Chapter 15
FIFTEEN
DELILAH
Levi has been gone for forty-two hours.
Not that I’m counting.
I’m absolutely not refreshing my phone every four minutes to see if he’s texted. Not analyzing the tone of his last message (Made it to LA. Miss you already.) for hidden meaning. Not lying awake wondering if he’s remembering why he loved his old life.
“You’re spiraling,” Mom says from the kitchen doorway.
“I’m making coffee.”
“You’ve been staring at the coffee maker for three minutes without turning it on.”
I look down. She’s right. The machine is just sitting there, unplugged, while I hold an empty mug like a prop in a play about someone losing her mind.
“I’m not spiraling.”
“Sweetheart, you watched three episodes of a show about competitive dog grooming last night. You don’t even like dogs that much.”
“Ruffy is right there.”
“Ruffy is an exception. And you still cried when the poodle got eliminated.”
“She had a good attitude. She deserved to win.”
Mom gives me the look—the one that says she raised me and knows exactly what’s happening in my head.
“He’s been gone one day.”
“Forty-two hours.”
“You’re not counting, though.”
“I’m absolutely not counting.”
Ruffy wanders in, takes one look at me, and walks right back out. Even the dog knows I’m a disaster.
My phone buzzes and I nearly knock over the carafe lunging for it—Jo.
Don’t forget - bridal photos today! Marina at 4. Bring the bouquet samples. And yourself. Mostly yourself. You need to get out of that house.
I’d forgotten. Jo’s bridal shoot—the photographer who specializes in shots on the water. I’m supposed to bring flower samples so she can see how they photograph against the marina backdrop.
Three dots appear, then:
And stop checking your phone every 30 seconds. He’ll call when he calls.
How do you know I’m checking my phone?
Because I know you. 4 o’clock. Don’t be late.
Twin Waves Marina sits at the far end of the harbor, past the tourist boats and the fishing charters, where the water gets quieter and the docks stretch out like fingers reaching for the horizon.
I’ve driven past it a hundred times but never really looked. Now, pulling into the gravel parking lot with a backseat full of sample bouquets, I actually see it.
It’s beautiful. Weathered in the way coastal things get—silver-gray wood, salt-kissed ropes, boats bobbing gently in their slips like they’re nodding along to music only they can hear.
The late afternoon sun turns everything golden.
Seagulls wheel overhead, and the air smells like brine and diesel and something faintly sweet, maybe honeysuckle from the wild tangle climbing the fence.
A hand-painted sign near the dock office reads: Harold’s Marina - Est. and then the date has been painted over, like someone changed their mind about advertising their longevity.
Jo is already on the main dock, waving at me with the enthusiasm of someone who’s had too much coffee and a purpose.
“You came!”
“You threatened me.”
“I aggressively encouraged you.” She takes one of the bouquet boxes from my arms and peers inside. “Oh, these are gorgeous. The roses with the eucalyptus? Perfect.”
“I brought four options. The photographer can tell you which ones catch the light best.”
“Emma. Her name’s Emma.” Jo leads me down the dock, our footsteps hollow on the wooden planks. “She just moved here and lives on a houseboat she inherited from her aunt. Three kids, recently divorced, trying to build her photography business.”
“You got her whole life story?”
“We had coffee. She’s sunshine in human form. You’ll love her.”
We pass slip after slip—sailboats with names like Second Wind and No Regrets, a fishing boat called Reel Therapy, a sleek speedboat that looks like it costs more than my mother’s house. The farther we walk, the quieter it gets, until we reach the last two slips at the end of the dock.
And that’s when I hear the yelling.
“—told you three times, the electrical panel is fine!”
“And I’m telling you that when I plug in my coffee maker, the lights flicker like I’m in a horror movie!”
“Maybe your coffee maker is possessed!”
“Maybe your wiring is from the stone age!”
Jo and I stop walking.
Two people stand on the dock between a gorgeous vintage houseboat and a no-nonsense fishing vessel.
The woman is mid-forties with blonde hair in a ponytail, wearing a coral sundress and sandals, gesturing with a coffee mug like she’s conducting an orchestra of frustration.
The man is about the same age, dark hair going silver at the temples, arms crossed, jaw tight, looking at her like she’s personally responsible for every inconvenience he’s ever experienced.
Between them, the air practically crackles.
“That houseboat hasn’t had an electrical issue the whole time it’s been here,” the man says, his voice low and controlled in a way that somehow sounds angrier than shouting.
“Well, it has one now. Unless you think I’m making it up for fun?”
“I think you plugged in seventeen things at once and blew a fuse.”
“I plugged in a coffee maker. One coffee maker. Because I need caffeine to deal with—” She gestures at all of him. “This.”
Something twists in my chest watching them. Not because of them—because of what they remind me of.
Levi and me, years ago—all that fire between us, all that tension we didn’t know what to do with. We fought because it was easier than admitting how we really felt.
These two have no idea what’s coming for them.
A teenage boy is sitting on the deck of the fishing vessel, eating an apple and watching the argument like it’s premium entertainment. He catches my eye and shrugs, as if to say, This is my life now.
Jo leans close. “That’s Emma. And that’s Paul. He owns the marina.”
“I gathered.”
“They’ve been like this since she moved in.”
I should be paying attention, but my mind keeps drifting. Levi’s in LA right now, probably in some sleek conference room with label executives, talking about his future—a future that might not include this town or me.
Emma throws her hands up. “Fine! I’ll just live in the dark! Like a vampire!”
Paul pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re being dramatic.”
“I’m being accurate.”
She storms toward the houseboat, then turns back. They exchange a few more barbs about someone eating someone’s daughter’s popsicle—the last grape one, apparently a grave offense—before reaching an uneasy truce.
Then Emma notices us and transforms completely—storm clouds to bright warmth in half a second.
“Jo! You’re here!” She looks at me, then at the flower boxes in my arms. “Oh my gosh, are those the bouquets? They’re stunning. Come aboard, come aboard!”
She waves us toward the houseboat, all friendliness and enthusiasm, as if she wasn’t just engaged in verbal warfare thirty seconds ago.
Paul watches us go. His expression hasn’t changed—still surly, still guarded—but there’s a flicker in his eyes as he tracks Emma.
Something that looks a lot like fascination.
Jo catches it too. She nudges me gently as we follow Emma up the gangway.
“Twenty bucks says they’re married within two years.”
“That’s very optimistic.”
“I’m a romantic. It’s a disease.”
The inside of Emma’s houseboat is chaos—beautiful, colorful, and thoroughly lived-in.
A teenager sprawls on a built-in bench, headphones on, aggressively ignoring the world. Two younger kids sit at a fold-down table doing homework—or pretending to, while actually drawing what appears to be a sea monster eating a stick figure labeled “Mr. Paul.”
“Jenna, Millie, Aidan—we have guests!” Emma sweeps through, somehow tidying as she moves without actually putting anything away. “This is Jo, the bride, and—I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”
“Delilah. I’m doing the flowers for the wedding.”
“Delilah! Gorgeous name. Girls, say hi.”
Jenna, the teenager, lifts one hand without looking up. Millie, ten, offers a shy wave. Aidan, eight, holds up his drawing.
“I made a picture of the sea monster that lives under the marina.”
“That’s…very detailed,” I say.
“The stick figure is Mr. Paul. He’s getting eaten because he was mean to Mom about the coffee maker.”
“Aidan.” Emma’s tone is patient but final. “We don’t draw pictures of our neighbors getting eaten by sea monsters.”
“Even if they deserve it?”
“Even then.”
“What if it’s a nice sea monster and Mr. Paul doesn’t actually die—he just learns a lesson about being grumpy?”
Emma considers this. “Still no.”
Aidan sighs the sigh of an artist misunderstood and returns to his drawing—though I notice he starts erasing Paul.
Jo explores the space, running her hand along the curved wood walls, peering out the windows at the water. “Emma, this place is incredible.”
“It needs work.” Emma says it cheerfully, like needs work is an exciting adventure rather than an overwhelming burden.
“The electrical is sketchy—Paul’s right about that, even if I’d rather chew sand than admit it—and there’s a leak somewhere in the stern I haven’t found yet.
But it was my Aunt Dottie’s, and she loved this boat, and now it’s mine. ”
“Your aunt sounds like she was quite a character.”
“She was a force of nature—never married, traveled everywhere, collected ex-boyfriends and interesting hats.” Emma grins. “She left me the boat and a box of letters I’m afraid to read because they’re probably scandalous.”
She leads us outside to the deck, where fading daylight turns the water to gold. This is where we’ll do the photos—Jo against the railing, the marina stretching behind her, boats and water and sky.
“The light is ideal right now,” Emma says, pulling out her camera. “Delilah, can you hold up the bouquets one at a time? I want to see how the colors read.”
I hold up the first one—white roses with eucalyptus and dusty miller. Emma snaps a few shots, checks her screen, nods.
“Beautiful. Next?”