Chapter 22
Charli
The plane touches down in Hibiscus Harbor just after midnight.
The air is thick and humid, the type of muggy that clings to your skin like regret and makes your hair explode into a frizz ball. The streets are mostly quiet, save for the occasional porch light or the flicker of a late-night diner. I don’t go home—not that I really have one anymore. I go to his.
Sawyer’s house is dark when the taxi pulls into the drive. Ghost meets me at the door, her ears twitching, like even she knows something isn’t right. I reach over and run my hand down her back, grounding myself with the rhythm of her breath.
"Come on, girl," I whisper. "Let’s get this over with."
Inside, everything is exactly the same. My shoes by the door. My favorite mug in the drying rack. A half-used notepad on the counter with my handwriting across the top: order cilantro. The life I was building is still here. It’s just not mine anymore. I guess it never was.
I walk through the house like a guest, touching nothing, trying not to breathe too deeply.
If I let myself inhale too much of us, I might never leave and I have to leave.
I know Becky is staying in the guest bedroom, so I'm quiet as a mouse, so I don't wake her.
I leave a note for her letting her know I have Ghost with me.
Ghost trots beside me as I head to the bedroom. No—our room. That’s what Sawyer started calling it. That was before everything cracked wide open.
I pack fast.
Stuffing clothes into my duffel bag with mechanical efficiency. Shoving binders and recipe cards into crates. Staring too long at the sweatshirt Sawyer lent me for our first night in the Bahamas. It still smells like him. Ocean and cedar and something warm I don’t have a name for.
I press it to my chest, just for a second, eyes squeezed shut, and then I shove it into the bag. This is what love looks like when you're trying to do the right thing. It looks like walking away.
I’m not doing this because I don’t love him.
God, I love him. More than I thought I could ever love anyone.
But if Ava was telling the truth—and the resemblance in that photo says she probably was—then there’s a little girl out there who needs Sawyer a hell of a lot more than I do and I won’t be the thing that stands in the way of a child having a father.
Not after the way I grew up. Not after all the empty words and broken promises I lived through.
I haul my duffel bag into the back of the van and slam the doors a little too hard.
Ghost hops in beside me, nose pressed to the window like she’s waiting for Sawyer to appear in the driveway.
A part of me wishes he would. That he’d burst out of the house, demand an explanation, and pull me back in with those strong arms and soft words.
But I also know if he did come out, I wouldn’t be strong enough to leave. So I drive.
I don’t head for the beach. I don’t go to the Java Hut. Instead, I drive straight out of town to Pelican Point.
The Rusty Anchor hasn’t changed. Paint still peeling in places, the neon sign still flickering like it’s in a fight with itself. It’s barely two in the morning, but I know Rusty’s already there. The man treats breakfast like church and the griddle like a pulpit.
I park in the back and slide open the van door so Ghost can jump down beside me. She stretches, sniffs the salty air, and then follows me up the familiar back steps like she’s been here before. Maybe in some way, she has. She knows home when she feels it, and this place has always been home to me.
Rusty’s inside, flipping pancakes and cursing at the radio. His back is to me. "If you’re the bread delivery guy and you’re late again, I swear to Jesus—"
"It’s not the bread guy," I say.
He turns. And when he sees me, the spatula slips from his hand. "Well, I’ll be damned," he says, eyes softening instantly. "You look like hell, Charli."
"Thanks."
He reaches down and pats Ghost's head. "Who's your friend?"
I look at her as she tilts her head and looks to me for guidance. "This is Ghost."
"Nice to meet you, Ghost." He looks at me and nods toward a stool. "Sit. Talk. I’ll pour the coffee."
Ghost settles under the counter like she owns the place. I drop onto the cracked vinyl seat and stare at my hands, knuckles white, fingers curled too tightly around themselves.
"I left him," I say finally, the words tasting like grief and gasoline. Rusty says nothing, just slides a mug toward me and waits. "Sawyer’s ex showed up. Said they have a daughter. Five years old. He never told me. Not one word about being a father."
Rusty whistles low. "And you believe her?"
I nod slowly. "I saw a photo. She looks just like him."
"Damn," he mutters. "So you ran."
"I walked away—there’s a difference. I didn’t run, I didn’t hide. I made a choice. One that clears the path so he can step into the role his daughter needs him to play."
Rusty folds his arms, watching me carefully. "And did he ask you to 'walk away'?" He uses air quotes to mimic me.
I swallow. Hard. Shame curls low and hot in my stomach, and my voice barely comes out at all.
"No. He doesn’t even know I know." The words taste like failure, like weakness I can’t scrub away.
My chest tightens with the weight of it—of keeping this to myself, of slipping out the back door of his life without even giving him a chance to explain, to fight, to stay.
But how could I look him in the eye, knowing what I know now?
Knowing I might never have belonged in that part of his world?
Knowing he's been lying to me all this time?
He sighs and shakes his head. "Charli-girl, you’ve got a big heart. But sometimes you confuse sacrifice with self-sabotage."
I don’t know how to respond. Because what if he’s right? What if leaving wasn’t brave, but cowardly? I stare into the mug, watching the ripples settle. "I just didn’t want to make him choose. Or resent me. Or—or look at me one day and realize I kept him from his child... not that I ever would."
Rusty leans in, voice quiet. "And who’s gonna keep him from you now?"
The answer floats up, bitter and hollow—Me.
Ghost rests her head on my foot. I reach down and scratch behind her ears, trying to anchor myself. The hurt’s still fresh. Still raw. But underneath it is something else—resolve.
Rusty studies me for a long moment, then glances at the clock like he’s weighing how much of his morning he’s about to give up. "Do you have some place to stay?" he asks, but there’s something in his voice—softer, familiar.
I nod, but it feels hollow. "Just the van," I admit, forcing a shrug. "Same as before. Don’t worry, we won’t be in the way. Just need a spot to catch our breath."
He wipes his hands on a dish towel, then jerks his chin toward the hallway. "The office is still there. Door sticks a little, and the couch still sags in the middle, but it’s yours if you want it."
I blink, throat tightening. That little room—cramped, cluttered, and always smelling faintly of fryer grease—was my first home after everything fell apart years ago.
It was where I learned how to dice onions without losing a finger.
Where I cried into a dish towel more nights than I care to count. Where I learned I could survive.
"No, thanks. But I would like to park in your lot for the night, if that's okay."
"Of course."
He says it like it’s nothing, like it’s no big deal—but it is. It means everything.
I nod, trying not to cry again. "Thank you, Rusty."
"Get some sleep, Charli-girl," he says, turning back to the grill. "You can fall apart tomorrow if you need to. Tonight, you need to rest."
I nod. "We'll be gone in the morning."
He waves a hand through the air, "You stay as long as you want, Charli. You're family."
I don’t know what comes next. But for now, I’m here. In Pelican Point. With Rusty, Ghost, and a van full of my life. It’s not perfect. It’s not what I wanted, but it’s mine. And that has to be enough. For now.
It’s almost four in the morning by the time I crawl into the back of the van and pull the doors shut.
Ghost jumps in beside me and circles once before flopping dramatically onto the mattress. Her tail thumps twice, then goes still. Within minutes, she’s snoring—the deep, rhythmic kind that vibrates through the space and somehow makes the loneliness feel a little less sharp.
I curl onto my side, one arm tucked beneath my head, the other resting on Ghost’s warm back.
My body’s bone-tired, but my mind won’t quit.
Thoughts spin like blades—Sawyer’s laugh, the way he made coffee for me every morning, the way he looked at me like I was his favorite surprise.
Like I was his. But I’m not. Not anymore.
The tears come quietly at first, sliding down the side of my face and pooling in my hair. I don’t bother wiping them away. What would be the point? I let them fall. Let myself feel every ounce of what I lost.
I tell myself I did the right thing. That stepping aside is noble. That love means wanting what’s best for someone, even if it’s not you. But it doesn’t feel noble. It feels like punishment.
I don’t know where I’m going from here. Don’t know if I’ll rebuild another restaurant, or if I’ll keep living out of this van with Ghost as my only copilot.
I’ve been turning over cities in my mind—Asheville, maybe.
Or Charleston. Somewhere coastal, somewhere new.
New Orleans whispers like a temptation I’m not sure I’m brave enough to chase.
I could start over again. I’ve done it before.
But this time, it feels heavier—like I’m leaving more behind than just a house or a job. Or him.
I don’t even know if Sawyer will ever understand why I left. If he’ll see it for what it was—a sacrifice, not a betrayal. But I know I did it for the right reasons. Even if it rips me apart, I know I did what was best.
I close my eyes and whisper a prayer to no one in particular: let him be happy. Let that little girl have everything I didn’t. Let Sawyer be the father he never got the chance to be until now.
And maybe one day… let me forgive myself for falling so recklessly, so completely in love with him, that I started to believe I might finally deserve something good.
Let me forgive myself for daring to hope for a future that wasn't meant to be, for needing him in ways I’ve never needed anyone, and then walking away without ever letting him see me break.
For choosing what was right over what I wanted, even when it tore me in half.
Ghost shifts beside me, her head resting near mine, her breath steady and warm... comforting.
And in the quiet dark of the Rusty Anchor’s parking lot, I cry myself to sleep.