The looks came immediately. Pity. Awkward sympathy. The kind that made Beth’s shoulders curl inward like she wanted to disappear.
Sage leaned toward me and muttered, “Dick,” under her breath.
Then she didn’t wait.
She grabbed Beth’s hand, pulling her close.
“I’m telling you right now—break up with him. Right now.”
Beth stared at her. “What? No. He’s a good guy. He’s fighting fires. It’s not like he’s out chasing other girls.”
Sage’s smile was thin. Controlled. Her eyes didn’t soften.
“We’ll talk when we get back to Boston,” she said calmly. “You and me. Next week. We’re going out.”
It wasn’t a suggestion.
Beth nodded, stunned, like she’d just been assigned homework she didn’t remember signing up for.
I watched it all from a step back—how quickly Sage stepped in, how decisively she reframed the moment.
Not comfort.
Direction.
I told myself she was just being protective.
Just strong.
Just decisive in a way some people admired.
But the image stuck with me: Beth reaching out, and Sage pulling her somewhere else entirely.
Later, as the night thinned and the music blurred, I felt Sage’s hand slide into mine, fingers locking tight.
“Don’t worry,” she said lightly. “She’ll be fine.”
I nodded.
But I wasn’t so sure.
And somewhere in the back of my mind, a quiet thought took shape—small, unwelcome, and persistent:
Sage didn’t just step in when people were vulnerable.
She took over.
Everyone else was asleep.
The house had settled into that deep, post-club silence—doors shut, bodies sprawled wherever they landed, the bass from the night still humming faintly in my ears.
I lay there staring at the ceiling, Sage warm against my side, her breathing slow and even.
I couldn’t sleep.
I slipped out of bed carefully, grabbed my cigarettes and a warm beer from the kitchen, and stepped outside onto the deck.
The surf pounded steadily in the distance, a low, relentless rhythm. Salt hung thick in the air, clinging to my skin.
