She took a long sip of wine and focused on the fire.
The gate creaked. Clint came through carrying a bag of ice in each hand, and Melissa’s grip tightened on her glass.
He looked the same. Work boots, faded shirt, the set of his jaw that meant he was bracing for something. He dropped the ice into the cooler without ceremony.
“About time,” Bryan said. “We’re dying of thirst over here.”
“You’re holding a beer.”
“It’s warm.”
Clint grabbed a bottle from the cooler and sat way across the circle from Melissa. He nodded once in her direction, the kind of nod you’d give a neighbor you recognized but didn’t know well.
It hurt worse than silence would have.
The evening crept forward. Cassidy walked through festival updates with the enthusiasm of someone born to organize large-scale events, which she was. Bryan’s shrimp came off the grill and everyone agreed it was his best batch, which they said every week. Emily mentioned a new commission from a collector in Sarasota who’d seen her work through Grant’s gallery website.
Melissa listened and responded in the right places and felt the distance between herself and all of it like a pane of glass.
Winnie caught her eye from across the fire. One look, steady and clear. You’re here. That’s enough for now.
Melissa breathed.
“I have some news, actually.” She said it before she could talk herself out of it. The group turned toward her. “Sam Copeland offered me a collaboration. A book of photographs documenting endangered Gulf Coast structures. His historical text, my images. University press.”
The reaction was immediate and genuine. Cassidy leaned forward. “Melissa, that’s incredible.”
“It really is,” Emily said. “When did this happen?”
“A bit ago. I’ve been sitting with it.” She glanced at Winnie, who gave a small nod.
“Sam’s work is excellent,” Grant said. “That’s a serious credit. You should be proud.”
“I’m considering it.” She was past considering it. She was going to say yes. But tonight the announcement felt less like sharing good news and more like reminding herself that she still had forward motion, even if everything between her and Clint had stalled.
She didn’t look at him. She didn’t need to. She could feel his stillness across the fire. He said nothing. But he didn’t leave.
The evening wound down the way it always did. Cassidy and Bryan left first, Bryan carrying leftover shrimp in a foil-wrapped plate and Cassidy already on her phone checking something about vendor permits. Emily and Grant followed, Emily squeezing Melissa’s shoulder on the way out. Winnie collected her mug and kissed Melissa’s cheek without a word, then headed out with Sally toward the keeper’s quarters.
And then it was just the dirty plates, the dying fire, and the echo of all the Friday nights she’d spent out here learning how to be part of something instead of watching it from behind glass.
She started stacking plates. The rhythm was automatic now. Scrape, stack, carry to the bin. She’d done this enough times that her hands knew the work without her brain’s permission.
She heard footsteps on the stone path. Clint appeared with a trash bag and began collecting bottles from around the chairs. They worked in parallel, the way they had a dozen times before. Close enough to talk. Neither of them talking.
The silence was different from the early days. Back then, silence between them had been hostile, two people refusing to engage. This was just a silence filled with all that was wedged between them.
She wiped down the table by the grill. He tied off the trash bag and set it by the gate. She expected him to leave. She was already rehearsing the walk back to Captain’s Watch alone, the dark cottage, and the laptop she wouldn’t open.
“Grant told me you deleted the photos.”
She stopped wiping. Her hand went still on the table.
She turned around. He stood by the cooler, arms at his sides. His face in the firelight was hard to read, but his voice had been even. Not angry, just direct.
“I did.”
“All of them?”
