A little boy in a Strikers beanie tugs his dad’s sleeve when he sees me. His father lifts his phone, hopeful, so I crouch for the photo. The kid’s grin is priceless, bright enough to warm the cold a little.
And then I look forward because she’s there.
Catalina walks with June a bit up the path, filming as she goes. Her scarf is pulled high, hair damp from the mist, shoulders tipped forward. She looks delicate today. Not breakable, but precious. The kind of delicate that makes me want to guard her from the world, not because she can’t face it, but because she shouldn’t have to do it alone.
June stays beside her, talking low, keeping the energy light. The rest of the lads drift ahead in loose groups, eager to stretch their legs. I stay back a little, not far, just enough that she has room to breathe. Even if she knows I’m here, I am not pushing myself into her space.
We climb the stone steps. The path turns, and the falls appear through the trees—two white drops spilling over the cliff, mist blowing sideways in the wind. Tourists fill the viewing area and the bridge above, hoods up, cameras out. The waterfall’s rumble is steady and deep, vibrating through the air. Ancient. Biggerthan any of us. It’s always been a place that reminds me the world keeps going no matter what storm is inside you.
She slows when the view opens, taking a quiet, instinctive moment to breathe it in. June’s moved ahead, laughing with the lads and filming them messing around, and Catalina ends up at the railing on her own, still and small against the roar of the water. Her hands rest on the metal, fingers curled around it.
I walk up, keeping a little distance between us. When she notices me, she turns her head, voice soft, and says, “I don’t know where I am yet.”
I keep my voice low, steady. “I’m not here to fix anything. I only came to stand where you are.”
Her shoulders drop, like holding herself upright has been a task. “I read your letter. I’m still trying to figure out how I feel.”
“Take the time you need. I’m not going anywhere.”
We fall into a silence that isn’t uncomfortable. Boots scrape stone behind us, voices drift on the cold air, and the falls crash below in a rhythm older than any memory I have. She lifts her hand to tuck her hair behind her ear, and I have to stop myself from doing it for her. My hand damn near twitches.
That movement shifts her sleeve enough to show the bracelet again. Green and orange beads catch the light, and then I see it, the answer I’ve been looking for. White beads with the number 23 on them tucked right above her pulse.
My heart kicks hard. There’s still something here. There’s still hope, even if it’s small and quiet and hanging on by a delicate thread.
I clear my throat lightly, keeping my voice low. “Have you ever been here before?”
She shakes her head. “No.”
I nod, and the memory rises before I can stop it. “The first time I came here, I was six. My da had business in Portland, chasingsome deal he thought would change everything. My mum and I came with him, and he brought us here for the day.”
I breathe once, remembering.
“He wasn’t drinking. He wasn’t angry. He just… let himself be a father for once. And my mum laughed. Proper laughed, the way she only did when it was just the two of us and she felt safe enough to let it out. I remember looking at them and thinkingThis is what a family is supposed to feel like. It was the only day I ever saw them like that. Both of them happy at the same time.”
I draw in a slow breath, that old ache settling and softening. “I’ve spent my whole life chasing that feeling. Even when I was living on the other side of the world, I found my way back here. Every chance I got. I kept coming hoping I’d feel even a fraction of that day again. Just a sliver of peace. A reminder that once, things were good.”
She looks at me then, eyes soft, guard dropped. “This is your Coney Island.”
“It is …”
She studies me. “Is that why we’re here? You planned this whole outing so you could show it to me?”
“It took a bit of convincing to make it happen, but after everything that’s happened, I knew you wouldn’t come here with me on your own, and I wanted to show you a piece of my heart.”
She doesn’t look away, and under that gaze, I keep going, because I can’t hold it anymore.
“Kitten, you’re my new Coney Island. You’ve become my happiest memory, and you’re where I want to go when I need light again.”
Her breath catches. She steps closer—barely anything to anyone watching—but I feel it like heat hitting skin after a long winter. Tears gather in her eyes, her lips curve into the smallest smile, and the sight knocks the breath from me. She leans herhead against my arm. I don’t move, giving her the space she needs.
We stay there, surrounded by rushing water and cold air and people passing by, but it all fades. The only place that feels steady in the whole world is right here beside her.
Chapter 38
Iwake before the alarm, staring at the ceiling and slowly remembering where I am, who I am, and what today means. For the first time in days, I made it through the night without waking up several times. It wasn’t a peaceful sleep though; it was full of him. His hands at my waist, the warmth of his breath on my neck, the way his eyes soften when he lets his guard down, and that secret little smile he only ever gave to me. Even in dreams, he pushes a strand of hair behind my ear like I’m someone precious. Even in sleep, he reaches for me.
And now I’m awake, thinking about being in his arms again.
