Page 86 of Neap & Spring

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.” Her voice is sincere. “For not pushing. I know it’s frustrating. I know you want answers.”

Frustrating doesn’t even begin to cover it. It’s torture. It’s agony. It’s lying awake at night running through every conversation we ever had trying to figure out what I missed.

“I do,” I admit, because there’s no point in lying. “But I also — I trust that you’ll tell me when you’re ready. Or not. That’s okay too.”

It’s not okay. It’s the opposite of okay. But I’m trying to give her space and be patient. I’m trying to be the kind of person she can trust.

I’m trying not to fuck this up.

Again.

“It’s not okay. You deserve to know.”

“Maybe.” I look out at the water and watch the sun sink into the ocean. “But it’s your story to tell. On your timeline. I’m not going anywhere. I never have.”

She’s quiet for a long moment. So long that I think maybe I said the wrong thing. Maybe I pushed too hard or not hard enough or —

Then she leans her head on my shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Every muscle in my body locks up.

I freeze completely. I can’t breathe. I can’t even think. I can’t do anything except feel the weight of her head on my shoulder and the warmth of her body pressed against my side.

I don’t move a muscle. I don’t do a single thing that might make her pull away.

My heart is pounding so hard I’m sure she can hear it.

Then slowly, carefully, like I’m approaching a wild animal that might bolt, I lean my head against hers.

Her hair is soft against my cheek. She smells like Margo’s coffee and the ocean wind and that floral scent that’s just her.

We sit like that, watching the sun set over the Pacific. It sinks lower and lower until it’s just a sliver of orange on the horizon. And it feels like something is shifting between us. Something fragile and new and terrifying.

But also right.

So fucking right.

I close my eyes and let myself have this. This one perfect moment that I’m going to hold onto when she’s gone and I’m alone again.

Her head on my shoulder. The sound of waves crashing on the shore. The warmth of the sun on my face even as it disappears. The feel of her breathing, slow and steady, matching the rhythm of my own.

Whatever happens tomorrow, whatever the investors say, whatever comes next — whether she stays or leaves, whether we figure this out or fall apart again —

I have this.

I have right now.

And right now is enough, I tell myself.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Callum

We don’t talk much on the walk back. We just walk side by side, close enough that our hands brush occasionally, our shoulders bumping with each step. Every accidental touch feels like torture.

The town is getting busier now. Dinner crowds are starting to emerge, people heading to restaurants and bars, dressed up for a night out. We weave through the sidewalk traffic and past the shops that are closing up for the night.