I stare in the mirror above the bathroom sink, turning my head to one side and then the other. I think I have a double black eye, which is not nearly as cool as a double rainbow and definitely not as lucky. Thankfully the area isn’t too swollen anymore. I can honestly say that I hope Matteo looks worse, and I’ll bet money that he does. I got in a few good shots.
I take out my phone to check for any other messages, and see that I have one from my little sister. She must have snuck it through her tablet. I smile, clicking it open.
Are you okay?she asks.I heard you got in a fight.
I’m good,I type back.How are you?
She doesn’t respond right away, but then it pops up.You promised you wouldn’t go away again,she writes. A sharp pain pokes me in the ribs. She adds,Dad says you’re never coming back.
This hurts me more than anything. If my father didn’t speak to me ever again, I’d get over it. I might even be relieved. But I hate that this affects Astrid. She doesn’t deserve this.
I’m sorry,I write, and have to sniffle back my tears.I’m staying at the beach if they’ll let you come see me tomorrow.
Okay,she answers. I think we both know that our father won’t let her. And our mother, who knows what she’s thinking right now? She’s probably having a drink, pretending it’s just any other day. And that definitely hurts worse than a double black eye.
I put my phone away and walk out into Noa’s house. It’s been years since I’ve been inside here, always struck by how comfortable it is. Atmospheric and messy—in the best way. It’s like a clutter of love.
Noa stands up from the couch and motions to the blanket and pillow she’d brought out for me. Behind her, a box flashes with red lightsand muffled static, boat radios calling in coordinates. On the desk is a stack of papers and notebooks with little tabs sticking out. I know she’s doing all this herself. I know she has the whole world on her shoulders right now, and here I am, making it even heavier.
We had called Tech and Shawn to fill them in on my father’s involvement, the men with guns, and Noa’s suspicions that Alessandro Mancini is looking to blame us for the murder. We all agreed to meet tomorrow to figure out a game plan. For now, I just want to rest my face.
“We should put a steak on that eye,” she says, motioning to me as I walk in.
I furrow my brow, which really hurts. “Do you have steak?” I ask.
She laughs. “No, but I have popsicles. Purple or orange?” she asks.
“Let’s stay away from purple for now,” I murmur.
“Here, sit down,” Noa says, making room for me on the couch. When I sit, it’s comfy, the sort of well-worn sofa you sink into and have to catch yourself. This little house exudes warmth and love. Family photos line the wall almost haphazardly, and I can see Noa’s entire family at various stages of their lives. The only family photo up in our house is a posed one over the fireplace that my mother had commissioned. It may as well be AI generated—we’ve all been smoothed and depixelated enough to make our faces look like Play-Doh.
And there on a bookshelf, in a small wooden frame, is a photo of Noa sitting on the dock. She’s fifteen, holding a fishing pole in one hand while shading her eyes from the sun with the other. Next to her, grinning madly and all skinny and suntanned… is me. Gazing at her adoringly.
Well, damn. It aches—but not really in a bad way. Nostalgia, a reminder. That photo, the life back then—we had everything we needed. We had the days and nights. We had the beach and sea. But mostly, we found peace in each other. What I wouldn’t do to find that peace again.
There is the sound of an icemaker, little cracks as a few cubes hit thefloor, and then Noa comes back in with a washcloth swollen with ice. “Sorry, out of orange popsicles,” she says. “Here, put this on your face.”
She drops down next to me, knocking me into her before I can straighten. I tip my head back on the top of the cushion as she helps place the washcloth on my eye. I wince at the contact.
We’re quiet for a minute, but I can feel her watching me, even with my eyes closed. I smile. “What?” I ask.
“How good did it feel to hit Matteo?” she asks. “I bet it felt so good.”
“It actually felt great,” I tell her. She nods along emphatically, as if trying to imagine it.
“Why did you hit him?” she asks. “I think I know why youfoughthim,” she clarifies, “but what did he say to make you punch him in the first place?”
“Does it matter?” I ask. When she doesn’t answer, I know that it does. “He said something about how I should get in line.”
“About me?” She tries to laugh it off, but I can hear there is real pain there. “What a joke. Honestly, I wish I never talked to him in the first place.”
“Not that it’s any of my business,” I say, “but how did the two of you become a thing?”
“I meant it when I said it wasn’t that serious,” she explains, exhaling. “He had great timing—for him. For me? Not so much. I was still getting over you, and… my mom just died. I was lonely. And I was all alone.”
For my part in that, I feel absolutely horrible. She should have never been alone.
“I wanted to feel normal again,” she continues. “And at first, it was kind of nice to have someone to talk to. Someone who didn’t really know me, didn’t feel sorry for me. But… then I overheard Matteo talking to his father.” She rolls her eyes. “The typical class-war, slut-shaming bullshit. So I ended things real quick.”
