I smiled, brushing damp strands of hair from her face. It sat in my chest—the bigger one, the real one—pressing against my heart like it wanted out. I’d known it for a while, maybe longer than I’d admitted to myself. Before the marina, before any of this. Back when the world still made sense and Sadie still occupied some of the space where Sloane now lived, I think some part of me already understood that what I wanted with Sloane ran deeper than what I’d been holding onto with someone else.
I wasn’t ready to say it yet.
But I kissed her once more—soft, sure, unhurried—and let it live in that instead.
She rested her head against my shoulder, and we floated there.
Up on the bow, Jeff and Ethan still splashed around, their laughter carrying across the water. Whether they’d given us privacy on purpose or simply chosen not to look, I didn’t know. I didn’t care.
The boat drifted on the current.
The sun sank lower, painting the water in long streaks of copper and gold.
And for a few minutes, the world let us be.
Thirty Two
Callan
Dinner came together simply. Jeff pulled a battered camp stove from one of the storage lockers and balanced it on the deck while the boat rocked gently beneath us. Ethan handed him a dented pot and a bottle of water, and soon the quiet sound of the burner filled the air.
Rice and beans.
We sat in a loose circle on the deck while Jeff stirred the pot with a spoon, his movements unhurried.
Ethan leaned back against the railing with a grin. “Told you the totes were a good idea.”
I chuckled, rubbing my sore ankle. “Kid saved our asses with that one.”
Sloane nodded, lifting her bowl toward him. “Seriously, Ethan. Genius move.”
He ducked his head, embarrassed but clearly pleased. “Justfigured if we had to run again, starving on the ocean would suck.”
“Solid logic,” Jeff said, handing him a bowl.
We ate quietly after that.
The rice came out a little undercooked; none of us cared. The food sat warmly in our bellies; there was nobody chasing us, nothing banging on the door—simply the ocean and the boat with four people surviving.
That counted for something.
When the sun finally dipped below the horizon, the first stars appeared—faint at first, becoming brighter, filling in the dark canvas above us until the whole sky glittered.
Jeff stood and stretched his back.
“Alright. Night shift.”
Ethan took the wheel first, while Jeff checked the charts. They’d take turns guiding the boat through the dark, keeping the speed low to avoid anything drifting in the water.
Before heading forward, Jeff tossed a thick wool blanket and a couple of old vinyl seat cushions toward us.
“Figured you two might want these.”
“Much appreciated,” I said.
I dragged the cushions over near the side rail where the deck curved slightly inward—a spot that offered a little protection from the wind. I lowered myself down carefully, stretching my injured leg out, and arranged the cushions behind my back.
Then I looked up at Sloane.