Her gaze fixes on the ground, her fingers picking at the hem of her nightgown. “I was in my room,” she begins, her voice flat, detached. “I heard them yelling downstairs. It’s always about the same things. Dad’s affairs. Mom’s temper. But tonight…” She falters, her throat bobbing as she swallows hard. “Mom threw a vase at him. It shattered against the wall. And then he… he hit her.”
My breath catches. I’ve seen the Dupin’s dysfunction from the sidelines for years, but this—this is new.
“I didn’t know what to do,” she continues, her words spilling out now in a rush. “I just ran. I couldn’t listen to it anymore.”
I don’t realize I’ve moved until my hand is on her shoulder, squeezing gently. “Hey,” I murmur. “You’re safe out here, okay? They can’t touch you.”
She looks at me then, her eyes wide and desperate. “But what about tomorrow, Jonathan? Or the next day? It doesn’t stop. It never stops.”
Her words hit like a gut punch, and for once, I don’t have anything clever or reassuring to say. Instead, I slide closer, wrapping my arm around her shoulders and pulling her against me. She stiffens at first, but then she crumples, her weight sagging into my side.
For a while, we just sit there, the damp seeping through our clothes and the storm brewing far out at sea casting an eerie stillness over the Point. Her breathing slows, the tremors in her body easing as I stroke her hair. It’s soft and tangled, smelling faintly of salt and lavender. I lose myself in the rhythm, in the quiet intimacy of the moment.
“You’re not them, you know,” I say finally, breaking the silence.
She tilts her head to look up at me, confusion creasing her brow. “What do you mean?”
“You’re not your parents,” I explain. “You’re not doomed to end up like them. You can have something better.”
She snorts, a bitter sound that cuts deeper than any outright sob. “Better? Like what? Marriage? Commitment?” She shakes her head, pulling away slightly. “It’s all a trap, Jonathan. A lie. People make promises they can’t keep, and then they destroy each other trying to live up to them.”
“That’s not true,” I argue, my voice rising. “Not for everyone.”
“It’s true for me,” she snaps, her eyes flashing. “I’ll never trust anyone enough to let them in like that. Never.”
Her words hang heavy between us, the finality of them sinking into my chest like stones. I should let it go, respect her resolve, but something in me refuses to give up that easily.
“Maybe someday you’ll change your mind,” I say quietly, my hand finding hers in the dark. “With the right person.”
She lets out a humorless laugh, her fingers twitching beneath mine. “No, Jonathan. Not even then.”
The conviction in her voice silences me. I study her face, the set of her jaw, the fire still burning in her tear-streaked eyes, and I realize she means it. At least for now.
But I can’t help hoping—praying—that one day, someone will prove her wrong.
We stay like that until the first hints of dawn begin to creep over the horizon, the sky bleeding from black to a pale, bruised gray. Her breathing evens out, her head resting against my shoulder, and for a fleeting moment, everything feels still and right.
When she finally pulls away, there’s something softer in her expression, something almost like gratitude.
“Thank you,” she whispers, her voice hoarse from crying.
“For what?” I ask, genuinely confused.
“For not leaving,” she says simply.
“Never, Annabel.” I say, before she presses a quick, fleeting kiss to my cheek. Then she’s gone, slipping back toward the house like a shadow, leaving me alone with the dawn and the lingering warmth of her touch.
Chapter Six
Calum
The storm outside rattles the windows of Holiday House, its relentless fury clawing at the old wooden frame like it wants in. Inside, the air is damp, heavy with salt and the faintest trace of her perfume. She lingers in the fibers of the drapes, the upholstery, even the walls.
I lean against the fireplace mantle, its granite surface cool under my palm, and let my gaze drift across the room. Her presence is everywhere. One of her silk scarves is draped over the back of the couch, the deep crimson a splash of color against the muted tones of the room. A part of me wants to grab it, bury my face in it, inhale what’s left of her.
But I won’t.
Instead, I turn back to the easel in the corner. The painting I’d been working on—the two of us, caught in an endless summer—sits unfinished. Her face is only a suggestion of a face, lines that imply her cheekbones, her eyes, her mouth. I can’t bring myself to finish it. I’m not sure I ever will.
