That’s Ursa Major and Minor,” he says, “or the Big and Little Bear. That’s where the island gets its name. Do you know the story?”
I shake my head. “I’ve heard it called the little bear, but I didn’t know why.”
Bennet puts his warm hand over my cool one, gives it a squeeze, and my heart races. Our fingers slide together. He lifts our hands as one, and we trace the line of the Little Bear stars together. I can’t look away from where our fingers are linked because holding Bennet’s hand is like a thousand gears and locks snapping into place in my head. Click. Click. Whirrr-Click.
“The Greeks believed that Zeus had a son with a mortal woman named Callisto, and