I grimaced as that familiar knot tightened in my chest. “Yeah, that’s… not exactly wrong. Technically, I resigned.” The word tasted hollow in my mouth, like I was still trying to convince myself it had been my choice.
Her brows rose, and I caught the skeptical tilt to her head. “Technically?”
“I was told the optics for me were better if I did it myself.” I tried to make it sound like old news, but the words still sat like grit on my tongue. “So I did.” Because I’d cared more about salvaging what was left of my reputation than I did about unemployment benefits or severance packages.
Of course, that had been before I realized exactly how wrecked my reputation was anyway. Before I understood that resigning wouldn’t stop the whispers in courthouse hallways or the way colleagues would suddenly find urgent reasons to end phone calls when I walked into a room.
Astrid’s eyes softened, and I saw something that looked dangerously close to pity cross her features. “Jesus, Mads. That sucks.”
“Yeah.” I swallowed hard, focusing on the way the boat rocked gently beneath us rather than the sympathy in her voice. “Not my best year.”
She tilted her head, studying me with the same intensity she’d probably use to examine an injured sea turtle. “You here to lick your wounds, or start over?”
“Bit of both, maybe.” I shrugged, trying for casual and probably missing by a mile. “I’m still working out what that looks like. Hell, I’m still working out what I want it to look like.”
“That’s fair.” She gave me a crooked smile that reminded me of summer afternoons when we were kids, before everything got complicated. “You always did hate sitting still. Even in elementary school, you’d finish your worksheets and then reorganize your desk just to have something to do. Maybe that restlessness is what you need right now.”
I let out a quiet laugh. “Don’t curse me like that.”
“Might be good for you.” Astrid pushed off the doorframe as her phone buzzed in her pocket. She glanced at the screen and sighed. “I’ve gotta head back to the research station before the summer interns accidentally feed a pelican a glow stick or try to tag a jellyfish. But I’m glad you’re here. Really. It’s been too long.”
“Thanks. It really has.” I found that I actually meant it. “It’s good to see you, too. Good to see someone who doesn’t look at me like I might spontaneously combust.”
“Lunch or dinner later this week? There’s this new place that opened up where the old bait shop used to be. Surprisingly good fish tacos.”
“Sure. That sounds perfect.”
She reached out and gave my arm a gentle squeeze, her hand warm against my skin. “Text me when you come up for air, okay? Don’t go full hermit on me.”
Then she was gone, her footsteps echoing down the weathered dock planks before fading into the general hum of the marina. I watched through the small porthole as she walked back toward shore, her ponytail swinging with each step, until she disappeared behind a cluster of masts and rigging.
I sank onto the narrow bench beside my laptop bag, suddenly exhausted in the way that comes after holding yourself together for company. Looking around the small cabin, I took in the way afternoon light filtered through the open hatch above, casting shifting patterns on the worn vinyl cushions. The boat swayed gently beneath me, a rhythm I’d forgotten I missed.
For the first time in a long time, there was nothing I had to prove. No case to build, no reputation to salvage, no next move to calculate three steps ahead.
Just me, the quiet lap of water against the hull, and whatever came next.
For right now, that was giving this whole place a good clean. It might not help me take control of my life, but taking control of my space would be a start.
That was as much as I had in me right now.
Three
RIOS
The ocean was louder on this side of the island. Not the lazy slap of the sound, but a steady hush and thrum that lived under everything, like a heartbeat you only noticed when the house was quiet.
Caroline’s place almost never got quiet.
“Logan, shoes off before you run upstairs!” my sister called from the kitchen. “I am not mopping again tonight.”
“I forgot!” came the six-year-old’s earnest bellow, followed by the unmistakable clatter of sneakers being toed off at speed and launched toward the hall tree. One missed and pinballed off the baseboard. Logan whooped like he’d scored a goal.
Aubrey padded past me with the composure of a much older kid, a baby bottle balanced expertly in one hand, burp cloth over her shoulder. “Tio Rios, can you test the temperature? He likes it warmer than I do.”
“Sí, jefa.” I took the bottle, tipped it to my wrist. “Perfect.”
She nodded, satisfied, and took it back with grave efficiency. At eight, she had the soft voice and serious eyes of someone who’d decided she was an assistant adult. Mother’s helper in a ponytail and mermaid pajamas. She bent over the bouncer where Eli vibrated with righteous fury at having to exist here on the floor when there were clearly greater heights in the world (arms, shoulders, ceiling fan).
