“What are you talking abou—”
My words fall short when he suddenly pushes back his stool, rises to his feet, and comes around the kitchen island. Before I can do so much as stand, he’s dropped to his knees on the tile floor. He fishes around for something in his pocket, then lifts it toward me. In his hand, there’s a small velvet box.
Time stops.
“Josephine Valentine…” Oliver is smiling at me with tears in his eyes and I try to smile back but my lips won’t cooperate. Something inside me is screaming out objections I can’t discern over the roar of blood rushing between my ears. My heart rails against my ribcage like a feral animal, desperate to break free of its confines. “I knew the moment I met you that one day, I’d make you my wife. We’re cut from the same cloth. We understand one another without even trying. And together, I think we can change the world.”
He opens the box. Sitting atop a bed of pale silk, there’s a dizzyingly large diamond. It catches the light, twinkling. It must be at least four carats. I can’t even fathom the cost of such a purchase.
“Please,” Oliver says. “Do me this honor. Make me the happiest of men.”
I look up from the ring, into his eyes. My mouth opens, but I can’t speak. All that comes out is a soft sort of wheeze.
He smiles.
The ring lifts higher.
“Josephine… will you marry me?”
TWENTY-FOUR
archer
Dark has fallenby the time I reach Gloucester Harbor.
The docks are empty, the waters inky. Beneath the dim pool of light cast by a nearby electric pole, I tuck my boat in for the night — locking the cabin doors, double-checking her lines twice. I keep my mind laser-focused on the tasks at hand. It’s easier to think about ropes and cleats and fenders than to let my attention wander inward.
To Josephine.
Thinking too hard about the events at Cormorant House sets my teeth on edge. My stomach clenches every time I revisit the image of her standing there beside perfect, blond Oliver. He looked like just the kind of mate her parents would choose for her. Well-dressed, well-spoken. No doubt in possession of a rich pedigree.
He’s the ideal guy.
He’s everything I’m not.
I should’ve known she’s moved on. That her heart — the one I was so foolish to think might still be mine to reclaim — is already spoken for.
Did you think she’d wait for you forever?After the way you treated her?my inner voice sneers, mocking me as I coil the spare spring line.Did you think she was somehow still yours?After all this time?
The voice barks out a laugh.
You utter fool.
Tommy was right when he said we don’t get unlimited chances in this life. I have no one to blame but my own damn self for missing mine. I know that with certainty. Just as I know I’ll spend the rest of my however-many-years on this planet regretting the fact that I lost Josephine Valentine.
Cursing under my breath, I turn away from her namesake vessel, bobbing quietly in the slip, and begin the slow walk home. Part of me — the same pathetic part I’ve been listening to for far too long — craves the comfort only a barstool can offer. Liquid oblivion, served up in a lowball glass at Biddy’s.
Six weeks ago, six days ago — hell, maybe even six hours ago — I might’ve listened. But a different part of me, newly awakened after a long slumber, overrides the urge to numb my pain and insists, quite annoyingly, that I feel it instead.
The truth is, I’ve spent months looking for solutions in the bottom of a whiskey bottle. It’s gotten me nowhere. Given me nothing. I look at the man I’ve become — this shell of the person I wanted to be — and see that many of my wounds are self-inflicted. Some of my damage has nothing at all to do with the pins in my wrist or the scars on my flesh.
Somewhere along the way, I gave up on myself. I stopped fighting. I let my spirit die, just as surely as if I’d died that day in the accident. I believed I was worthless. A waste of space. Not worthy of love or redemption or understanding from anyone.
Not even from myself.
Especially not from myself.
And yet…