Page 110 of In Your Wake

I freeze and Dad goes quiet too, watching him carefully, as Hunter digs into his pasta. My face warms.

He thinks I’m talking about Tucker?

I snuff down a laugh, hiding my smile with a sip of wine.

Thankfully, the conversation shifts to the brewery. Summer business is booming, with tourists and locals flooding into Oakwhite’s new addition on Main Street. Hunter tells us an insane story about how he and Celia accidentally locked themselves in the beer fridge for a few hours, but found ways to keep warm, which earns a couple of cringes from us. Then Dad talks about a new art class he’s taking and gushes a little too much about the attractive teacher, Annette.

Meanwhile, I laugh on purpose in the right places. I nod when expected. I pretend I’m invested in the conversation.

Usually, I love these dinners. They ground me and remind me who I am outside the messiness of everything else.

Tonight, though, my mind keeps drifting.

Back to the boat. To Mitch standing in front of me in that tiny bedroom, looking like he still carries every unresolved thing between us right there on his shoulders.

And the worst part is, I do too.

But somewhere deep inside, beneath all the denial and fear, one awful truth keeps stabbing me like a burning poker—I want Mitch. Not just physically. Not temporarily. But that’s exactly why I can’t let myself have him.

“He’s leaving,” I blurt absentmindedly before I can stop myself.

Hunter looks up. “Who is?”

Shit.

“Mitch. To Germany or whatever. He’s leaving, right?”

Hunter nods slowly. “Yeah, maybe.”

Maybe?

“He’s thinking about taking it?” Dad asks.

Hunter shrugs. “Hard to tell with him lately. He’s all over the place. He’s really distracted.”

My chest tightens. I know what’s on Mitch’s mind—his dad. The fear and pressure of figuring out what comes next. What’ll happen any day now.

But a selfish part of me wonders if I play a part in there, too.

I glance down at my wineglass and sigh. There’s no point in even considering it. Even if Mitch wanted me in the way that matters, and I’m still not fully convinced he does, what then?

Let’s say I admit how I feel. We’ll inevitably implode all over again. And considering our parents’ history, maybe that’s all we’re ever destined to do: hurt each other, circle back, repeat.

I’ve already spent too much of my life rebuilding myself. I don’t need Mitch Adams coming back and wrecking me a second time around.

Even if there’s a part of me that’d be willing to take that risk.

23

Princess Peach

Max

At a little past six p.m., the inn’s back garden looks as if a Pinterest board threw up all over it. It’s pretty. Gorgeous, even. A kaleidoscope of colors and twinkling lights, and so far beyond what I could have put together by myself.

White string lights zigzag between the old oak trees, casting a soft glow without blocking the dusky sky above. Round tables pepper the lawn, covered in navy linens Bethany insists fit the theme of “vintage coastal chic,” which sounds fake, but somehow works. Near the rose arbor, someone hung framed photos of Vennie Gardner and Asher Levitt—mostly candid shots from their restaurant, Bayou and Bagel. They have flour on their faces, ladles in hand, smiling as if they genuinely enjoy each other.

And it’s annoyingly cute.