May December Love Affair

The salt wind hit my face the moment I stepped off the curb, right over the sweet heat of frying dough from the vendor stall and the sharp tang of diesel from the small boats rocking against their moorings. Marlowe Pier was already alive - music thumping from somewhere under the boardwalk, gulls shouting like they had opinions, the deck boards vibrating with every footstep. I kept my sunglasses on longer than I needed to, even though dusk was turning everything honeyed and forgiving. If I looked like I belonged, maybe I could pretend this was just a friend’s outing. Just a crowd. Just a way to be seen without being recognized.

“Celeste! Over here,” Lark called, her voice bright enough to cut through the noise. I found her by the swing of her ponytail and the movement of her hands - one waving, one already holding her phone up like a compass. She pulled me into her orbit, into the safe conversation of girls-in-the-middle-of-summer, and I let her. I nodded, laughed at the right moments, and acted like I wasn’t scanning the pier’s length for an excuse to keep my distance.

That excuse arrived in the form of a man leaning near the rail, just far enough back from the crush that he looked calmer than everyone around him. Edmund Hart stood with his hands loosely in his pockets, shoulders relaxed, gaze fixed on the water as if it were the only thing that could drown out the noise. He wasn’t dressed like the tourists - no loud patterns, no novelty hat. His shirt was light and crisp, sleeves rolled with deliberate ease. Up close, I could see the silver at his temples catching dusk like threads pulled through a loom.

I told myself I was only looking because he looked out of place. Then my eyes betrayed me by remembering the shape of his face from a photograph I’d seen once - an older man in a local news clipping, the kind of face that carried an authority you felt even before you heard the name.

My desire wasn’t to talk to him. It wasn’t even to know him. It was simpler and more selfish: to watch from a distance and leave untouched whatever I’d been trying not to want.

Lark bumped my shoulder as we moved toward the vendor stalls. “Come on. I saved us a spot by the fountain. I want to see the sunset from there.”

“The fountain?” I asked, half distracted.

“It’s not a fountain fountain,” she said, laughing. “It’s a spray thing. Like - romantic, but not too romantic. You’ll survive.”

I smiled because she meant well. I smiled because the pier demanded it. But as we passed Edmund, the crowd shifted in a way that tugged at my attention like a hook caught on fabric. His head turned - not quickly, not dramatically. Just enough that I felt the change in the air, the way sound seemed to adjust around him.

His eyes met mine.

For a second, I forgot the music. I forgot the salty breeze. I forgot that my first job tonight was to blend in. His gaze didn’t ask questions. It made a quiet statement: I saw you.

I looked away first, like that would protect me. Like it would protect him. The boardwalk boards under my sandals were warm from the day, and when my friend’s hand slid into mine, I let her guide me forward, but my pulse kept answering to something else.

We reached the area near the spray. People clustered around it, laughing as mist kissed their cheeks. Lark took a deep breath and sighed like she could taste summer. “This is perfect.”

I leaned on the railing beside her, watching the water churn in slow, lazy circles beneath the pier. The spray hissed softly, cooling the air in a patchwork of comfort. Somewhere behind us, a kid shrieked with delight and a parent shushed them with affectionate irritation.

Then Edmund’s presence arrived again - not with a dramatic entrance, but with the way the crowd made room around him without realizing it. He stepped into the edge of my peripheral vision, close enough that I could smell his soap - something clean and faintly woody - mixed with the ocean.

Lark didn’t notice him. She was busy pointing out a vendor she wanted to try.

But Edmund spoke anyway, his voice pitched to be heard over the pier noise without forcing it. “You picked a good spot.”

My throat tightened. “Did I?” I kept my tone light, the way you do when you’re trying not to look like you’re bracing.

He smiled, and it wasn’t charming in the cheap way. It was careful. “Most people pick the loudest place on the pier and call it fun.”

The spray mist cooled the bridge of my nose. My sunglasses sat slightly too warm against my skin. I could hear the thump of the music in my ribs. I hated how quickly my body responded to him - how my attention sharpened like a camera finding focus.

“Maybe loud is fun,” I said.

“It is,” he agreed. “Just not always. Sometimes the noise is a cover.”

I should have walked away. I should have let Lark keep me busy, should have found a different conversation, a different angle, a different path across the boardwalk. Instead, I turned my head a little, just enough to face him more fully.

...