"Let's just get through the weekend—we'll figure the rest out. I promise."
Alex blinked. Straightened. The Harrington mask snapping into place so fast it was almost impressive.
"See you Saturday," he said. And walked back inside.
I stayed on the dock, the October wind biting through my shirt. The river dark and flat now that the boats were in. My legs still shaking. My chest still tight.
Just rowing.
I almost laughed.
My body knew what it was. Had known since Brackett Lake. Since the closet. Since every practice where our strokes synced and the boat came alive and I couldn't tell where I ended and he started.
I wasn't done pretending. That was the problem. I wasn't brave enough to stop. Not yet. Not with Emily still in the picture and the team watching and everything I'd worked for balanced on the edge of a blade.
But the pretending was getting harder every day that went by, and every time those blue eyes found mine across the boathouse.
I took a breath.
A few more days.
I headed back inside.
Chapter 18: Alex
The Riverside Club looked different when it was filled with people who mattered.
Donors in expensive suits. Alumni who'd rowed decades ago and still talked about it like it was yesterday. Both teams dressed up, playing nice, pretending the rivalry was just healthy competition.
I stood near the bar in my tailored navy suit—Tom Ford, because my father believed first impressions were non-negotiable. White shirt. No tie, because this was supposed to be "business casual" even though half the room looked ready for a board meeting.
My father was across the room with a cluster of major donors. His hands moved in that practiced way—probably telling the story about my great-grandfather building the original boathouse. The Harrington legacy.
Everything I was supposed to uphold. Everything I'd told himnoabout less than forty-eight hours ago.
The exposed brick walls were lined with black-and-white photos of past crews. Tables scattered through the space, the barstocked and staffed, the small stage where Ethan had set up the projector for presentations. The room hummed with the specific energy of money—quiet confidence, careful laughter, the kind of conversation where every sentence was calibrated.
This was supposed to be my victory. The event I'd organized. Proof I could deliver.
But all I felt was hollow.
"Ladies and gentlemen, if I could have your attention."
Eldridge's voice cut through the chatter. The room quieted.
"First, I want to thank everyone for being here tonight. This joint program wouldn't be possible without your support." He gestured to the crowd. "And I especially want to recognize two people who made this evening happen—Ethan Reeves and Alex Harrington, who coordinated every detail."
Polite applause.
I forced a smile. Nodded acknowledgment.
Ethan caught my eye from across the room. A small smile.We did it.
Something loosened in my chest. Just slightly. The memory of the diner still warm—pancakes, terrible coffee, the first honest conversation we'd had in months. Not fixed. But less broken.
"Tomorrow morning," Eldridge continued, "we have the Northeast Regional Invitational. You'll see some incredible rowing. These athletes have been training together, pushing each other, and I think you're going to be impressed by what this program has accomplished."
More applause.
