Chapter 11
Chapter eleven
Mac
Ishould've wanted to be here.
The ferry terminal smelled like diesel and Christmas gingerbread—garland stapled over everything, brass ensemble warming up below deck, and families already drunk on holiday spirit. It was the kind of scene that looked like magic from far away.
Up close, I was checking out the available exits.
Ma grabbed my elbow before I made it past the gangway. "You're not wearing enough layers."
"I'm fine."
"That jacket's from Phoenix." She produced a scarf from her purse—thick, hand-knit, navy with flecks of green. "Arms up."
She wound it around my neck before I could protest. The yarn smelled like her house—coffee grounds and lavender. "There. Now you look like someone with sense."
Michael appeared, phone in hand, scanning the boarding queue. His eyes tracked every passenger, bracing for threats. "Security's in place," he said quietly. To Eamon, not me.
Eamon stood three feet away, drizzle beading on his jacket. He nodded once. Casual. Ready.
Two weeks until Christmas. One week until Vanessa's timeline ended.
We boarded. Barely controlled chaos spilled onto the boat—families claiming railing space, kids shrieking at gulls, and someone's Bluetooth speaker bleeding tinny pop. Red and green lights spiraled up the main mast.
Eamon stepped up beside me. "Four exits. Lifeboats on both sides. Crew's competent." He didn't look at me. "Michael checked them while Ma was suffocating you with knitwear."
I stroked the scarf's fringe. "It's not that bad."
He smiled briefly. "It's terrible. Keep it on."
The boat's horn blasted. We pulled away from the pier.
Ma found us near the bow. "You two look like you're expecting an ambush."
"Just admiring the view," I said.
She looked at me the way she'd been looking at me since I was ten. Full name coming. "Cormac."
"I'm fine, Ma."
"Uh-huh." She patted my cheek—too hard to be gentle. "Stay where I can see you."
Eamon's attention stayed on the water. "She's a McCabe. They all know."
"That we're—" I didn't have words for what we were.
"Yeah," Eamon said. "That."
One week left, and I was standing on a boat full of people I loved, next to a man I was falling for, while somewhere behind us, a woman with 847 photographs executed a countdown.
The brass ensemble started "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen."
Eamon looked at me. He gave a slight nod.
We're good for now.
Seattle opened up behind us like someone had split open a jewelry box. Every building downtown threw itself onto the water—mirrored and multiplied. The Space Needle blinked red at its crown.
I couldn't believe the city looked so peaceful this close to a deadline.
But it did.
The brass ensemble moved into "Silent Night." Ma hummed along. Michael filmed the skyline.
I watched Eamon instead of the view.
He'd moved to the port side, giving the family space but staying close. Rain had darkened his hair to rust, copper where the lights caught it. His eyes never stopped moving.
When we first met, I would've read it as paranoia. Now I knew it for what it was: the only way he knew how to exist around people he cared about. Hypervigilance wasn't Eamon's flaw. It was his love language.
I closed the distance between us.
He glanced over. Shifted his weight so his shoulder aligned with mine—not quite touching.
"You're allowed to enjoy this," I said.
"I am enjoying it."
"You're doing perimeter assessment."
"Can't I do both?"
I reached for his hand.
He'd taken off his gloves. His skin was cold. Mine was colder. I wove my fingers between his anyway.
He didn't pull away. His hand closed around mine—firm, deliberate. I'm here. I'm staying.
My breath synced to the carol's rhythm.
"Mac." His voice was low. "If I kiss you right now, half your family's going to see."
My heart pounded. "I know."
"You sure?"
I turned to face him. His eyes were the color of seawater in winter. The flush creeping up his neck said he was nervous.
"I'm sure."
He hesitated. One second. Two.
Then he kissed me.
Careful the way Eamon did everything—measured, deliberate. His mouth was cold from the rain, but the hand at my jaw was steady, warm, and grounding. Where his thumb pressed against my pulse point, my heartbeat kicked hard. He had to feel it.
He tasted like coffee. Dark roast, no sugar. Exactly like him.
The boat rocked. I forgot we were standing on a deck with two hundred people. Forgot the stalker, the countdown, and how I'd spent every day since Thanksgiving calculating every touch between us. This wasn't a strategy. This was just—
Want.
Simple. Uncomplicated. Mine.
I leaned in. Let my free hand drift down to his hip, thumb hooking his belt loop to pull him closer.
The boat rocked. Someone's kid screamed about a seal. The brass ensemble hit the final notes.
Eamon pulled back. Not far. His eyes had gone dark, pupils dilated. A flush was crawling up his throat.
"Hi," I said. It sounded stupid, but it was the only word I could manage.
His mouth curved upward at one end. "Hi."
Behind us, someone cleared their throat.
Ma.
I didn't let go of Eamon's hand. Didn't step back. Instead, I turned and met my aunt's eyes.
She wiped her face with a tissue she'd pulled from her coat pocket—the same pocket where she kept emergency Band-Aids and butterscotch candies and the rosary she claimed she didn't pray with anymore.
"Don't look at me like that," she said. Her voice came out rough. "The wind's terrible out here."
There was no wind. Just her, crying over her nephew kissing a man on a Christmas boat, the same way she'd cried at my father's funeral and my first Little League game and the day I came out on national television.
She cried when the people she loved did something brave.
Michael stood behind her, grinning. He raised his beer in a silent salute—about damn time.
Claire, my mother, had turned from the bow. Her camera hung forgotten. She looked at me the way she did when I finally threw a pot without it collapsing. Pride mixed with relief.
Her lips formed one word. Finally.
This was it. Being seen by the people who'd known me before I learned to perform. Who remembered the kid who burned pancakes and cried when his dad died.
They were seeing me again. Not performing. Not calculating optics or managing narratives.
Just being.
"Think we just made family history," I murmured.
Eamon's mouth was close to my ear. "As long as it's not breaking news."
I laughed.
Ma stuffed the tissue away. "You boys want cocoa?"
"We're good, Ma."
"I'm getting you cocoa anyway."
She disappeared toward the concession stand.
Michael drifted closer. "So. That was really sweet, actually."
The boat turned toward the north shore. Mansions climbed the hills in layers of lit windows.
I should've been paying attention to the family gathering close and the city glowing behind us.
Instead, I was watching Eamon.
His jaw was tense and his eyes alert. He tracked something over my shoulder.
His hand slipped from mine.
"What?" I asked.
"Woman. Gray coat. Near the bar."
I turned.
Too many people. Too much movement. Then I saw her—mid-thirties, slim build, phone raised as if she were filming the shoreline.
Except, she angled her phone at us.
A chill raced through me. "That's her. The woman from Pike Place."
"Same stride," Eamon said. His voice had gone tactical. "Same posture."
Michael materialized beside us. Didn't ask. Merely followed our sightline and moved, Alex following.
The woman lowered her phone.
Looked directly at me.
Then disappeared into the crowd.
My pulse pounded hard. "She saw us looking."
"Yeah." Eamon touched my back. "I'm going after them. Don't move."
He was gone before I could argue.
The boat rocked. The carolers kept singing.
But the air had changed. The warmth had fractured.
Now every dark coat looked wrong. Every phone could be a surveillance tool.
One week left. Until Vanessa's timeline ended.
And she was here. Close enough to photograph us. Close enough to touch.
Eamon came back three minutes later. Too fast.
"Lost her," he said. "She went below. Vanished near the bathrooms."
Michael reappeared. "Crew says no one matching that description on the manifest. She could've lied about everything." His jaw was tight. "I've got Alex sweeping below. Crew's watching for anyone unusual."
"On a Christmas cruise?" Eamon's voice was sharp and cutting. "Everyone's unusual. It's cover noise."
"Which is why she picked it."
I scanned the deck. Too many people. Too many coats.
She could be any of them. Or none.
"Mac." Claire had moved closer. "What's happening?"
Ma was watching too. Miles drifted over to join us.
"Just thought we saw someone," Michael said.
"The stalker." It was a statement from Ma, not a question. "Don't insult my intelligence, Michael Francis. You think I don't know what it looks like when someone's hunting my nephew?"
The word landed like a punch.
No one corrected her.
"We're handling it," Eamon said softly. "We're aware, we're watching."
Ma looked at him. "You're a terrible liar."
"I'm aware."
"Good."
She turned to Claire. "We're taking everyone inside. Cabin's warmer."
Ma reached for my arm, pulled me down, and kissed my forehead. Quick. Fierce. "You're a good boy. Don't make me bury you."
Then she was gone.
The deck felt bigger without them. Colder.
"She's right," I said. "We're not handling this."
Eamon moved closer. "Yes, we are."
"I let her get close. Pike Place, now here—"
Eamon reached for my chin. "She's been planning this for eighteen months. She's good. That's not your fault."
The boat shuddered as the engines shifted gears.
We were running out of time. Soon we'd dock and she'd slip away.
"There." Eamon nodded toward the right.
Gray coat. Different woman. Taller, drunk, stumbling.
Not her.
"Another one." Michael's voice.
Gray coat near the cocoa stand. Younger. Filming friends.
Also not her.
"Fuck." I turned in a circle. "How many people wear gray coats?"