A few pages later, another line catches my eye.
Her heart raced as his hand moved up her thigh.
Whoa. That one I understand.
I snap the book shut and stare at the cover for a second.
If these stories are about people falling in love—and if love explains why men and women start acting strange around each other—then there’s a good chance one of these might help me.
Or at least explain why my stomach keeps flipping every time he looks at me a certain way.
I sort through the stack until one stands out.The Tide Between Hearts.The title is printed in silver above a couple on a windswept beach.
That feels fitting.
I tuck it under my arm, planning to take it back and read it somewhere quiet, somewhere Dane won’t notice.
But as I turn to go, something else catches my eye.
The closet door at the back of the cabin is slightly open.
Mum's closet.
Curiosity pulls me in before I can stop it. I set the books aside and cross the room, pushing the door open the rest of the way.
Everything inside looks exactly how we left it. Clothes pressed together on the narrow rod, untouched for years after we decided none of it was useful out here.
Most of it still isn’t.
Dresses meant for restaurants and city streets. Jackets you’d never wear in this kind of heat. Shoes with thin heels that would sink straight into the sand.
Mum had packed for a completely different kind of trip.
I slide a few hangers aside, running my fingers over fabrics that feel impossibly soft after years of rough cotton and woven palm.
That’s when I see it.
A white sundress hangs near the back.
Simple. Light. The kind of fabric that would catch the wind when you walk. It’s exactly the kind of thing Mum used to wear on warm evenings in Brisbane, when she and Dad went out to dinner by the harbor. I can almost see it—her walking beside him, the lights reflecting off the water.
I lift it off the hanger and hold it up.
The mirror on the closet door is still intact, a little cloudy around the edges but clear enough. The dress looks different from anything I wear now.
Too pretty for this place. Too soft for climbing rocks or hauling nets or carrying coconuts back to camp.
Which is probably why I can’t stop staring at it.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I pull off my shirt and shorts. I slip the dress over my head as I turn toward the mirror. For a moment, I just stand there looking at myself.
It fits. Not perfectly—not the way it probably did on Mum—but close enough. The hem brushes my knees, shifting softly when I move.
I turn a little, taking in the way it falls.
It feels strange, seeing myself like this.
Out here, clothes are practical. Loose shirts, worn shorts—anything that survives sun and salt. They’re tools.
