Page 83 of The Clinch

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Halfway doesn’t work.

Not with him. Not with this.

Not for the version of me that keeps trying to survive on less.

So I turn and force my way back out.

The retreat is harder. The undertow pulls. The sand clings. By the time I stagger clear, my clothes are soaked, my skinnumb, and whatever I was trying to drown walks back out with me.

Running didn’t fix it.

Neither did this.

I walk back to the house with my clothes plastered to my skin and everything in me tighter than before.

The outdoor shower gets the sand off.

Nothing else.

By the time I’m dry and dressed in something borrowed and oversized, the house is still quiet and warm.

I stop outside his door.

It’s closed.

I almost knock and catch myself.

He’s in there. Awake, probably. In the same bed where I climbed on top of him and offered what I could give without breaking open.

He said no.

“I want more.”

What am I supposed to do with a man who makes me feel safer and more exposed at the same time?

If he’d taken what I was willing to give, the rules would be clear again. Men are easier to survive when they behave the way you expect them to. I’d know exactly where to put him—one more hot mistake, one more body, one more exit.

But he didn’t.

He asked for the part of me I’ve spent years protecting with distance, speed, and uncomplicated endings. I can’t knock on that door without changing the terms.

So I turn away.

I sink down on the sofa, the ache catching up now that the adrenaline has burned off.

The house stays quiet. The morning light climbs across the ceiling, and I stop lying to myself.

Last night didn’t end anything.

It changed the terms.

The ring catches the early light—quiet, small, impossible to ignore. I should take it off. I can’t. Not yet.

I’m still wearing it. Still here. Still acting like there’s a way back.

There isn’t.

I pull up the ferry schedule. The first boat back to the city leaves at seven.

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