"Right." Harold's tone made it clear he wasn't buying it. "Well, if you ever want to talk about whatever 'nothing' is keeping you up at night, I'm usually here until six. And I've been told I'm an excellent listener, mainly because I don't care enough to judge and I'm too old to interfere."
He left before Alex could respond, which was probably for the best since Alex had no idea what he would have said.
You keep staring at your phone like it's personally wronged you.
He hadn't realized he'd been doing that. But now that Harold mentioned it, Alex became acutely aware of his phone sitting face-down on the desk, the urge to search Lily's Instagram handle burning like an itch he couldn't scratch.
He'd been deliberately avoiding it. Couldn't handle seeing her back to her old life—laughing, traveling, doing her influencer thing like they'd never happened. Worse, what if he clicked on her profile and saw her with someone else? Some bronzed model type at a rooftop bar, his arm slung around her shoulders while she smiled that camera-ready smile?
He might lose what little sanity he had left.
"You look like hell," his sister Megan announced during their monthly video call, her ER-nurse bluntness cutting through any pretense of small talk.
"Thanks. Love you too."
"Seriously, Alex." She leaned closer to her camera, studying him with the same professional assessment she probably used on trauma patients. "What happened on that island? You're even more broody than usual, which I didn't think was possible."
"Nothing happened."
"Liar."
Alex sighed, running a hand through hair that badly needed a cut. “Would you believe I met a girl?”
Megan's eyebrows shot up. "You? Met someone? On your isolated research trip specifically designed to avoid human contact?"
"It wasn't planned."
“The plot thickens.” She was grinning now, looking far too delighted by his misery. "Tell me everything. Is she a scientist? Another researcher? Please tell me she's not a mermaid, because I don't think Mom's wedding china will work for an underwater ceremony."
"She's an influencer."
The silence that followed was deeply satisfying.
"I'm sorry," Megan said finally. "I think I hallucinated. Did you just sayinfluencer? Like, social media influencer? The thing you've ranted about destroying authentic human connection for the past five years?"
"The very same."
"And you... met her? Andlikedher? And are now moping around Boston like a Victorian ghost because...?"
"Because I let her leave without telling her how I felt." The words came out flat, matter-of-fact, as if he were describing the life cycle of a sea urchin rather than his own emotional catastrophe.
Megan's expression softened. "Oh, Alex."
"I know."
"Did she feel the same way?"
"I think so. She kept giving me openings to say something, and I just..." He made a vague gesture that was supposed to convey the full scope of his failure but probably looked like he was swatting at an invisible fly.
"Let me guess." Megan's voice was gentler now. "You got scared. Told yourself all the logical reasons it wouldn't work. Decided it was better to protect yourself from potential loss than risk actually being happy."
"When did you get a psychology degree?"
"I don't need one. I've known you for thirty-five years." She paused. "Alex, I say this with love: you've been using Mom's death as an excuse to avoid real connection for almost three decades. And I get it—losing herwas devastating. But she wouldn't want this for you. She'd want you to be brave."
The words landed somewhere soft and painful in Alex's chest. "I know."
"So what are you going to do about it?"
