Free The Violets of March by Sarah Jio Page B

back under the table and Greg proudly signed the check.
    We drove about a mile to what looked like a park. Greg stopped the car and turned to me. “Did you bring a coat?”
    I shook my head. “Just this sweater.”
    “Here.” He handed me a navy blue fleece jacket. “You’re going to need this.”
    I might have felt awkward in a fleece and heels, but it didn’t faze me, really. Not here, anyway. Not with him. I followed him down a rocky trail that was so steep I reached for his hand to steady me, and when I did, he wrapped his other arm around my waist for added support.
    The trail was dark, until we made our way closer to the shore, where I could see the glimmer of the moon on the water and hear the waves rolling softly, gently, as if they were being careful not to wake up a single sleepy soul on the island.
    When we reached the beach, my heels sank into the sand.
    “Why don’t you take them off?” Greg suggested, looking down.
    I discarded my pumps and dusted them off, then Greg carefully tucked one into each pocket of his jacket.
    “Over here,” he said, pointing to a distant object shrouded in darkness.
    We walked a few more feet, and with each step, I dug my toes a little deeper into the sand. Even in forty-five-degree weather, I loved the feeling of grit between my toes.
    “Here,” he said.
    It was a rock—well, a boulder—the size of a small house, just sitting there in the middle of the beach. But its most striking feature wasn’t its size, but its shape. The boulder perfectly resembled a heart.
    “So, this must be where you take all your dates,” I said sarcastically.
    Greg shook his head. “No,” he said in a serious voice. He took a step closer to me, and I took a step back. “The last time I was here I was seventeen,” he said, pointing. “I wrote this .” He crouched down next to the side of the rock, flipped open a mini-flashlight, and illuminated an inscription.
    I love Emmy forever, Greg.
    We stood in silence; two modern-day observers eavesdropping on our former selves.
    “Wow,” I finally said. “You wrote that?”
    He nodded. “It’s kind of strange to see it now, isn’t it?”
    “Can I see your flashlight?” I asked.
    He handed it to me, and I ran the light along the inscription. “How did you do this?”
    “With a bottle opener,” he said. “After a few too many beers.”
    I broadened the arc of the light and noticed hundreds of other inscriptions—all declarations of love. I listened for the whispers of lovers across generations of islanders.
    Greg turned to face me, and I didn’t resist when he leaned in to kiss me, firmly, with intention. I clasped my hands around his neck and let myself weaken in his embrace, trying to ignore the voice inside that told me to stop, to pull back. After the kiss, we stood there for a moment, locked in an awkward embrace, like Tinkerbell and Hulk Hogan trying to do the waltz.
    “I’m sorry, I . . .” Greg stammered, taking a step back. “I didn’t mean to rush things.”
    I shook my head. “No, don’t apologize.” I touched my finger to his soft, full lips. He kissed it lightly, then wrapped his hands around both of mine.
    “You must be freezing,” he said. “Let’s head back.”
    The wind had found its way into my sweater, and my feet, I decided, weren’t cold; they were numb. We walked to the trailhead, and I slipped my heels back on, ignoring the sand that was still caked between my toes. The uphill climb wasn’t as bad as I had expected, even in heels. Three minutes later, we were back at the parking lot and in Greg’s car.
    “Thank you for tonight,” Greg said once he’d pulled his car into Bee’s driveway. He nestled his head into the crook of my neck, kissing my collarbone in a way that made me feel absolutely woozy. I was happy to be there then, sitting in that old musty-smelling Mercedes in front of Bee’s house. The wind was blowing through the cracks of the car’s windows, whistling in a faint, lonely