“You can’t know that.”
“I can.” His voice is rough but certain. “Loving Judah and loving you aren’t competing forces. My heart isn’t a pie with limited slices.”
I laugh, watery and raw. “Did you just use a pie metaphor to describe your feelings? God, you really are from a small town.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. It’s not quite a smile, but it’s close. Closer than anything I’ve seen from him since his heat broke.
I lean my head against his shoulder, watching the first fishing boats motor out into the gray morning. I think about wishes written on paper lanterns and sent out to sea. I think about the wish I wrote—I want to be loved, not just desired—and wonder if the universe has a sense of humor or a sense of justice.
Maybe both.
Nothing is resolved. Nothing is fixed. But something has shifted—a door cracked open that’s been sealed shut for a decade. What happens next is up to Mason.
But I’ve done the best I can to make that wish come true.
I’ve kicked down the first barrier and dared someone I love to walk through it.
THIRTY-EIGHT
JUDAH
The Rusty Anchorsmells exactly like it always has—stale beer, pine cleaner, and the faint ghost of cigarette smoke that’s seeped into the wood over decades despite the smoking ban.
But it looks completely different. I don’t think I’ve seen a crowd this large since Derek made the mistake of hosting an all-night happy hour. Some of the local drunks nearly put him out of business.
I settle onto a stool at the far end of the bar, well away from the small crowd that’s already gathering. Word spreads fast in a town this size. Within hours of Dom mentioning Atticus would be performing again, half of Harmony Harbor seemed to know about it. The other half probably found out from the first half before sunset.
Dom catches my eye from behind the bar and holds up a finger.One minute.
I nod, content to wait. The familiar rhythm of the place washes over me—the clink of glasses, the low murmur of conversation, the creak of old floorboards under shuffling feet. I’ve spent more hours in this bar than I care to count. First as a sullen teenager nursing sodas while my father played poker inthe back room. Later as a young man drowning his sorrows in whiskey after Mason left.
Now? Now I’m not sure what I’m doing here, except that Dom asked me to come.
The makeshift stage in the corner draws my attention. It’s nothing fancy—just a small platform Derek cobbled together years ago for the occasional open mic night. Someone’s dragged a proper speaker system up there, and the old guitar that usually hangs on the wall behind the bar has been joined by what looks like professional audio equipment.
This isn’t going to be some casual acoustic set.
Dom appears in front of me, and instead of reaching for a beer glass, he produces something else entirely.
The liquid inside of the cocktail glass catches in the light—a shade of reddish-amber with a sprig of rosemary balanced on the sugar-dusted rim.
I stare at it.
As far as I know, Dom doesn’t make fancy cocktails. Dom pours beer and whiskey and the occasional gin and tonic or cosmo for the girls slumming it here from the local college.
“What the hell is this?”
“Try it.”
I pick up the glass, sniff. Honey. Tequila, maybe, though it doesn’t quite smell right. Definitely citrus, maybe grapefruit? And underneath it all, an herbal note I’m not convinced is something edible.
The first sip hits my tongue and I actually close my eyes.
Jesus Christ.
The drink is complex and layered, balanced sweetness that still has a nice burn at the end. “Fuck, that’s good.”
He shrugs, but I can see the pleased twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Been messing around with mezcals. Glad you like it.”
