Chapter Thirty-Eight
Tabby
I smooth my hands down the front of my dress, checking my reflection in the small mirror above the sink. The RV rocks slightly as I shift my weight, the warm evening breeze slipping through the open window.
Outside, Sandcastle Cove is alive—the sound of laughter and music floating from the beach, the distant hum of waves rolling against the shore. Tonight should be fun. Dinner with the girls, a few too many cocktails, maybe some bad karaoke. A night of normalcy.
A night where I don’t have to think about my past.
There’s a knock at the door.
I smile, reaching for my purse as I stride across the small space. “You’re early,” I call, expecting Eden on the other side. “I’m almost ready, just need shoes.”
I swing the door open.
And my world tilts.
It’s not Eden.
It’s my parents.
And Quenton.
For a second, I can’t breathe. The blood drains from my body so fast that I feel lightheaded. I grip the edge of the doorframe to steady myself, my heart hammering against my ribs.
“Tabitha,” my mother says, her voice cool and composed, like we’re sitting down for brunch and not standing at my tiny, restored RV in the middle of an old campground, “it’s time to come home.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. My father stands beside her, his expression unreadable, his sharp eyes scanning my face, my clothes, the RV. He doesn’t look angry. He looks confused.
And then there’s Quenton.
He’s as polished as ever, all crisp lines and expensive cologne, his deep brown eyes locked on to mine with an intensity that makes my stomach churn. He looks … the same. Untouched by time, untouched by the wreckage I left behind in Boston.
I am not the same.
I left. I ran. I disappeared with nothing, leaving behind only a note—a rushed explanation scrawled on my mother’s fancy stationery that couldn’t possibly capture the years of suffocation, the weight of expectations I could no longer carry.
That was almost nine months ago, but it feels like another lifetime.
And now, they’re here.
“Tabitha?” my mother prompts when I don’t speak.
I force myself to swallow, to unclench my fingers from the doorframe. “How … how did you find me?”
My father exhales, shaking his head. “Really, Tabitha? You drop out of law school, run off with some boy, disappear without a word, and think we wouldn’t look for you?”
Guilt knots in my stomach. “I left a note.”
My mother’s lips press into a thin line. “A note.” She lets out a sharp breath, adjusting her designer handbag on her arm. “Do you have any idea what you’ve put us through?”
I don’t answer. I can’t.
“And now, you stand there, looking at us like we’re strangers, and you’re angry we came to rescue you.”
Quenton steps forward then, his voice softer. “Now, now, Rosemary. Let’s not lose our heads. I’m sure Tabitha is happy to see us. We should go inside. Talk.”
I snap out of my frozen state, shaking my head quickly. “No,” I say. “You’re not coming inside.”
My mother blinks, taken aback. “Excuse me?”
“I—” I take a deep breath, trying to steady the swirl of emotions in my chest. “You can’t just show up here and tell me it’s time to come home like I’m some lost dog.”
“Tabitha—”
“No.” My voice is stronger this time. I lift my chin, holding my mother’s gaze. “This is my home now.”
She glances at the RV behind me, her nose wrinkling in distaste. “This?” She exhales sharply, shaking her head. “You’re living in a trailer, Tabitha. This is not a home.”
I feel my fists tighten at my sides. “Maybe not to you. But to me, it is.”
Quenton steps in again, his tone patient, measured. “Tabitha, come on. We can figure this out together.”
I turn to him then, emotions clashing inside me—guilt, anger, exhaustion. “Figure what out, Quenton? There’s nothing to figure out. We”—I gesture between the two of us—“are over. There’s nothing to figure out.”
His jaw tightens. “You left without saying goodbye. Without giving me a chance to understand. Do you know what that felt like?” he whisper-shouts.
I inhale sharply, regret twisting in my chest. I never meant to hurt him. I never wanted to.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, and I truly mean it.
I left a note for my parents, explaining that I needed space and asking them to return the ring, which I placed in an envelope, along with my hastily scribbled letter. I asked them to give the ring to Quenton and to let him know that I was sorry, but I couldn’t go through with the wedding.
His eyes soften, but only for a moment. “Then, come back.”
I shake my head. “I can’t.”
I glance around as several of the guests come out of their campers, curious at the raised voices. When Pete walks out onto the porch of the office, panic begins to rise in my chest. I close my eyes and try to contain my temper. When I open them, I focus on my mother. She’s in an unreasonable state, and if we stay here, I know she will say something insulting or embarrassing.
So, taking into account our audience, I slide my eyes to my father. “Fine. You want to have a conversation. We’ll have a conversation. But not here.”
He nods. “It’s been a long drive. Let’s find a restaurant, and we’ll talk this out.”
My mother starts to protest, but he gives her a stern look.
“Rosemary, sweetheart, I think a decent meal and a glass of wine will help cooler heads prevail.”
She huffs her disapproval, but she doesn’t argue. She simply turns on her Louboutin heels and marches back to the black Lincoln Navigator and climbs inside, slamming the door. Quenton offers his elbow to me, but I turn to lock up the RV before following him. He opens the door for me, and the four of us head into town.
I fish my phone from my bag and text both Eden and Amiya, letting them know that something came up and I won’t be joining them. The phone rings immediately, and I accept the call and bring the phone to my ear.
“Are you okay?” Amiya asks.
“Yes, I just had some unexpected visitors from back home, and we’re going to dinner.”
“Yeah, Pete and Freda told Eden your guests caused quite a scene and that you seemed upset,” she says.
“I was just surprised to see them. That’s all.”
“Are you sure? Because we’ll come get you if you need backup.”
“That won’t be necessary,” I assure her as Quenton takes my hand into his.
Before I know what he’s doing, he slides the ring onto my finger. I shake my head as I bring my shoulder up to hold the phone and reach to remove it, but he laces his fingers through mine and pulls it away. Frustrated, I concentrate on Amiya’s voice talking in my ear.
“Tabby? You still there?”
“Yes, sorry. I’ve got to go. I’ll text you later.”
“Okay,” she says. “And, Tabby, if you need us, just text me a location pin.”
That makes me smile.
“I will. Bye.”
I click off the line, and my father’s eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror. His are full of concern. I swallow back the tears pricking at the back of mine and glance away.
I should have known this day was coming. I couldn’t just disappear forever and never see them again. I didn’t even want that. I just wanted more time. Time to figure out what my next move would be. Time to figure out how to make them understand. But I guess my time ran out.
I guide my father to The Sapphire Tide—an oceanfront restaurant that offers panoramic views of The Point. A hostess greets us and leads us to a table in the center of the elegant dining room. However, my father requests a more private option. The hostess then directs us to a cozy table nestled in a corner, surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows. From here, we can see the expansive deck that extends into the water, complete with plexiglass walls that provide an unobstructed view of the ocean for patrons at the bar.
Dad pulls a seat out for Mom, and Quenton does the same for me.
“Thank you,” I say as I sit down opposite her.
A server fills our glasses with water and begins to list the night’s specials. Mom requests a bottle of cabernet for the table, and we place our food orders. Once she returns with the wine and Mom has a glass, our conversation begins.
“Tabitha,” my father says, his voice firm, “enough of this nonsense. You had your little rebellion, but it’s time to be reasonable. We’ve arranged everything—your spot at Northwestern is still waiting, and Quenton—”
I shake my head. “You’re not listening to me. You never listen to me.”
The silence stretches between us.
“Fine. You have a good reason to throw your future away? Explain it to us. We’re all ears,” he says.
“I don’t want to go back,” I say.
“Back to school?” he asks.
“Back to any of it. School, Boston, my life.”
My mother stares at me like I’m a stranger, and then she addresses my father. “Frederick, this is ridiculous. Do something.”
“It’s not ridiculous,” I snap. “I’m finally doing what I want. For the first time in my life, I am happy.”
She scoffs. “Happy? Here? Living like”—she gestures vaguely at me—“a hobo? You belong in Boston. With us. With Quenton,” she says, gesturing to their golden boy.
My heart pounds. “I don’t.”
My father exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This is absurd.”