Page 46 of Neap & Spring

“Right,” he says softly. “That’s what I thought.”

He turns away and walks toward his office. Each step feels like a door closing between us.

“Cal, please.”

But the office door slams shut behind him.

And I’m alone.

I sit there for a long time, still holding my cold coffee, staring at the closed door. The white paint. The silver handle. The thin line of light showing underneath.

I should go after him. Bang on that door and demand that he listen. I should finally, finally, tell him the truth.

But I can’t.

The panic is already building in my chest. The memories are clawing their way up my throat. If I try to say it out loud, I’ll break. I’ll fall apart. And I can’t do that. Not here. Not in his kitchen. Not when he’s already so angry.

So I stand up.

My legs are so shaky I have to grip the back of the chair for a second to steady myself.

I walk to the sink and rinse out my mug, then set it next to his in the drying rack.

I pause and stare at our coffee mugs, side by side, like we’re still partners. Still a team.

But we’re not.

A sob escapes as I walk through the dark dining room, and I press my hand over my mouth to keep it in. My footsteps are too loud on the hardwood floor. Each one echoes in the empty space.

I go through the motions without thinking. I lock the front door behind me with the key Frannie gave me, turning the deadbolt with a soft click that sounds final.

My hands are still shaking when I get to my car.

I sit there for a moment, gripping the steering wheel, trying to remember how to breathe.

Then I finally turn the ignition and drive back to the cottage where my packed suitcase is still waiting.

CHAPTER TEN

Callum

The boat smells like diesel and the thermos of coffee Wesley made that tastes like it could strip paint.

I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

“Hand me that,” Wesley says, gesturing to the tackle box without looking up from the line he’s rigging.

I pass it over, my fingers stiff from the cold. The sun is just starting to come up, and early March on the Pacific is no joke. The wind cuts right through me, and the ocean spray has already soaked through my jeans where I’m sitting on the edge of the boat.

Wesley’s hands move with easy grace, tying knots I could never replicate. He’s been doing this since he could walk. Our dad taught him, and his dad taught him, and so on back through generations of Reids who made their living on these waters.

The Daily Catch rocks gently beneath us as we motor farther out. It’s a good boat. The paint is peeling in multiple places, but the new engine runs like a dream. Wesley knows every inch of it and could probably navigate these waters blindfolded.

Roman is at the front of the boat, barefoot despite the cold because he’s insane, his hair even wilder than usual from the wind. He’s already got his line in the water, rod braced against his hip, and his coffee mug balanced on the railing beside him.

“This is the life,” he announces to no one in particular, stretching his arms over his head. “No tickets, no angry customers, no —”

“No Frannie to flirt with?” I offer, pulling my own rod from the rack.