“I’m seventeen,” I say flatly. “And I don’t have a fake ID.”
He shrugs, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe.
“It’s Chatham Bars. They’d probably give you a tax deduction with your Diet Coke.”
I force a tiny smile, but I shake my head.
“I think… I just want to walk down the beach.”
The room goes quiet.
Irene sets her wineglass down a little too hard.
“Jade, honey, no. It’s pitch-black. And the wind is picking up. Night tide comes in fast on this side of the Cape. Rip currents, rocks… that’s not something to mess with.”
Aunt Susan’s watching me too, her eyes worried, her mouth tight.
I cross my arms.
“I’ll stay on the sand. I just… I need the air.”
Irene looks at me the way you look at a wounded animal—trying to understand how much you can approach before it bolts.
“Why the beach?” she asks softly.
I stare past her, out the tall windows. The ocean is a sheet of black, the cliffs nothing but jagged shadows.
“I don’t blend well anywhere,” I murmur. “So I’m sure I’ll survive the dark.”
The room breathes in.
Aunt Susan steps forward, voice calm but firm.
“If you’re walking, I’m walking with you.”
I lift my chin. “You don’t have to.”
“You’re right,” she says. “But I want to.”
Mason watches me for a moment, the flirty edge gone now, replaced by something gentler—understanding, maybe. He lifts two fingers in a casual salute.
“If you change your mind,” he says, “I’ll sneak you in. Diet Coke on me.”
I huff a tiny laugh despite myself.
He slips out into the night, calling back, “Pops, I swear I won’t bring home any girls.”
Thom mutters, “You brought one home on Labor Day weekend! I almost had a heart attack over my coffee. ”
Irene swats his arm.
“Let the boy live.”
I pull on my coat, still not sure if my legs are ready for any of this—walking, talking, existing—but I open the door anyway.
Cold air kisses my cheeks.
Aunt Susan falls into step beside me.
