Ten years ago, I stopped coming to the Delaware shores of Fenwick Island. Pushing the reason for my absence to the back of my mind, I breathe in the salty air as the ocean wind wildly whips my hair.

I walk the beach this warm spring day, listening to the waves crashing against the shoreline. It still amazes me that the seawater knows precisely where to stop and recede, keeping itself from drowning us all with its power.

The wet sand is hard and cool against my feet. A few steps further, my toes sink into a dry patch of sand, making a perfect footprint. Ice-cold water laps at my feet, reminding me of the harsh winter I endured.

I observe beach chairs and blankets with sunbathers scattered across the sand in the universe each has created for themselves, oblivious to my presence.

Turning away from the ocean's peace, I return to my bike. As I unlock the security chain, my eyes notice a store that was not here ten years ago: Past, Present, Future. I find the name intriguing. I relock my bike and walk towards the store's entrance, excited to see that it is a bookstore.

Upon entering the bookstore, an old-fashioned shopkeeper bell chime announces my arrival, which brings a smile to my face. I'm not surprised to see bookshelves; however, the labels on the shelves pique my curiosity: Past, Present, and Future, like the store's name.

I notice the store decor has a retro sixties-era theme. Splashes of orange and yellow pop from the daisy and tie-dye design with smiley faces and Peace, Love, and Freedom signs adorn the walls. 

I approach the Past shelf and hear footsteps coming in my direction.

"Can I help you?"

I know that voice. For ten years, it's haunted my dreams, kept me from the beach I love, and tortured my soul. As much as I wanted to, my brain couldn't forget the soothing baritone that belonged to Wade Vaughn.

My body screams to escape this man, but my feet will not obey my command. Instead, I slowly turn my head toward the man whose heart I shattered at seventeen.

"Paige? Oh my God, is that you?"

The smile on his face shocks me. Words escape me, so I stand there like an idiot.

He quickly moves towards me and embraces me. "I can't believe you're back. Where the hell have you been all of this time?"

He must have realized how stiff my body was to his touch. He releases me and gives me an apologetic look.

"Sorry, It's just that I'm so damn excited to see you."

Lifting my eyes to his face takes my breath away. He looks the same as when I left him crying on the beach. His jawline is more defined, and his body is more muscular. His eyes are the same chocolate eyes I never thought I would gaze into again. However, something is missing in his eyes: sadness. Instead, they are bright and happy, shining with excitement.

Lowering my head in shame, guilt, and remorse fill me as I feel the touch of his warm hand under my chin. He lifts my face and looks into my eyes, which has me gasping at his expression of forgiveness and love.

"Please, say something," he begs.

"Hello," I mutter.

His grin could light up the entire Eastern Shore. "Hello to you, too."

"So, you work here?" I attempt to make small talk while devising a plan of escape.

"I own this store," he proudly replies.

I glance around at the decor and remember Wade's obsession with the sixties. He always said that he was born in the wrong generation. His easy-going, simple lifestyle would have fit right into that decade.

I genuinely smile. "Of course you do."

He laughs. "My choice of interior design should have given it away."

He grabs my hand. "Come on, let me show you around."

For the next several minutes, Wade explains his shelving labels.

"Past, these books are historical classics, like Moby Dick, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, and The Adventure of Huckleberry Finn. As you can see by the labels, I organized them by the decade."

Wade continues his tour, still holding my hand. My mind remembers how comforting his touch is. I had no idea how much my body missed physical contact with him. I don't deny that I have often wondered what it would be like to see Wade again. Would he hate me? Scream obscenities at me? Ignore me? What I did not expect was his warm, friendly response.

He tells me that the Present shelves are books published most recently and grouped according to their published year. He then guides me to Future, a stand full of brand new blank journals.

"Journals?"

Wade smirks at me, and my heart skips a beat at his familiar expression.

"It is for stories not yet told, blank pages waiting for the composer to write. The Future," he explains.

I stare at this man, and the feelings suppressed for many years bubble to the surface.

I jump when he speaks. "I'm closing up. My apartment is upstairs. I would love to have a drink with you and catch up."

I accept his invitation, afraid my head will intervene.

He guides me to the front door, locks it, and we head to the back room, where a door leads up to his apartment.

We enter, and I look around. Wade's apartment decor is like his store; I smile.

"Do you like it?" His demeanor requires my approval.

"I love it."  It's the truth.

He turns to me. "I've never stopped loving you."

His lips captivate mine, and the ten years melt away. Once again, I'm his, and he's mine.