I feel—caught, somehow. In this moment that feels suspended in time, both too dreamlike and too real.
When his phone starts buzzing, I’m not angry. I’m relieved.
“Better get that,” I say and then turn around, yanking open a drawer with a little more force than necessary.
Just because we’re splitting up doesn’t mean he stopped being gorgeous. And that is so not fair.
“Hey,” I hear him answer, stepping outside. “Are you kidding me?” His voice cuts off when he closes the sliding glass door.
With shaky hands, I grab the cotton shorts and plain T-shirt I packed and escape to the bathroom like it’s a lifeboat.
Inside, I crank the shower hot enough to sting and step under the spray. The ship’s hum fades beneath the rush of water in my ears, steam curling around me.
I’m doing the right thing, for me, for the boys.
This is the last thing I wanted, but I—we—need more than what he’s willing to give.
Darn you, Beckett.
I tilt my head up to face the shower head, eyes shut tight, and pretend there aren’t tears mixing in with the hot water. For a minute—just one—I let myself not hold it together.
Then I straighten, wipe my face, and soap up. Shampoo. Conditioner.
I’m not going soft. Just acknowledging and mourning our situation for what it is.
He isn’t going to change my mind.
When I finally step back into the room, hair damp and skin pink from the heat, the lights are low. Beckett’s on the pullout, one arm slung over his eyes, breathing steady but not the slow and deep rhythm he gets when he’s actually out.
Good. Perfect. Everything is fine, but instead of plugging in my phone, or tidying up the room, or even making the effort to dry my hair, I crawl into bed and flick the lights off.
Maybe a half hour goes by, and I’m still staring up at the ceiling, wide awake.
Somewhere down the hall, someone laughs—too loud, too carefree. A door thumps shut in the next cabin. Footsteps pass. Normal happy people having fun.
From across the room I hear every movement Beckett makes. The mattress creaking when he rolls over. He exhales, slow and controlled.
He’s not asleep. I know that as surely as I know I’m not.
We lie there anyway, wrapped in silence—the kind that used to feel comfortable.
Now it presses in on all sides, thick and airless, while the rest of the ship celebrates just beyond the walls.
Then his voice, soft in the dark. “Ash… can’t we just?—”
“I’ve tried,” I say before he can finish.
He’s quiet for a beat, and I can feel him turn his head toward me. “When?”
“Every day this past year,” I whisper. “When you stopped talking to me. When you started coming home late. When you’d sit at the table, right across from me, and still feel… gone.”
The silence stretches. I think maybe that’s it—maybe he’ll let it end there. But then his voice comes again, low, persuasive.
“You know I still love you, right?” he says. “I know I’ve been distant, but it wasn’t about us. It’s just—life got complicated. Work. Pressure. And I’m trying to fix things before…”
He shifts, sitting up a little. I can picture his face even in the dark—the earnest expression, the faint tilt of his head he uses when he’s trying to win someone over.
“I miss you, Ash. The way things used to be. The way you used to look at me. We can get that back. We can start over. I’ve made some… mistakes, I know. But, this cruise—it can be a reset. Just give me a chance, babe. It might be… Please. You won’t regret it.”
