It wasn't enough.
But it was all I had.
Chapter 9: Liam
The walk to downtown Ashford took fifteen minutes, and I spent all of them trying to convince myself this was what I wanted.
The last week had been weird.
Joint practices were running smooth—both teams at Kingswell's boathouse every morning, coaches mixing boat configurations. I'd been in a quad with Evan and two Kingswell guys on Tuesday, back in the double with Thompson on Wednesday. Different rhythms, different chemistry. Decent enough.
I hadn't been paired with Alex again.
The coaches kept rotating the partnerships. But I'd see him across the boathouse bay—carrying oars, helping launch someone else's boat, strapping into an erg. We'd make eye contact for half a second, then look away.
We hadn't talked since we rowed together.
Acting normal around him was exhausting. Pretending my chest didn't tighten when I heard his voice across the dock.Pretending I wasn't hyperaware of exactly where he was at all times—which boat, which erg, which corner of the locker room.
If I'd just ended it with Emily, I could actually feel okay about trying to talk to him. Maybe even hook up again. But no—I folded because I was too scared to hurt her. Too damn scared to tell the truth.
And I still hadn't told him about Emily. Every morning I told myself I'd just do it. Every morning I didn't because I couldn't close the door on him.
I couldn't stop wanting Alex.
But tonight wasn't about Alex. Tonight was about Emily. About trying and proving to both of us that this could work.
Why?
Maybe because it was safe. Because it was a good cover—this fake life I was living. So I wouldn't have to admit how much I wanted the feel of Alex's warm skin against mine, his body pressed against me, his mouth on—
Fuck.
All this because I couldn't admit that.
I found a film playing at the Starlight—a small indie theater downtown.The Salt of Tears, a French film about a guy torn between different women. Not exactly subtle, but Emily had mentioned back in September that she wanted to see it. Something about the cinematography being beautiful.
I remembered… that had to count for something.
The theater was tucked between a vintage bookstore and a coffee shop on Main Street. Velvet curtains, creaky floors, the smell of popcorn and history.
Emily was waiting outside. Jeans and a dark green sweater that made her eyes look lighter. Hair down, curling slightly at the ends. She smiled when she saw me—genuine, hopeful.
"Hey," she said.
"Hey." I kissed her cheek, quick and easy. "You look nice."
"Thanks." She tucked her hair behind her ear. "I can't believe you remembered I wanted to see this."
"Of course I did."
We went inside. Tiny lobby—worn red carpet and a concession stand that hadn't been updated since the 1970s. An older guy with a gray beard stood behind the counter, reading a paperback.
"Two forSalt of Tears?" I asked.
"Seven-thirty showing. Twenty-four dollars." He didn't look up from his book.
I pulled out my wallet. Emily reached for her purse, but I shook my head. "I got it."
