THE GIRL WHO STAYED FOR ONLY ONE SUMMER
Chapter 2
Maya didn’t leave the next morning.
She came downstairs at nine.
Ethan was making coffee.
“Morning.”
“Morning.”
She sat at the counter.
“Can I get breakfast?”
“Breakfast ended at eight.”
She looked at him.
“Really?”
“Hotel policy.”
“That’s cruel.”
“It is.”
“Can you make an exception?”
Ethan considered it.
“What do you want?”
“Eggs.”
He sighed.
“Of course.”
She smiled.
“Thank you.”
He cooked.
Maya watched.
“You work here?”
“Sometimes.”
“What do you do the rest of the time?”
“Repair boats.”
“That’s interesting.”
“Not really.”
“Everything you say sounds like you’re trying to make it less interesting.”
Ethan slid the plate toward her.
“Maybe it is.”
She took a bite.
Then stopped.
“These are good.”
“Thanks.”
“You cook?”
“Apparently.”
She smiled.
“So you’re a mechanic who cooks.”
“Sometimes.”
“Anything else?”
Ethan poured himself coffee.
“Probably.”
“You’re not very talkative.”
“You are.”
She laughed.
“Fair.”
Maya finished breakfast.
Then she looked outside.
Rain was still falling.
“Maybe I’ll stay another night.”
Ethan shrugged.
“Room twelve.”
She nodded.
“Thanks.”
That should have been the end of it.
Instead, another night became three.
Three became a week.
And somehow, without either of them discussing it, Maya began becoming part of Ethan’s routine.
She spent her mornings photographing Greyhaven.
Old fishing boats.
The lighthouse.
Children running along the beach.
The weathered faces of fishermen.
She had a way of taking photographs that made ordinary things look important.
One afternoon, Ethan found her sitting on the harbor wall.
She was looking through her camera.
“What are you doing?”
“Deleting.”
“Why?”
“Most photographs are bad.”
“Why take them?”
She looked at him.
“Because sometimes you don’t know which ones matter until later.”
Ethan leaned against the wall.
“Sounds exhausting.”
“It is.”
She looked at him.
“You ever take pictures?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I remember things.”
“That’s not the same.”
“It is for me.”
Maya studied him.
“You’re afraid of forgetting.”
Ethan looked toward the ocean.
“No.”
“Then what?”
“Remembering.”
She didn’t answer.
For once, neither of them needed to.
