Can’t wait to see you. I have something important to tell you.
Something important to tell me? That wasn’t part of the original script. What could Gage possibly have to say that wasn’t said the first time around?
The fog outside seems to press closer against the windows, as if Paragon itself is watching, waiting to see what I’ll do next—to hear what Gage has to say.
And somewhere beyond that fog, in a future that feels increasingly distant, my real life—my children, my home, my family—continues without me, unaware that their mother is trapped in the amber of her own past.
I text back a simple “yes” to Gage, sealing whatever fate and whatever steamy kisses now lie ahead at Rockaway Beach.
Here’s hoping Logan doesn’t divorce me by nightfall.
13
Skyla
The black sand of Rockaway Beach stretches before us like a bolt of midnight silk unfurled against the churning gray sea.
Waves thunder against the shore in a primal rhythm that perfectly matches the pounding of my heart, and judging by the way his pulse jumps beneath my fingertips, it matches Gage’s heart, too.
The scent of salt mingles with the pine-laden air, the smells of home and exile all at once.
Gage’s black truck idles in the nearly empty parking lot, the engine ticking as it cools. It feels like a greeting from an old friend. This vehicle that carried us through countless adventures before being replaced by something newer, shinier, in a future that now seems impossibly distant.
“Ready?” Gage asks, his dimples carving twin hollows into his cheeks as he smiles.
“As I’ll ever be,” I say, trying not to think about how I texted Logan right before we left, letting him know where we were headed as if I might need backup. This is Gage, for Pete’s sake—the love of my life, or one of them anyway. Both Gage and Logan made up mywhole heart, right up until the kids arrived. Then my heart simply grew to accommodate them all.
We step out into Paragon’s eternal gray haze. The island has always been moody and melancholy, wreathed in a fog that hugs the evergreens as if it were about to leave them. But we all know the truth—the fog is trapped here, much like the residents.
Gage leads us down the wooden steps to the beach with a blanket tucked under one arm. His free hand finds mine, warm against the perpetual chill of Rockaway. The ebony sand crunches beneath our feet like sooted snow, and that has always struck me as both ironic and slightly ominous.
“What’s going on in that head of yours?” Gage asks, squeezing my hand. “You’ve been quiet ever since I picked you up.”
“Just thinking,” I say, which isn’t a lie. I’m thinking about how surreal it is to be seventeen again, to be with this younger version of Gage who has no idea what’s coming—faction wars, celestial battles, the complicated evolution of our relationship, the highs, the lows, the paternity reveals, thedeaths. Come to think of it, Gage might have opted for death in lieu of the paternity reveal that’s coming his way.
“Thinking can be a dangerous pastime.” He winks, spreading the blanket across a relatively flat expanse of sand. The roaring waves crash over the shoreline just yards away, sending plumes of spray into the air like watery fireworks.
We settle onto the blanket, and Gage’s arm automatically circles my waist as he pulls me close. It feels so good, so familiar. His body radiates heat like a furnace, his chest is comfortable to lean on, and all around, Gage Oliver feels like home.
“Thanks for coming out here,” Gage says quietly. “I know it’s freezing.”
“Since when has a little cold stopped me?” I ask, though I’m definitely shivering.
“Since never. You’re stubborn like that.” He rubs my arms to warm them. “Here, take my jacket.”
“Then you’ll be cold.”
“I’ll survive. Besides,” he says, already shrugging it off, “you look cute when you’re drowning in my clothes.”
“Drowning is a strong word,” I protest as he wraps the jacket around me. It smells like him—cedar and ocean and something distinctly Gage.
“Fine. Swimming. Slightly treading water.”
I elbow him gently. “You’re such a romantic.”
“I brought you to a freezing beach in the fog,” he points out. “Romance might not be my strong suit.”
“I don’t know,” I say, snuggling into his jacket. “This feels pretty perfect.”
