It was knowing she existed somewhere down that shore, sleeping off pain medicine with hot cocoa in her stomach and three days left before the world decided she was grown.
Not because I wanted to take something from her.
Because I wanted to be there when she finally had everything.
The empty pages.
The ocean.
The future.
The name that belonged to her.
And that was the most dangerous wanting of all.
Regan walked away, leaving me alone at the beach bar with the tequila, the ocean, and a truth I didn’t want.
I sat there long after her perfume faded from the air.
The waves kept rolling in, silver-black under the moon, dragging foam across the sand before pulling it back like the ocean was breathing. Farther out, boats bobbed on the horizon, their lights blinking soft gold and white against the dark.Rich people’s toys. Fishermen’s livelihoods. Party boats full of drunk tourists who would wake up tomorrow with sunburns, hangovers, and stories they’d exaggerate for the rest of the summer.
I watched them all like they might give me answers.
They didn’t.
The bartender came by and lifted his chin toward my empty glass. “Otro?”
I nodded.
He poured another shot of tequila, the good stuff, the kind that went down smooth enough to lie to a man before it punched him in the chest. I tossed it back and set the glass down.
The burn felt honest.
That was more than I could say for most things.
A woman slid onto the stool beside me.
Not Regan this time.
Blonde. Forties maybe. Expensive tan, expensive teeth, expensive divorce energy. She wore a black dress that looked like it had been engineered to make poor decisions easy, and she smelled like jasmine, coconut oil, and money.
“Well,” she said, looking me over like I was something on a menu, “aren’t you hiding from the fun?”
“No, ma’am,” I said. “Just not looking for any.”
Her mouth curved. “Ma’am? Ouch.”
“Respectful upbringing.”
That was a lie so ugly I almost laughed at myself.
She leaned closer anyway, her nails tapping against the bar. “You here alone?”
“No.”
“Girlfriend?”
“No.”
