Page 76 of Everything You Hate
“The clip,” he says finally. “The meltdown. That was?—”
“I had found out literally minutes before, and when my coffee order got screwed up, all of the anger and fear just poured out of me onto that poor barista.” I dig the toe of my boat into the wet sand. “They fired me the next day. After I got through the recovery, I traveled a lot and became an unintentional influencer. That’s how Malcolm found me, and I took the job because I didn’t have other options, and I was too proud to admit that.”
I inhale to prepare for the next part, exhale it in a rush. “A week before I was scheduled to come here, I went for a follow-up, and they saw something they thought was concerning. They did all the scans and tests, and I couldn’t stand the thought of waiting around my apartment for the results, so I came here early.”
The water sighs against the shore. Somewhere behind us, the bonfire crowd laughs at something, the sound carrying thin across the sand.
“They sent my results right before I left for the bonfire. Clear.” I laugh, the relief finally sinking in. “Cancer free.”
“Thank you,” he says finally.
“For what?”
“For telling me.” He takes my hand again. His fingers lace through mine, firm, certain. “That’s a hell of a thing to carry alone.”
“It was. It is.” My voice cracks.
He rubs my shoulders. “You don’t have to carry anything alone anymore.”
I press my forehead against his chest and let the tears come. Not the pretty ones. The ugly, sniffling, mascara-ruining kind that I’ve spent a career hiding from cameras. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pat my back or tell me it’s okay or try to fix it with words. He just stands there, solid as the dock behind him, and lets me fall apart against his chest.
When I pull myself back together, he wipes my tears with his knuckles. “Do you want to go back to the fire?”
I look back at the bonfire, where Malcolm is no doubt still searching for me. Then I look ahead to the marina. “I’d rather go back to your boat.”
Chapter Twenty
Dean
We don’t talk on the walk back. The sand gives way to gravel, then pavement, then the weathered planks of the marina dock. Her hand stays in mine. I don’t let go. The harbor lights string along the waterfront, yellow against the dark water, and the sound of the bonfire carries from the beach a quarter mile behind us, thin now, just the rise and fall of voices too far to make out.
The dock is quiet. Most of the boats are dark. A few cabin lights glow through portholes—night owls, insomniacs, people with reasons to be awake that aren’t mine. My slip sits at the end, the boat riding easy on the tide, her hull black against the water.
I help her aboard. My hand on her elbow, steadying. She doesn’t need the help. I do it anyway.
Doug lifts his head from his nest of life jackets and thumps his tail twice. Captain sleeps on his perch, head tucked under one wing, the occasional mutter escaping even in dreams. The cabin smells like wet wool and coffee and the salt-and-oil funk of an old boat.
“You want a drink?” I ask. My voice comes out rougher than I mean it.
She shakes her head. Stands in the middle of the cabin with her arms crossed, her bag still slung over one shoulder, and looks at the mess. Broken mug swept into the corner. Damp towel on the stove. Everything still where the storm left it, because I haven’t had the heart to put it right.
I should clean up. I should offer her something. I should do anything except stand here watching her face in the low cabin light and wondering what the hell I’m supposed to say to a woman who just handed me the worst thing that’s ever happened to her and called it trust.
She sets her bag down. Unzips it. Pulls out the journal—Evangeline’s journal, the leather soft under her fingers—and sets it on the table. Then she sits on the edge of the bunk, hands on her knees, and looks at me.
Something’s different about her tonight. I can’t name it. Her shoulders sit lower. Her mouth is softer. The performance—the one I’ve been clocking since the ferry, the camera-ready smile that never quite reaches her eyes—it’s gone. What’s left is quieter. Truer. A woman who’s decided something and isn’t going back.
“You can ask,” she says.
“I don’t have questions.”
“Everybody has questions.”
“Not the useful kind.” I lean against the galley counter. The boat rocks gently against the dock. A wave slaps the hull, and the sound travels through the fiberglass into my bones. “You told me what mattered. The rest is just details.”
She smiles. Small. Real. “Details matter to journalists.”
“Good thing I’m not one.”
