“No,” I say honestly. Then leave before they can ask more.
The wind off the sea should help.
It doesn’t.
Every step down the sand feels wrong, like I’m moving through a place that remembers something I’m refusing to name. I scan the shoreline without meaning to – half expecting to see her there, wrapped in that oversized jumper, hair pulled back, stubborn and soft and?—
I swear under my breath.
This is ridiculous.
She’s sick. Finn’s looking after her. End of story.
Except it isn’t.
Because the guilt doesn’t settle. It coils tighter instead, low and sharp. I should have noticed. Should have asked. Shouldn’t have acted like helping her was some kind of favour instead of the bare minimum of being decent.
I didn’t know.
But I also didn’t try.
That sits worse.
I kick at the sand and breathe in the salt-heavy air, trying to burn the restlessness out of my lungs.
There’s nothing I can do now without making it worse.
So I do what I’ve been doing for weeks.
I stay away.
And somewhere, deep down, a quiet, dangerous thought takes root?—
That whatever’s wrong with her might not be entirely unrelated to whatever the hell is wrong with me.
I don’t go far.
I tell myself I’m heading for the beach, but my feet take me down the lane instead – slow, restless steps that don’t know where they’re going. The morning’s too quiet. Sun’s too bright. Everything’s normal in a way that makes my skin itch.
Her cottage comes into view before I realise I’ve turned back.
I stop. Stand there like a fucking idiot, staring at the place as if it might explain itself if I wait long enough. Curtains drawn. Door shut. No movement on the porch. No sign of her.
Good. That’s good…right?
She doesn’t need me hovering. Doesn’t need my mood or my questions or my presence dragging everything up again. I did enough damage already without sticking my nose into her life.
I turn away.
Make it three steps before stopping again.
Fuck.
I scrub a hand over my face and pace a tight circle in the gravel, breath sharp in my chest. Every instinct in me is pulling the wrong way – forward, closer, toward her – while my head screams to stay the hell away.
She’s sick, the twins said.
Sick.