It was a lot.
I changed into soft leggings and the oldest, most over-washed T-shirt I’d packed—a faded Columbia University tee from undergrad that had survived more foreign laundromats than I could count. I pulled my hair into a messy knot, scrubbed the last of my makeup off in the bathroom sink, and crawled onto the bed with my back against the headboard.
The room felt too quiet. Too still.
My brain kept playing a highlight reel.
Levi on the veranda, shaking in my arms.
Levi on the yacht, voice rough as he told me how close I’d come to dying two years ago.
Levi on top of me, sayingI love youlike it was a vow.
Meghan’s sharp eyes watching me over a plate of fresh-caught fish.
Hazel’s hand squeezing mine when she said,That’s you adding nuance.
My editor’s voice in my ear, reminding me what it had cost to rebuild my reputation.
The weight in my chest shifted from tight to heavy.
I needed something solid. Something that wasn’t built on secrets and NDAs and men who disappeared for a living.
I needed home.
I picked up my phone, scrolled past Editor, past Levi, past a cluster of unread notifications I wasn’t ready to deal with, and tapped Mom & Dad.
The call connected on the second ring.
“Amelia?” My mother’s voice came through warm and familiar, like opening the door to a house that smelled like soup in winter. “Is everything okay?”
“I’m fine,” I said quickly, and meant it in the loosest possible sense. “I just wanted to hear your voices.”
She didn’t miss the qualifier. My mother could hear tone like other people heard sirens.
“Hang on,” she said. “Your father’s just outside. I’ll get him.”
I heard her call, “Robert! It’s Amelia!” and the muffled responses that followed. A door closing. The rustle of movement.
A moment later, the familiar double-breath on the line—my parents both leaning in toward the shared handset. They refused to own separate phones, on principle.
“Hi, sweetheart,” Dad said. “How’s Charleston? You sound tired.”
“I am,” I admitted. “It’s been … busy.”
Busy was an understatement, but busy was also the word I’d always used when I couldn’t talk about what I’d seen.It covered firefights and bombed-out streets and bureaucratic stonewalling. It could cover this.
“You eating?” Mom asked immediately. “Don’t lie.”
“I had a very fancy lunch,” I said. “At a restaurant on the Battery. Fresh fish. Sourdough that would make you both cry.”
“Don’t tease your mother,” Dad said. “She’s been trying to crack that sourdough recipe for a year.”
“I’m close,” Mom insisted. “The starter is just fussy. It wants attention. Like your father.”
He made a noise of protest that sounded exactly like it always did, and for a second, I wasn’t in a hotel in South Carolina. I was at the kitchen table in Ontario, watching them bicker.
The tension in my shoulders loosened another notch.
