"Mom, I can't just?—"
"Why not?" Her voice is gentle but firm. "What's keeping you there? The house will sell whether you're in Seattle or not. Jamie can handle the shop. And you need to get away. So come. Be with your mom. Let me take care of you for a while."
Tears are streaming down my face. "Are you sure?"
"I've never been more sure of anything."
"I don't want to ruin your trip."
"Julie." Her voice cracks. "You could never ruin anything. I want you here. Ineedyou here. Please come."
"Okay," I whisper. "Okay. I'll come."
The next morning, I tell Jamie. "I'm going to meet Mom on her cruise," I say. "Caribbean to Mediterranean. Both legs. I'll be gone for a while."
Jamie's eyes fill with tears, but she's smiling. "Thank God."
"Are you sure? The shop?—"
"The shop will be fine. Better than fine. We're legitimately rich as hell now. As crazy as that sounds, we need to accept it and use it for good. In this case, that means I can hire a ton of staff. Cover every shift. Hell, I can even hire a manager if I need to. So go. Take as long as you need."
"Jamie—"
"Julie, real talk, I'm fucking terrified." She grabs my hands. "I worry every single minute of every day. What that son of a bitch did to you… I’m proud of you for not being in the fetalposition. But I’m also scared that if you don’t take care of yourself, at some point, you will be. Please. I’m begging you. Go be with mom.”
"I love you."
"I love you too. Now go pack."
Ryan comes over that afternoon to say goodbye. "I'll keep texting," he says. "Every day. Even if you don't respond. I'll be here."
"Thank you." I hug him tight. "For everything. For believing me. For helping me. For just... being here."
"Always," he says into my hair. "I'm always here. Go find yourself again. And when you're ready, come home."
"I will."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
CHAPTER
FIFTY-ONE
JULIE
Mom doesn't push.She doesn't ask questions I'm not ready to answer. We spend our days at the pool, reading books and drinking fruity cocktails with little umbrellas. We explore ports—St. Thomas, Barbados, Martinique—wandering through markets and taking photos of sunsets. We eat too much at the buffet and laugh at the terrible karaoke in the lounge.
At night, I sleep better than I have in months. The gentle rocking of the ship, the sound of the ocean, the distance from Seattle—it all helps. I have my Telehealth sessions with Dr. Blanche twice a week. We talk about trust and trauma and rebuilding. About how healing isn't linear. About how I'm allowed to have good days and bad days and days where I don't know what I feel at all.
I text with Ryan every day. Sometimes just emojis. Sometimes paragraphs about what I saw or ate or thought about. He always responds. Always shows up. Jamie sends photos from the shop. Business is good. She hired four new people and they're working out great. She tells me not to worry, to take all the time I need.
For two weeks, I exist in this bubble where Asher Stevens doesn't matter. Where the divorce is just paperwork happening somewhere far away. Where I'm just Julie Nelson, on a cruise with her mom, trying to remember who she is. And then someone tags me on an Instagram post.
I'm in my cabin getting ready for a Telehealth session when my phone buzzes. A notification. Then another. Then five more in rapid succession. My stomach drops. I open Instagram and my hands start shaking immediately.
Asher and Devon. On a hotel balcony. At night. Rain falling around them, the city lights of Seattle blurred in the background. They're kissing. Not a polite kiss. Not a friendly kiss. They're devouring each other. His hands are in her hair, her body pressed against his, her leg wrapped around his hip. It's explicit. Intimate. The kind of kiss that makes it very clear what's about to happen next.
