I laugh, shaking my head. “That’s a long story.”
“Oh, I have time, at least seven days,” she says.
I stand, motioning toward the terrace. “Come on. We might as well get some fresh air if we’re diving into this mess.”
She hesitates, then grabs her glass and follows me out to the terrace. The cool breeze greets us as we step outside. There’s a small table with two chairs tucked into the corner, overlooking the expanse of the ocean. The soft hum of waves hitting the shore fills the silence between us as we sit.
After we take a seat, I swirl the champagne in my glass, the bubbles catching the faint light. “I don’t believe in marriage because I’ve never seen it work. My parents? A fucking disaster. My father treated it like a game, and my mother let him. They stayed together because of appearances, not love. She didn’t leave him until he died. And every other marriage I’ve seen just feels like a ticking time bomb, waiting for the inevitable explosion. Why gamble on something doomed from the start?”
She doesn’t flinch or look away. Instead, she watches me, her expression softer now. “That’s fair,” she says quietly. “I guess I was just desperate to believe it could be different for me. Mom wanted that for me too—something lasting. Something she didn’t have.”
The atmosphere feels quieter after that, the playful game forgotten. I watch her head back for another bottle of champagne and pour another glass, her movements unhurried, and for a moment, I wonder if this week might not be so bad after all.
The conversation shifts naturally, like slipping into a warm current. She tells me about her parents—how her dad left when she was young and how her mom passed away last year.
“She asked me not to cancel the wedding,” she says, her voice soft but steady. “She thought if I had a man who loved me, it’d make dying less scary.” She exhales, a faint, bitter laugh escaping her lips. “Guess she didn’t see this coming.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I don’t say anything. Instead, I grab the bottle of champagne and pour myself more to do something and not think about Mom passing. “What about your family?”
She snorts. “You first.”
I drag a hand through my hair, leaning back in my chair. “My mother’s on a mission to ‘fix’ our family. She has news—probably about retiring and expecting one of us to take over the family business. None of us care about it. Or about her big family reunion plans.” I scoff, taking a sip. “She thinks if we all sit in the same room, we’ll hash out old grudges and play nice. It’s never going to happen, but she won’t stop trying. If I weren’t here, I’d be there, listening to her guilt-trip me into showing up.”
“That sounds . . . complicated,” she says, tilting her head.
I scoff again. “That’s one way to put it.”
Her lips curve into a teasing smile, and for the first time, the weight of the conversation starts to lift. “Sounds like you’ve got a lot of unresolved drama.”
I decide to steer the conversation toward something lighter, yet meaningful. “So, what was your favorite part about growing up?” I ask, watching her expression.
She tilts her head, thinking. “When Mom was on vacation or during holidays. We’d make pies from scratch or find a new hobby. She always liked to discover new things. And yours?”
“Building treehouses with my brothers and uncle Stu,” I admit, and it feels strange to share something so personal. “What about the hardest part?”
She sighs. “Probably when my dad left. Not that I remember. I was very young, and it changed everything. How about you? What shaped you the most?”
The question is so simple. I could tell her when Mom discovered Dad had another kid and he ended up coming to live with us. But talking about Atlas is not my favorite thing. I take a slow sip of champagne before answering. “My parents’ constant fighting.”
She nods, understanding more than I expected. “What values do you hold on too tightly because of your upbringing?”
“Independence, mostly,” I say, finding her gaze. “You? What values are important to you in a relationship?”
“Honesty, loyalty,” she says immediately. “And humor. Can’t deal with life without a good laugh.” She pauses, her eyes curious. “Have you ever had a dream you had to give up on?”
“I don’t think so. When I want something I make it happen,” I respond because honestly that’s what I’ve been doing all my life. I’m not the smartest person, but when I realized that hockey could be my ticket out of Birchwood Springs, I went for it. “What about you? Any tucked-away dreams?”
She laughs softly. “I . . . It’s silly really. I wanted to have my own business. It didn’t matter what. A baker, or selling something. Mom said I had to be practical. Find something that would be fulfilling and yet stable. Hence I’m a college professor.”
“Not silly at all.” I smile, encouraging. “What’s the biggest fear you’ve faced?”
Her eyes darken slightly. “Being alone. Once Mom died, I thought I had Chase but now I realize he left me too. Not physically, but he checked out long ago,” she admits.
I nod, understanding her more with each word exchanged. “What keeps you going after something like that?”
“Hope, I guess. And stubbornness.” She gives me a wry smile. “Your turn. Would you ever give a chance to marriage?”
I laugh, a bitter sound. “Nope. I’ve never seen it work out. It’s always a mess, at least in my world. Not to rub salt in the wound, but . . . your marriage didn’t work out either.”
