He flicks his tail. Doesn’t buy it for a second.
The scent of cinnamon still lingers. It’s soaked into the air now—alongside the lemony cleaning wipes, a faint hint of smoke, and beneath it all, the earthy smell of this place—old coffee beans and warm wood and ghosts.
For a moment, I think I hear her humming. My grandmother. A melody from the old country that she used to play on the radio while kneading dough.
I close my eyes and the memory drapes around me like a soft shawl: the clatter of pans, the pop of boiling sugar, her voice singing along off-key.
Safe. Everything used to feel safe here.
Then the ringtone pierces through it, sharp and shrill, making me flinch. I wipe my hands on a rag and reach for myphone. The screen lights up with a name that makes something inside me twist.
Mom.
She’s already on the cruise. I swipe to answer, keeping my voice soft. “Hey.”
There’s a slight rustle on the other end. Whispering. “Wren? Are you alone?”
I frown. “Yeah. Where are you?”
“I’m in my cabin. Your father went down to the dining hall.” Her voice is too low, too thin, like she’s trying not to be heard. “What’s this I’m hearing about a fire at the café?”
Damn it!I knew they would hear about it sooner or later. “Who told you?”
“Willa! What the hell happened?”
Of course. Willa. Nothing ever stays quiet in this town.
“It’s fine,” I say quickly. “Minor fire. I put it out. There’s some damage, but it’s manageable. I’ve already spoken to a construction crew about coming to look.”
“Oh, sweetheart…” There’s a pause. A long, aching one. “Are you okay?”
I hear the edge in her voice, and suddenly, I know—she’s been crying.
I press the heel of my hand to my forehead. “Mom, I should be asking you that. What’s going on?”
“Nothing. I’m fine,” she says too fast. “I just—well—Willa made it sound awful, and I wanted to hear from you directly.”
“No. Not about me.” My voice softens. “Aboutyou.You’ve been crying.”
She goes quiet. The kind of quiet that breaks my heart.
“I just fought with your father.”
I sigh. “What happened?” I already have a feeling it’s not her fault. It’s hardly ever her fault.
“It’s no big deal, honey.We were supposed to have dinner together,” she says after a beat. “And he… he was flirting with one of the waitresses. She couldn’t have been older than twenty-five.”
I clench my jaw. “Did you ask him?”
“I did,” she says, and her voice sounds even smaller now. “He said I was overreacting. That it was just… friendly.”
Just like always. The same script. Different country, different cruise, different girl.
It’s the same lie he told when I was twelve and found lipstick on his collar. The same lie when he came home from some vague work retreat with the scent of another woman on his skin.
It’s the samefuckinglie he tells every time he chases whatever Omega looks at him twice, then blames her for tempting him.
“Mom,” I whisper, my voice shaking now, “youknowwhat he does.”
