Mom gives me the look—the one that says she raised me and knows exactly what’s happening in my head.
“He’s been gone one day.”
“Forty-two hours.”
“You’re not counting, though.”
“I’m absolutely not counting.”
Ruffy wanders in, takes one look at me, and walks right back out. Even the dog knows I’m a disaster.
My phone buzzes and I nearly knock over the carafe lunging for it—Jo.
Don’t forget - bridal photos today! Marina at 4. Bring the bouquet samples. And yourself. Mostly yourself. You need to get out of that house.
I’d forgotten. Jo’s bridal shoot—the photographer who specializes in shots on the water. I’m supposed to bring flower samples so she can see how they photograph against the marina backdrop.
Three dots appear, then:
And stop checking your phone every 30 seconds. He’ll call when he calls.
How do you know I’m checking my phone?
Because I know you. 4 o’clock. Don’t be late.
Twin Waves Marinasits at the far end of the harbor, past the tourist boats and the fishing charters, where the water gets quieter and the docks stretch out like fingers reaching for the horizon.
I’ve driven past it a hundred times but never really looked. Now, pulling into the gravel parking lot with a backseat full of sample bouquets, I actually see it.
It’s beautiful. Weathered in the way coastal things get—silver-gray wood, salt-kissed ropes, boats bobbing gently in their slips like they’re nodding along to music only they can hear. The late afternoon sun turns everything golden. Seagullswheel overhead, and the air smells like brine and diesel and something faintly sweet, maybe honeysuckle from the wild tangle climbing the fence.
A hand-painted sign near the dock office reads:Harold’s Marina - Est.and then the date has been painted over, like someone changed their mind about advertising their longevity.
Jo is already on the main dock, waving at me with the enthusiasm of someone who’s had too much coffee and a purpose.
“You came!”
“You threatened me.”
“I aggressively encouraged you.” She takes one of the bouquet boxes from my arms and peers inside. “Oh, these are gorgeous. The roses with the eucalyptus? Perfect.”
“I brought four options. The photographer can tell you which ones catch the light best.”
“Emma. Her name’s Emma.” Jo leads me down the dock, our footsteps hollow on the wooden planks. “She just moved here and lives on a houseboat she inherited from her aunt. Three kids, recently divorced, trying to build her photography business.”
“You got her whole life story?”
“We had coffee. She’s sunshine in human form. You’ll love her.”
We pass slip after slip—sailboats with names likeSecond WindandNo Regrets, a fishing boat calledReel Therapy, a sleek speedboat that looks like it costs more than my mother’s house. The farther we walk, the quieter it gets, until we reach the last two slips at the end of the dock.
And that’s when I hear the yelling.
“—told you three times, the electrical panel isfine!”
“And I’m tellingyouthat when I plug in my coffee maker, the lights flicker like I’m in a horror movie!”
“Maybe your coffee maker is possessed!”
