7 monthsprior
I don’t leave all at once.
It’s slow.
Like the way seasons change—one degree at a time, so subtle you don’t notice it’s happening until the cold settles into your bones.
It starts with small things. I stop staying the night. I stop letting him pull me back into bed when I try to get dressed. I stop answering the late-night texts that used to make my heart race.
I tell myself it’s not on purpose.
But maybe it is.
Because I love Ezra. I love him so much it hurts. And that’s the problem.
I don’t know if he loves me. Not in the way I used to think he might.
He wants me. That much is obvious. But when it comes to anything deeper, anything real, there’s a wall I can’t get past. He keeps me close enough to touch, but never close enough to keep.
And maybe that was enough for me before.
But it isn’t now. Especially not now that we have to work together in a professional capacity; that, of all things, was my tipping point.
So I let the space between us grow. I let the silences stretch longer. I let the phone ring instead of answering it.
Ezra doesn’t call twice.
He never has.
And that’s how I know the path I chose was the right one.
Because if he loved me—really, truly loved me—he wouldn’t have let me go so easily.
14
WHAT KIND OF IDIOT?
EZRA
The morningafter the storm is still bitter and harsh. The sky hangs low and heavy, bruised clouds stretching over the island, blotting out the sun. Wind whips against my face as I step outside to assess the damage. My boots crunch against debris—branches, seaweed, and whatever else the storm threw onto the shore.
I glance back at the cottage. Kruz is still asleep, bundled up in the bed where she finally drifted off sometime in the early hours. Before I left I took a long look at her, her dark curls spilled over the pillow, a stark contrast to her pale face, and for once, she looked peaceful, even if it was short-lived.
I’ll let her rest while I figure out just how bad things are out here.
The storm didn’t spare much. The pier looks like it’s barely holding on, the wood warped and splintered even more so than before. A few shingles are missing from the cottage roof, but nothing catastrophic. The gutter on the north side is bent, hanging loose like a broken limb. I make a mental note to fix it when I have the time—and the tools.
What worries me most is the power situation. With the sky this gloomy, the solar panels won’t be much help. I run a hand through my hair, damp from the lingering mist in the air. “Great,” I mutter to myself. If the panels don’t get enough light, the battery won’t recharge, and we’ll be stuck relying on the fireplace for warmth and the little gas left in the generator for cooking.
I don’t even want to think about what happens when that runs out.
I tug at my jacket as I scan the horizon. The ocean is still angry, waves churning and crashing against the rocks. It’s the kind of day that makes you question anyone’s sanity for being out here voluntarily.
Which is why the boat doesn’t make sense.
I see it, bobbing dangerously close to the island, tossed by the relentless waves. It’s small, maybe a fishing boat or a dinghy, but it’s way too close. The current dragged it in, but no one in their right mind would be out in this weather. My heart sinks as I take in the way it’s being battered by the waves, each impact pushing it closer to the jagged rocks.
“What kind of idiot…?” I trail off, narrowing my eyes as the boat gets closer. Something about it feels wrong. It’s not just the timing or the weather—there’s an unnatural stillness about it, even as the waves pummel its sides.
