Elena nudges two plates with cherry pie slices in my direction. “Fuel for whatever you two get up to after the fireworks.”
As we walk away, pie plates in hand, I glance back to see the three of them still watching us, their laughter chasing us into the night.
Knox leans toward me. “Yep. They are definitely trouble…”
I grin. “…And they might also be our unofficial chaperones. The type who’d throw us a going-away party and spike the punch. Pretty sure Margo just bet Elena ten bucks we’d make out before the first set of fireworks.”
Knox smirks. “A bet she won’t lose.”
“Confident, are you?”
“Extremely.”
We drift through the crush of bodies toward the waterfront, Knox’s hand steady at the small of my back.
The festival noise fades to a low hum—the echoing clang of a ring-toss bell, the call of a roasted-almond vendor. With every step, the midway’s heat and sugar give way to the cool, briny breath of the harbor. Lantern lights dim behind us, replaced by the shimmer of moonlight on black water and the hush of waves against rock.
“Millie’s right,” Knox says, steering me around a stroller. “That bluff will give us the best view.”
“My mom used to say the same thing.”
The words land before I can stop them, unraveling a part of me I’ve kept sealed shut.
His brow lifts. “About the bluff?”
“About fireworks.” My lips curve slightly. “When I was little, my parents would take me to the East River every Fourth of July. We’d sit on this big, tartan picnic blanket mydad insisted on hauling out—the one my mom swore was too nice for grass stains—and watch fireworks blossom over the Manhattan skyline. She’d pack strawberries and lemonade; he’d buy pretzels from a cart ‘to support local business.’ Mom always said there’s nothing better than fireworks over water.”
“Sounds like a gem.”
“She was.” My voice thins to something fragile, and so does his tone as he asks, “What happened?”
I take a breath. “An undetected heart condition. HCM. One morning, she just…didn’t wake up.”
His footsteps slow to a stop, gravel crunching under his shoes. When I turn, his gaze has beaten me to it, the pier lights catching a caramel ring in his eyes, a flicker of concern mingled with something softer, like he already knows this isn’t small talk.
“Cami…”
“Every six months, I get checked to make sure I don’t have the same thing. So far, so good. But that’s why my dad’s the way he is.” I tuck my hair behind my ear, the motion more habit than need. “Overprotective to the point of overkill. He didn’t even want me to leave for Oxford. Told me he couldn’t stand the idea of me being an ocean away.”
Heat drifts down my arm in the path of Knox’s fingertips, each inch unhurried, deliberate, until they reach my palm, threading through.
“I get that,” he says quietly, his thumb brushing once against my skin. “I wouldn’t want you to be an ocean away either.”
I squeeze his hand, the steadiness in it settling me in a way that’s rare. Funny how one sentence from Knox has single-handedly shifted my perspective and made me realize I might’ve misread Dad all along. Maybe he wasn’t being overprotective or controlling. Maybe he just couldn’t risk losing someone else he loves. So when my life fell apart last year, he started nudging meto come home because he hated seeing me broken and too far away from home to help fix it.
That’s why he’s so thrilled I’m finally coming back.
The apartment. The job. They’re his way of bringing me home.
But how do I tell himhomedoesn’t feel safe anymore?
It feels like grief with a fresh coat of paint.
Like everywhere I turn, there’s another piece of Mom.
The bookstore where she used to read to me in the kids’ section.
The bench in Central Park where we ate melting ice cream cones, hands sticky, bellies sore from laughter.
