We spend the next eight hours reviewing the Morrison family’s land-lease renegotiation, drafting transition materials and workshop templates so whoever takes over after she leaves has something to work with, and coordinating with Marisol on donor follow-up.
All business.
All the time.
When I bring her coffee at ten, black with no sugar, she says “thanks” without looking up from her screen.
I want to ask if she’s okay. If she’s still thinking about what she said yesterday. If tonight’s dinner is going to be a disaster or a breakthrough or both.
But Marisol is in the other room organizing files, well within eavesdrop range, and the fluorescent lights are too bright, and this office doesn’t have enough air for the conversation I need to have.
So I just nod and go back to my side of the desk.
By four thirty, we’ve accomplished more than we have in the past week. Productivity through emotional avoidance. It’s a strategy I’ve perfected over the years.
Amara closes her laptop and starts packing her tote. “I should head back to the resort. Get ready.”
“Yeah.” I stand, too. “See you at seven?”
“Seven works.” She slings the tote over her shoulder. “See you, then.”
She walks toward the door, and I watch her stop to say goodbye to Marisol, who’s at the filing cabinet.
“Last day tomorrow,” Marisol says warmly. “Are you excited to get back to Manhattan?”
Amara hesitates. “Not going to lie, I’m going to miss it. The island. The work. All of it.”
Marisol smiles widely. “Well, you’re welcome back anytime!”
Amara grins wanly. It’s heartbreaking. “Thanks, Marisol.”
She walks from view and I hear the door close behind her.
Last day tomorrow.
The words sit in my chest.
Marisol glances over at me from the filing cabinet. “You okay, Mr. Saelinger?”
“Fine.” I’m the opposite of fine. “Just thinking about the workshop schedule.”
She doesn’t look convinced. She walks over, and stops in the doorway. “You’re seeing Ms. Khan tonight, yes?”
I blink. “You heard that?”
“I did.” Marisol’s expression softens. “Seven o’clock, yes? Ysela told me Raeni’s preparing a special dinner for tonight.”
Of course Ysela told her.
Of course she’s coordinating behind my back like I’m some kind of romantic disaster that needs managing.
Which, to be fair, I am.
Marisol leans against the doorframe. “Don’t let her go, Mr. Saelinger.” Her voice is quiet but firm. Maternal in a way that makes my chest tighten. “That woman is good for you. Really good. And you’re good for her, even if you don’t see it yet. So don’t let her walk away tomorrow. Don’t you dare.”
I stare at her, completely blindsided.
She knew.
