Page 76 of Endless Depths

“To family,” the rest agree, even Morgan.

That’s what we are to each other—a found family, a chosen one, and I need to make things right before we fracture irreparably.

Lawrence wipes his tears with the inside of his hoodie. “Who’s cutting onions?”

“Stop,” Javi says. “We’re not making light of this.”

Lawrence’s mouth falls open like the correction was a slap. “I wasn’t?—”

“We almost lost you, Cole. No one talks about it. Lawrence jokes about it.” Javi stabs his finger toward the gear room. “But your heart stopped there. Not once. Not twice. Four fucking times.” Javi lifts a finger for each time he saved my life. “Morgan was there for one of them, but the rest were all on me.”

I didn’t know.

“You should have died,” Javi continues. “But you might as well have died with how little you speak to us, and how much you’ve changed.”

Lawrence squeezes Javi’s trap, but Javi’s shoulders inch toward his ears, and he lowers his hand.

“I’m sorry.” My apology is woefully inadequate, but I don’t know what else to say. I’m still trying to process exactly how much trauma I put them through.

“I don’t want to hear it.” Javi turns to Lawrence. “I don’t want to hear any jokes, either.” He slides out of the booth and heads to the hall.

Lawrence doesn’t follow. The door to their room slams. Lawrence looks as sick to his stomach as I feel.

Everyone is feeling something—drying tears or blinking them away. Morgan cries openly, albeit silently. I owe him everything I stole from him, but I can’t. I’m too scared. Too scared to be vulnerable. Too scared to open the door to the room I walled all my feelings inside.

Morgan’s eyebrows arch with empathy. Even after I abandoned him, even with tears sliding down his face, he’s looking out for me. Does he see the regret in my eyes? Does he see anything worth redeeming?

Because I don’t.

Morgan pushes off the counter and heads to thehall, but Wes catches him by the shoulder and pulls him into a hug. Morgan hides his face against Wes’s burly shoulder, and I almost cry then. Almost.

There’s something soul-reckoning about watching the man you love cry and knowing you’re the cause and you’re too much of a coward to comfort him. I have the strangest mix of jealousy, shame, and relief that it’s not me taking care of Morgan’s grief.

Lawrence leans across Alejo and grabs me by my shirt, dragging me closer. “I love you, man, but get your shit together and be there for him.” He smacks the back of my head. “What would Seb think?”

He would think he wasted his life for nothing. That’s what he would think.

TWENTY

Cole

Before we headto the fishing grounds, I steer us toward the place where Seb died. It’s dusk when we arrive. A brisk breeze peals over calm seas, or as calm as you can expect in the Bering Sea.

We need to pay our respects and lay Seb to rest in the fisherman’s way, in the way of our ship. We need to bury our captain.

The customs of a fisherman’s burial at sea vary from ship to ship. Hundreds of years ago, sailors wrapped the bodies of their fallen brethren in sailcloth, and sewed them inside with a cannonball and whatever items they thought would comfort them. With the passing of time, burials at sea became rightfully regulated, but the echoes of the tradition still linger.

Some crab fishermen sink a crab pot filled with the fisherman’s belongings. The Morrissey family has passed down the same bolt of sailcloth for generations, carrying it from ship to ship, hoping it would ward off death. Clearly, it’s not very effective, but it’s a family tradition, and a fitting tribute to Seb.

I spread out a square sheet of heirloom sailcloth on the bed and fold it in half diagonally, then pick up the thick needle I threaded with waxed sail twine. I sew the first stitch joining the two halves together. The pierce in the fabric pokes a hole in the dam I’ve kept my feelings locked behind.

I can’t do this. It should have been me.

“I can’t. I can’t. I?—”

A hand raps the door.

“Cole?” It’s Morgan.