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“And then when I was in college, there was James.” I picture his auburn curls, green eyes, the dimple in his right cheek. “We met in a photography class we took together and dated for about two years. Moved in together and everything. As cliché as it sounds, I thought he was the one.” I roll my eyes as I lift my cigarette. “Then he got a job offer in Chicago. He was a project manager, and it was a really good opportunity for him. He couldn’t pass it up.”

That final day together flickers by like an old film. We’d planned a picnic on our favorite beach. But what started out as a nice day soon devolved into wind and fog. I still remember the way the brisk salt air lashed against my face as I clung to him beneath our blanket, wishing he didn’t have to leave. It’ll be fine, he promised. People do long distance all the time.

“Things were okay for a while with him in Chicago,” I continue. “But then, slowly, they started to change. He would be late to a call, then forget altogether. He’d say he was going to come visit, but then it would never happen. Finally, I decided to visit him myself. But when I called to tell him—” Faintly, I recall where I was—walking through the Ferry Building, a latte in my hand, a hopeful smile curling my lips. “He broke up with me.” Feet faltering to a stop, people jostling my shoulders as they strode by.

“I think a part of me worried, deep down, that it was coming, but it was still hard. When I asked him why, he said that it was nothing about me. It was all him, that he’d just . . . changed.” The cool resignation in his voice still haunts me. As if his love had simply slipped out of his heart one day and could never come back.

“That’s when I knew—sometimes people disappear from your life suddenly, sometimes slowly. Either way, you can’t trust them to stay.”

Silence passes between us, then Luka says, gently, “I’m sorry that happened. Though if you ask me . . . the guy’s an idiot.”

A smile tugs at my lips. “I’m over him now.” Though it took a while. Lily saw the worst of it—the long days in bed, the way I avoided places we always used to go, how San Francisco became a minefield of harmful memories. More than once, I became my mom, sobbing at the table. “I realized I was wrong about him being the one—I don’t believe in that kind of thing anymore. But I decided I should do a few things to protect myself, to make sure I didn’t get hurt again. Like never spending the night with someone else. Keep things casual, you know?”

He nods, raking a hand through his hair. “You don’t have to stay,” he says.

I take another drag, studying him through the smoke. His broad silhouette against the night sky littered with stars. The wave of his hair as it jostles in the sea air. His eyes, calm and penetrating as a beacon at midnight. Faintly, I think how the word luka means harbor in Croatian. How much it suits him. If I had my camera, I’d take a photo and pause time, keep this moment forever.

Keep him.

I push the thought away, focusing on what he said. But the fear is gone; all I feel is a lightness. Like I’ve pulled that stone out of my pocket, dropped it into the sea. Maybe I should’ve opened up about this sooner with someone. I’m so frustrated at my mom for shielding part of herself from me, and yet didn’t I do the same thing?

The realization stings, but not in a wholly bad way. It feels cleansing. Like the first swipe of alcohol needed for a wound to heal. I wasn’t ready to face this truth before—not until I came here, where my family’s pain all started. Not until I met Luka.

“I want to stay.” I say it soft but firm, meeting his gaze.

The corner of his lips twitches into a crooked smile. We linger like that a moment, lost in each other. He then discards his cigarette into a can and tips his head toward the cabin. “Want to go inside?”

“Sure.” I throw out my cigarette as well and follow.

The interior holds more than I expected. Soft lights illuminate a small kitchen area with a hot plate and sink, while beyond lies a slim couch and table. It’s still compact though, making me wonder how Luka can even move comfortably around the space.

Faintly, I register the way the sea has hushed. How alone we are. My body thrums with a mixture of anxiety and anticipation.

Luka leads me toward the couch. I settle down beside him, leaving a few inches between us. Silvery moonlight from a window ripples over Luka as he leans forward, running a hand through his hair. “You know,” he says tentatively, “I think I’m the same as you in a way.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, curious.

“When I’ve dated people in the past, I sometimes worried they would one day suddenly decide to leave.” Though he doesn’t say it, I sense the implication. Like my father did. He sighs. “It can be hard, living here part of the year, on the mainland the other part. People come and go. And so I tell myself not to have too much hope. Just take what I can get.” Though his demeanor is nonchalant, there’s a hint of melancholy in his voice.

I reach my hand toward him. He takes it, tracing slow circles with his calloused thumb.

“But—” he hesitates “—tonight, when I heard you screaming . . .”

I tense at the reminder. He tightens his hold.

“I—I panicked. I didn’t know what was happening. All I knew was that I had to find you.” He turns away, rubbing his beard. My heart patters as I study his profile, trying to interpret his agonized expression. Wondering what he’ll say next.

But then, like a wave passing over his face, the agony clears. He inhales deeply, then calmly meets my gaze. “It doesn’t matter. You’re leaving soon.”

The words slice through me like a knife. My lips part, and without thinking, my grip on his hand slackens. I pull back, combing my hair behind my ears.

“It’s fine,” Luka says quickly. “I understand that’s how it goes. Your home is in San Francisco.”

Is it? I think back to my childhood home. The late nights I spent alone in bed, watching old movies on my laptop. The cramped kitchen where I would make coffee every morning using an ancient coffee maker my mom never used because she preferred her džezva. Even though I now owned the house, I felt like a stranger within its walls, an actress trying to pretend everything was fine, that I wasn’t really an empty husk inside.

“What I meant to say was . . .” he continues, “maybe we both should just focus on tonight. Instead of worrying about the future.”

The future. I know I don’t want to go back to San Francisco, to foggy streets, my job. There, I’d be taunted by loss, not only of my mom, but now Luka and Karmela as well. I don’t want to give them up, put an ocean between us.