“What if there’s sharks?” Max asks.
“Or… or whales?” Blakey adds, his eyes wide. “What if you fall in and a whale swallows you like in Pinocchio?”
“Or worse,” Max whispers. “A peanut butter jellyfish.”
I pause. “A what?”
“A jellyfish made of peanut butter and jelly,” he explains patiently. “You’d get stung and sticky.”
And then Blakey puts his hands on his hips. “You don’t like to swim, Mom.”
Tay kneels down beside them. “She’ll be wearing a life vest, guys. That keeps people above water even if they can’t swim at all. It’s totally safe.”
“You guys don’t need to worry about your mom,” Beckett says, suddenly right beside me.
I haven’t decided if I’m softening, or just keeping up the illusion of marital bliss. But when his hands brush my shoulders, I don’t stop him.
That’s the moment I realize—No one is going to stop me.
Not that I was hoping for that.
Because I wasn’t.
Really.
I candoreckless. I candowild.
And I’ll be wearing a life vest.
“I’m doing it,” I say again, louder this time.
Apparently, I, Ashley Carrington—responsible wife, competent mother, soon-to-be divorcée—am going to launch my ass into the sky behind a boat today.
Noah flags down the parasail crew—the guys in bright shirts under a beach umbrella. They fit me with a life jacket and quick-release harness, slap a paper wristband on my arm, and point us toward a small skiff bobbing just offshore. We wade in to our knees, climb aboard, and in under two minutes they’re ferrying us out to the winch boat for a dry, on-deck takeoff.
I straighten, turning on Beckett. “I’m going up by myself,” I say, sharper than I meant to—because the idea of him doing this with me feels like cheating. Like it won’t count if I’m not alone up there.
Beckett blinks, but then, after a second, just nods. “I’ll be on the boat,” he says, meeting my eyes. “Just in case.”
Just in case.
The words hang between us. I glance out toward the sea—vast, blue, endless—and something cold slithers down my spine. What the hell am I doing?
“I mean, maybe?—”
“You’ve got this.” His hand closes around mine. “Ash. You’ve got this.”
“It’s not like you can jump in and save me,” I murmur, barely audible over the engine’s roar. “Don’t forget about your piercing.”
Beckett turns, his expression dead serious. “If you need me, I’ll save you.” His gaze doesn’t waver. “You know that, don’t you?”
I do, actually.
Despite everything—despite the silence, the distance, the past year of unraveling—I trust Beckett with my life.
Just… not with my heart.
That’s why I can’t just forget and forgive.
