The building is tall, made of glass and steel. It probably has a concierge and an elevator that requires a key card. I stand on the sidewalk and look up at it and think,this is where he lives.This is the life he had before me.And for a vertiginous second, I understand why he wasn’t sure he could leave it. Not because of the money or the prestige, but because leaving a life—even one that’s making you sick—means admitting it was wrong. And that’s harder than it sounds.
The concierge buzzes me up without resistance, which either means Peter told them to expect someone, or myunhinged woman-on-a-missionenergy was convincing enough. The elevator takes approximately nine years to reach his floor, and I spend every second of it not rehearsing a speech.
I knock.
Footsteps.
A pause.
The door opens.
He’s in a T-shirt and jeans, and his hair is doing the thing it does when he’s been running his hands through it. He looks tired and slightly stunned and so beautiful that the opening line I didn’t prepare evaporates entirely.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi.” He’s staring at me like I might be a hallucination, which, fair.
“I have things to say, and I need you to let me say them, because if you interrupt me, I’ll lose my nerve, and then I flew two and a half hours for nothing, and I don’t even like flying, andthe airport was a lot, and there was a dog in a carrier that looked really upset, and I’m still thinking about it, so—let me talk.”
His mouth twitches. “Okay.”
“Okay.” I take a breath. “The marina project got approved. The mayor called a special session, and we won the vote. The harbor master testified, and Neve’s presentation made two bureau members cry. It’s happening, Peter. The whole thing. Boardwalk, pop-up vendor spaces, everything. The town needs you for this. Your financial plan, your projections, the grant applications you started—they need you back there to see it through.”
He’s smiling. Not the surprised kind or the polite kind. The kind that starts in his eyes and doesn’t stop.
“Also, my dad had to step down from the bureau. They found out he was leveraging his position to push the storage facility deal for a developer he had a financial stake in. Conflict of interest. He’s under review.” I say it flatly because I’ve had days to process it, and I still don’t know whether I’m relieved or devastated or both. “So that’s done.”
Peter nods slowly, still smiling. The smile is starting to make me nervous because he doesn’t look surprised by any of this, and I’m beginning to suspect I’m missing something.
“And the other reason I’m here—” My voice catches, and I hate it, but I push through it. “The town needs you. ButIneed you for completely different reasons. I need you because you remember to ask if I’ve eaten. Because you slide my meds across the counter like it’s nothing. Because you showed up at my house and hugged me, and you didn’t try to fix me. You showed up, and you stayed, and historically, people don’t always do that for me, Peter.” My eyes are burning, and my throat is tight. I’m standing in his hallway in yesterday’s jeans, making a fool of myself, and I can’t stop. “I need you because when you left, your house was too quiet, and the coffee tasted wrong, and Tammy came by twice,and I gave her apples both times and talked to her about you, which is genuinely unhinged behavior, and I need you to come home because Balsam Bay is your home now, and I?—”
“Beth.”
“You said you wouldn’t interrupt.”
“Look behind me.”
I stop. Blink. Look past his shoulder into the condo.
Boxes. Everywhere. Stacked against bare walls, labeled in his neat printing—books, kitchen, donate, Mom & Dad. The furniture is sparse, like pieces have already been removed. The bookshelves are empty. The walls are bare, other than a few rectangles of slightly darker paint where frames used to hang.
“I told you I was coming back,” he says quietly.
I stare at the boxes. At the suitcase by the door. At the completely dismantled life of a man who made his decision before I made mine.
“You’re selling the condo,” I say.
“Already listed it.”
“You’re quitting your job.”
“Already did that, too.”
“You—” My voice breaks properly this time. I press my hand over my mouth, and the laugh comes out watery and cracked. “You asshole. I flew here to beg you.”
“And it was a beautiful speech.” He’s grinning now, the full golden-retriever grin, the one that makes his eyes crinkle and his whole face light up like a sunrise. “The part about Tammy was especially moving.”
“I’m going to kill you.”
