Page 79 of Island Girl

She thought about brushing him off, giving him the easy answer that would let them both pretend everything was okay. But she was too tired for pretense. Too worn down by the weight of the past few days.

“I feel like I'm drowning,” she said. “Like I'm underwater and I can't find which way is up.”

Justin nodded slowly. “I felt that way when my mom died. Like the whole world had gone sideways and I couldn't figure out how to stand.”

“How did you get through it?”

“I didn't, for a while. I just kept sinking.” He leaned back in his chair. “I was in Boston when she passed. Had this big job, this important life, this girlfriend who was already planning our wedding. And then one day I got the call, and none of it mattered anymore.”

“What happened?”

“I quit the job. Ended things with Kira. Packed up my apartment and drove down here with no plan, no idea what I was doing.” He smiled faintly. “Crocker took me in. Gave me a job, gave me a place to crash, gave me time to figure out who I wanted to be now that everything I thought I wanted was gone.”

“And did you? Figure it out?”

“Some days. Other days I'm still working on it.” He met her eyes. “But that's the thing about grief. You don't get over it. You just learn to carry it differently. The weight doesn't change, but you get stronger. Eventually you find a way to keep moving.”

Merritt felt something loosen in her chest. It wasn't comfort, exactly. More like recognition. The acknowledgment that someone else understood what she was going through.

“Do you want to sit outside?” she asked. “I could use some air.”

They took the wine and the key lime pie out to the deck. The sun had set while they were eating, and the sky was fading from pink to purple, the first stars appearing over the water. The wind chime sang softly in the breeze.

They sat in the Adirondack chairs, side by side, looking out at the Gulf. The waves rolled in, steady and eternal, the same rhythm they'd kept for thousands of years. Merritt let the sound wash over her, let it fill the empty spaces inside her.

“I talked to my dad today,” she said. “Told him everything. About Ray, about what I did, about how guilty I feel.”

“What did he say?”

“That he loves me. That everyone makes mistakes. That I need to forgive myself before I can move forward.” She took a sip of wine. “He also said he's flying down next week. Wants to be here for the closing on the bungalow.”

“That's good. You could use the support.”

“I know. I just wish I didn't need it.” She set down her wine glass. “I'm so tired of needing people to prop me up. I came here to figure out how to stand on my own, and instead I keep finding new ways to fall apart.”

“That's not falling apart. That's being human.”

“It doesn't feel human. It feels pathetic.”

Justin turned to look at her, his expression serious. “Merritt. Listen to me. You are not pathetic. You're one of the strongest people I've ever met.”

“That's not true.”

“It is true. You spent years taking care of your mother. You walked away from a wedding because you knew it was wrong. You drove a thousand miles to start over in a place where you didn't know anyone. You got a job, found a home, built a life. And yeah, you made a mistake with Ray. But one mistake doesn't erase everything else. It doesn't make you weak. It makes you real.”

She didn't know she was crying until she felt the tears on her cheeks. They came silently, sliding down her face, dropping onto the weathered wood of her chair. She didn't try to stop them. She didn't have the energy.

Justin moved without thinking. He reached over and took her hand, his fingers warm and solid against hers. She held on, grateful for the anchor, grateful for someone who wasn't going anywhere.

“I'm sorry,” she said, her voice thick. “I can't seem to stop crying lately.”

“Don't apologize. Cry as much as you need to.”

“I'm just so tired. Tired of feeling guilty. Tired of worrying about Ray. Tired of missing Gregory and my mom and everyone I've ever lost.” She wiped her face with her free hand. “I thought coming here would make things easier. I thought I could outrun all of it.”

“You can't outrun grief. Believe me, I tried.”

“Then what do you do?”