When We Collided(44)

Jonah appears beside me, his hands on the rail. “The town paid an insane amount of money for it to be a working lighthouse. They only turn it on for special occasions.”

“They let you light it for my birthday?” I can’t believe this; I honestly cannot. How silly I was at the beginning of the summer, believing Jonah needed me to make him happy.

His mouth slips into a smile. “Let’s just say I’d rather beg forgiveness than ask permission.”

We stand together for what feels like a long time, the radio playing melodies over the white noise of sloshing waves.

“My dad used to take me here,” Jonah says finally. “He’s the one who brought that radio up here, to listen to baseball games. I was obsessed with baseball and boats as a kid. We don’t really have boats in Verona Cove, but we pretended.”

“Of course you love boats.” I adjust the straps of my wings. “You used to be a sea captain.”

He smiles at me, shaking his head in that Oh, Viv kind of way that lets me know he’s so terribly fond of me and the things he perceives as eccentricities.

“I haven’t been back here since.” This feels like an admission, like he’s confessing to a weakness or flaw. “But I wanted you to see it.”

I know what he means to say: I wanted you to see me. And I do see him—illuminated with his downturned eyes and the mouth that must be pried into a smile, that gorgeous hair dancing in this wind. I also know he can’t talk about his dad so easily, like each word tries to float up his windpipe, but they get stuck to the back of his throat. For once, I keep my damn mouth shut because I want to leave room for him.

“Have you ever heard that saying ‘Ships are safe in harbor, but that’s not what ships are for’?”

I nod, although I’m not sure where or how I’ve heard. Maybe it’s one of those phrases that somehow exists in the collective subconscious of all people—and especially those of us who are drawn to the sea, who hear a siren call to the water.

“My dad had that quote engraved on the underside of this watch that his dad gave him. He said it’s the reason he spent all his money opening the restaurant, why he married my mom and had us kids so young.” He sighs, looking down at the ocean below us. “He said the measure of the man is in those decisions. Do you keep yourself and your family safe in harbor, always? Or do you move forward and brave the storms?”

At this, I reach for his arm, placing my hand over the sleeve of his tuxedo jacket. “He sounds like such a good dad.”

“He was.” Jonah’s stare stays out over the water. “I keep wondering if it’ll ever hurt less. This . . . this hole in our lives.”

“Oh, I imagine it’ll hurt less eventually. I think there will always be a hole, though. But lace is one of the most beautiful fabrics, you know. All those holes and gaps, but it’s still complete somehow—still lovely.”

This makes him smile, at least. “I wouldn’t have thought about it like that. Sorry. I’m being a downer. I was lucky to have him for as long as I did. I know that.”

This makes me tilt my head away from him, frowning as I consider what he means. “Jonah, you don’t have to justify missing him just because I don’t have a dad. They’re totally different things.”

He locks eyes with me, daring a question. “Do you ever miss your dad?”

“Is it possible to miss someone you never met?” I ask. But I do—miss my dad, I mean. Or, at least, I wonder what I might be missing by not knowing him. Every once in a while, when my mood starts to whirlpool, I feel angry at him or my mom or I feel sorry for myself. “Yes, I suppose it is possible. Because I miss your dad sometimes, even though I never met him. I feel like I know him a little, like if I collect fragments of the six of you and tape them together, there he is: a mosaic of your pieces.”

This gets a smile, if a sad one. “Do you know anything about your dad?”

“He was a musician, I think. I’ve figured some of it out, even though my mom refuses to talk about him. I badgered her so much when I was little, just for one detail, that she finally told me she met him when she was at a concert.” In my mind, I can see my mom, only nineteen, and this blur of a man I’ve never seen or met. I imagine him with longish hair and a stubbly, rock-star beard, maybe tight pants and tattoos. “I don’t really blame him for not being around, you know. He’s a creative soul, a free-spirited musician, and I think that’s partially where I get my wild streak from. That’s just who he is, wherever he is, and I like that I come from artistic stock anyway.”

I cock my hip, posing with one hand in my hair. “I actually feel bad for the guy. He doesn’t even know what he’s missing.”

Jonah looks at me so admiringly, and my heart bounces like a pinball from my stomach to my throat to either side of my rib cage. I know I am something special—I know that I am because I am trying to be, and it is nice to be seen, the way I see him.

I face the ocean, and he wraps both of his arms around me, chin on my shoulder. I have this feeling that if we fell forward into the water, hanging on to Jonah would buoy me, drag me back up to the surface.

Some of the guys I’ve been with, they’ve tried to pin me down. They wanted to box me into the details, the wheres and whens and hows of our togetherness, and it always pinched my nerves that they needed to map out a plan for feelings. Other guys, they seemed totally content to let me prance in and out of their lives, relieved that they didn’t have to agree to future plans, no concert tickets for a show later that summer, no prom tickets months in advance.