I sat there and breathed in the smell of coffee and warm bread and disappointment until my chest started to ache. My vision blurred. A tear slipped down anyway, then another, and suddenly I was crying—quiet, shaking, ugly.
I pressed the heel of my hand against my mouth and let it out in small, broken breaths.
It was fine, I told myself. He was exhausted. He worked nights. This was what we’d signed up for. This was just… schedules.
But somewhere deep down, beneath the rationalizations and the loyalty and the love, a bad feeling unfurled its claws.
When I finally pulled myself together, my eyes were red and my head hurt and my heart felt scraped raw. I dabbed at my face with a napkin from the glove compartment, checked the mirror, and told my reflection not to ruin the weekend.
Artemiswas waiting. My friends were waiting. I wasn’t going to show up already broken.
The drive to the marina felt longer than usual. The city woke up around me—delivery trucks, joggers, seagulls crying overhead—but I stayed sealed inside my own little bubble of hurt.
By the time the water came into view, the sun was fully up, glittering across the harbor like nothing in the world was wrong.
I parked, took one last steadying breath, and stepped out of the car.
Whatever this weekend was going to be, I would survive it.
Even if I had to pretend I wasn’t already grieving something I hadn’t officially lost yet.
The boat rocks when I step aboard.
Not enough to throw me off balance—just enough to remind me thatArtemisis awake, impatient, already leaning toward the open water. The dock creaks softly beneath my feet, ropes knocking against the hull in a lazy, hollow rhythm. Somewhere overhead, a gull cries, sharp and lonely, then another answers it farther out over the harbor.
The sun hasn’t fully cleared the horizon yet. It’s still creeping—low and pale—casting everything in that early-morning blue that makes the world feel quieter than it really is. The air is cool, brisk enough to raise goosebumps on my arms, even through my jacket. Flags and loose canvas flap lightly, restless, like they’re waiting for permission to run.
Ethan looks up from the lines and freezes.
His eyes flick behind me first. Dock. Parking lot. Empty space where Sean should be.
Then back to my face.
I don’t say anything. I just shake my head once and haul my bag aboard, letting it thump softly against the deck. The sound feels louder than it should.
“Is Sean meeting us?” Ethan asks.
He keeps his voice casual, but his shoulders tighten. He’s already bracing.
I shrug, smaller this time. “No.”
“Oh.” The word lands carefully. Like glass being set down instead of dropped.
Tony is coiling rope nearby. He straightens, mouth opening?—
Ethan catches his eye and gives the slightest shake of his head.
Tony closes his mouth again. Nods once. Goes back to the rope like it suddenly requires his full concentration.
I pretend I don’t see any of it.
Sage stands near the stern, sunglasses on, arms crossed, posture immaculate even in the cold. She watches me the way you watch weather roll in—quiet, measuring. Her lips press together, then flatten.
No greeting. No question.
Just assessment.
The breeze kicks up again, fluttering a loose line near my ankle. The boat shifts, impatient. Everything feels like it’s moving except me.
