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But I can’t make this decision for her. I can’t take away her agency.

“Okay.” I nod, even though it feels like I’m writing my own death warrant. “I’m going to do it. I’m going to show her the dirty dossier.”

“Excellent,” Bennett says. “It’ll beat watching romcoms.”

EDEN

The lighthouse feels almost too big when it’s quiet, which is kind of funny considering how cozy it is. Autumn and Parker have gone out for dinner, and after a quiet day of helping her hang up baby clothes in the nursery, I’m in the living room, by the curved window that looks out over the darkening ocean.

The sun is sliding down the horizon, tipping the waves a salmon pink hue. The tide crashing against the rocks below. The air smells of woodsmoke and salt, the kind of evening that should feel peaceful. But it doesn’t.

He hasn’t called. Or messaged. And I know I made it clear I didn’t want to talk to him, but the silence still hurts. I promised Autumn I’d stay until the baby is here, but I’m not sure I can anymore. Not knowing he’s so close but so far away.

I drop my head against the glass, looking out at the bay I grew up in. There’s a dark figure on the sand below. I blink, because for a second it looks so like him it hurts my heart.

And then I realize it is him. I’d know that stance in a thousand lives. Easy, strong. But with so much depth he never lets anybody see.

The man who fights his demons alone is standing out on the beach.

My husband. At least for now.

My breath frosts the glass as I stare down. My body aches to run to him, to feel his arms, to bury my face against his chest and forget everything. But my brain is reminding me how much it hurt when he froze me out.

How much it still hurts.

A bird swoops through the sky, its loud cry cutting through the silence. He’s looking up. I know he can see me. I walk to the door then stop.

It’s like my feet can’t move. Maybe they’re trying to protect my heart.

And then I hear it. Soft music drifting up from the sand, carrying up in the breeze. My lips twitch. It’s Superman, of all songs. Dear god, is he trying to kill me here? I can’t decide whether to laugh or cry.

I open the door, and the music gets louder.

“Come down,” he shouts out over the music, his voice carrying in the breeze.

“Why?” I shout back. Even though every muscle in me aches to run to him.

“Because the table I’ve set is about to blow away and I’d really like you to see it before it does.”

He’s set up a table on the beach? Is this my romcom moment? I’m not sure I’m ready for it. I’m in old yoga pants and one of his even older t-shirts, my hair a complete mess. Oh god, why didn’t I wash it this morning?

He doesn’t move. Like it’s my choice. He’ll wait, he won’t force.

So I do the only thing that makes sense to my hurting heart. I start walking. Down the steps that lead to the beach, the wood cool against my bare feet as I reach the sand. My pulse thuds against my neck as he walks toward me, his eyes never leaving mine.

“You look beautiful,” he says softly, shaking his head like he can’t believe I’m here.

“And you’re a liar. I look awful.”

“No,” he says softly. “Not a liar. Not anymore. And you’re stunning. You always have been.”

Behind him is a small table set with candles that have been blown out by the wind, a bottle of champagne and two flutes, and two wooden chairs. And at the back of the table is a projector, set up so it beams onto the cliffs. I turn around to look at what it’s projecting and read the words dancing on the rocks.

West Abbott. A Life In Pictures.

“What’s going on?” I ask him. He’s wearing a pair of jeans and a t-shirt that clings to him the same way I want to. Every part of his body is strong. Defined. The need to touch him is almost too much to bear.

“I hadn’t factored in the wind,” he says, the corner of his lip lifting. “I don’t think the candles are going to stay lit.”