Just stood there, alone in the crowd, and let the darkness come.
After a while, a boat appeared in my peripheral vision—large, lit up with strings of lights that twinkled like something out of a movie, moving slowly toward the pier. A dinner cruise, probably. Or a booze cruise. The kind of thing tourists did because it sounded romantic and Charleston knew how to sell romance better than most cities, packaging it up with a sunset and calling it memories.
I watched it approach without really seeing it. Just another piece of scenery sliding past. Another thing that had nothing to do with me.
Music drifted from the deck, something upbeat and forgettable. People danced, laughing, waving to strangers on shore like they were all part of the same celebration, the same beautiful lie that everything was fine and would stay fine forever. Someone cheered. Someone else raised a glass, champagne catching the last light like liquid gold.
The boat docked smoothly, crew members securing lines with practiced efficiency. Passengers began to disembark, still buzzing with whatever energy the evening had given them, faces flushed with alcohol and happiness and the temporary belief that life could always feel this good.
I was about to turn away, ready to find a hotel and figure out my next move, when I noticed three women stepping off together.
They were getting attention. A lot of it. Heads turning all along the waterfront. People pausing mid-conversation to stare. Even the street musician missed a chord, his fingers stumbling as they passed.
I could guess why.
They were stunning. All three of them. The kind of women who didn't have to try—they just existed and the world rearranged itself accordingly, making space for them whether it wanted to or not, everything else fading slightly in comparison.
Not that I was on the hunt. I wasn't. Hadn't been in years. Didn't have the energy or the interest or the belief that I had anything worth offering anyone anymore.
I turned back toward the harbor, letting the moment pass, my mind drifting back to the weight in my chest that wouldn't lift no matter how beautiful the sunset or how many miles I put between myself and everything I'd failed to protect.
Behind me, the click-clack of heels on pavement. Sharp and distinct even through the crowd noise, getting closer.
For some reason—instinct, maybe, or the same thing that made me check six in hostile territory—I turned.
And locked eyes with one of the women.
The world stopped.
Not metaphorically. Not poetically. Not in the way songs and movies tried to capture something that couldn't be captured with words or images or anything that made sense.
It just … stopped.
Everything. The noise. The movement. The breath in my lungs. The blood in my veins. Time itself.
Copper hair catching light from a nearby lantern, longer than I remembered but unmistakable, falling in waves over her shoulders. Curves that had filled out since the summers I'd memorized, the years adding softness and woman where there'd been girl. Blue eyes wide with the same shock that was currently short-circuiting every thought in my brain, every defense I'd built, every reason I'd had for staying away.
My God.
It couldn't be.
Not here. Not now. Not after all these years of running from everything that reminded me of who I used to be.
But it was.
"Sophie?" I blurted, the name ripping out of me before I could think, before I could process, before I could do anything except stand there and stare at a ghost that wasn't a ghost at all.
7
SOPHIE
Ifroze.
Not metaphorically. Not in that poetic way people describe shock later, after they’ve had time to soften it into something manageable.
I actually stopped moving.
The harbor noise—the laughter, the music drifting from the boat, the slap of water against the pier—fell away until there was only that one sound.
