The night is knife-cold.
That late-November coastal cold that slices clean through a jacket and settles in your bones.
I don’t even remember deciding to drive here.
One minute I’m leaving the yacht club, my father’s words echoing in my skull?—
be her harbor, be her shelter, be the man she waits for?—
and the next, I’m winding up the familiar road toward the cliffs.
The place where everything began.
Where she laughed into my chest.
Where she told me her dreams.
Where she kissed me like I was worth something.
The ocean is black and restless below.
I park.
I kill the engine.
I sit there, gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles hurt.
Then I pull out my phone.
And I start watching her.
Jade Bryan.
My Jade.
Except she’s not mine now.
She’s… everywhere.
Her Boston vlog.
Her Cape vlog.
Her therapy honesty.
Her hope.
Her grit.
Her words hitting people in their bruised, lonely places.
Millions of likes.
Comments exploding.
Duets.
Reaction videos.
