Not happy, exactly. Not fixed.
But maybe ready to stop hiding and figure out what I actually want.
Write my own story, even if I don’t know the ending yet.
That’s something, at least.
SIXTEEN
SCOTT
Grayson’s truck kicks up oyster shell dust as it rolls down the long drive, past the live oaks draped in Spanish moss, past the marsh grass gone gold in the afternoon light.
I’m on the porch with coffee I’m not drinking, watching him arrive at the one place I’ve never been able to let go.
Grandma Vera’s house.
Built in 1847 by a ship captain whose name is carved into the cornerstone. Two stories of weathered cedar shingles and heart pine floors that creak in specific places I memorized as a child. A tin roof that sounds like applause when it rains. Porches that wrap around three sides because people used to understand that a house should breathe with the water.
Grayson parks and climbs out, squinting up at the facade. He’s been here before—handful of times over the years—but he always looks at it like he’s seeing it fresh.
“I forget how much I like this place,” he says, climbing the porch steps. “Every time I come out here, I wonder why you keep that sterile condo in town.”
“It’s convenient.”
“Maybe but it looks like a hotel room.” He drops into the rocker next to mine. “This place feels like someone actually lives here.”
Someone did. Someone who taught me that stories matter and love isn’t weakness and soft isn’t the same as broken.
I don’t say any of that. I just hand him a cup of coffee.
“Thanks for coming out.”
“Your text said ‘need to get on the water.’ That’s Scott-speak for ‘I’m falling apart and can’t admit it.’” He takes a sip. “So. What’s falling apart?”
I look out at the tidal creek, whereThe Meet Cuteis tied to the dock, bobbing gently in the current. The tide’s about half out. We’ve got a few hours before it drops too low to navigate the shallows.
“Let’s go out first. I’ll talk better if I’m moving.”
Grayson studies me for a moment, then nods. “Lead the way.”
The dock is original to the property—rebuilt four times over the years, but in the same spot where the captain would have tied his skiff. The boards are bleached gray from salt and sun, solid under our feet.
Grayson stops when he sees the boat’s name. Same as he does every time.
“The Meet Cute.” He shakes his head. “I’ve always thought you named this boat ironically.”
“You never asked.”
“I thought you hated romance.”
“You thought wrong.”
I step aboard and start the engine checks. Fuel, battery, bilge. Grayson settles into the passenger seat, watching me work.
“So let me get this straight,” he says. “You’re a secret romance novelist. You named your boat after a romance action beat. You’ve been in love with a bookstore owner for months.And you let the entire town think you’re a cold-hearted businessman who doesn’t believe in feelings.”
“That about covers it.”
