Chapter Twelve
The ferry terminal was louder than I expected.
Not in an overwhelming way, just more alive than I thought was possible. Engines idled. Seagulls screamed like they had opinions. Tires crunched over concrete as cars lined up in careful rows, everyone inching forward with the same shared goal: cross the water, get somewhere else.
Tristan rolled down the window and handed over our boarding pass, easy smile in place like he’d done this a hundred times before. Probably had.
“Upper deck?” the attendant asked.
“Always,” Tristan said, glancing at me. “Best view.”
I nodded, even though my stomach fluttered at the word view as if something was about to be revealed whether I was ready for it or not.
We parked, cut the engine, and sat there as an unfamiliar feeling wrapped around. The hum of the ferry vibrated through the car, steady and low. Tristan drummed his fingers once on the steering wheel, before he stilled them.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Yeah.” I forced a smile. “Just... a lot of water.”
He snorted. “We are, in fact, on the coast.”
“I’m from the interior,” I shot back. “We prefer our danger to come in the form of wildlife and emotional repression.”
That earned me a real laugh; the kind that eased something tight between my shoulders.
We grabbed our jackets and made our way up to the deck, the salty air hitting us all at once.
The sky stretched wide and pale blue, clouds drifting like they had nowhere better to be. The ocean rolled endlessly, dark and glittering, like a promise and a warning all at once.
I leaned against the railing, letting the wind whip loose strands of my hair into chaos.
“Careful,” Tristan said. “If a seagull steals your snack, I’m not intervening.”
“I don’t even have a snack.”
“That’s how they get you,” he replied gravely. “They sense vulnerability.”
As if on cue, a seagull landed on the railing nearby and stared at us, head cocked.
“Oh no,” I muttered. “It’s judging me.”
“It knows,” Tristan said. “They always know.”
I laughed, the sound stolen by the wind. He leaned beside me, close enough to feel his warmth even through our jackets. Our elbows brushed. Neither of us moved away.
We watched the shoreline pull away slowly as the mainland retreated and gave us space.
“This is usually where people take selfies,” I said.
“Do you want one?”
“No,” I said and immediately softened my tone. “I want to remember this the old-fashioned way. Inappropriately fondly.”
He smiled earnestly at that. The type that didn’t ask anything of me.
“You know what?” I said, my voice ripe with promise as I turned and leaned against the railing. “Let’s do it. Let’s take a selfie.”
“You sure?”
“Why not? Mr. Moose would be highly disappointed if we didn’t.”
He pulled out his phone and stretched his arm out, turning the camera view to face us while his other hand settled on my shoulder.
I involuntarily melted into him, tucking my shoulder into his.
This time, he perfectly positioned us within the frame, the far-off hills and the dark waters a perfect backdrop behind us.
A few clicks later, I faced him. The breeze blew more strands of hair across my face and practically tickled his chin and cheeks with the tips. An easy grin grew on his face.
The camera clicked away.
After gazing upon each other for a few heartbeats, I broke the connection and tucked the strays behind my ear.
Tristan cleared his throat. “Let’s see how they turned out.”
“Can’t be worse than the ones we took in Lake Louise.” I tried my best to keep a smile under wraps, but I failed.
This selfie session felt different. Less forced, more natural. Surely the pictures reflected that.
“Wow, these are actually ... pretty awful.” He scrunched his nose as his thumb swiped left.
“What? Let me see.” I pulled the screen down and heard his chuckle as I did.
“Actually, I lied. They’re beautiful; like you.”
I swallowed and looked at the photo staring at me.
There was something there, something I didn’t see in our selfies from Lake Louise.
It caused our faces to brighten, our grins to crinkle our eyes, and we appeared relaxed.
Whatever the reasoning was, it had changed us as the smiles were genuine, especially the ones where we faced each other.
A faint heat warmed my cheeks when it dawned on me what it was. It was affection, natural and pure, and undeniably; it radiated it from us both.
The ferry horn sounded long and low, and something in my chest echoed back.
“You ever think about how strange it is,” I said, “that we’re always in between places? Like, we’re never actually where we’re going. We’re just... getting there.”
“That might be the most Anna thing you’ve ever said,” he replied.
“Oh?”
“Yeah. You’re always thinking about what’s next.”
The waves danced across the water, moving slowly with purpose.
“Is that a bad thing?”
He considered it. “Not bad. Just... careful.”
Careful. The word landed like a bruise.
We stood there in silence again, the kind that wasn’t empty but full of everything we weren’t saying.
A couple passed behind us, laughing, arms slung easily around each other. I felt it then; the sharp, unexpected ache of wanting something I wasn’t sure I was allowed to reach for.
“Anna,” Tristan said quietly.
I turned toward him, heart stuttering.
“Can I ask you something?” he continued. “And you can absolutely say no.”
I tried to joke. “You’ve already asked that question once today. You’re on thin ice, Buddy.”
With that statement, his smile flickered. “I know. I just... need to know where your head is.”
I swallowed the lump forming in the back of my throat. The wind tugged impatiently at my jacket.
“I’m scared,” I admitted, but felt a wave of relief in vocalizing it.
His brow furrowed slightly. “Of me?”
“No, no. Of course not.” I shook my head and lowered my gaze to the top of his sweater. “Of how easy this feels.”
That did it. His expression shifted. It wasn’t surprised, or smug, just honest.
He tipped my chin up with the crook of his finger and looked deep into my eyes. “I am too.”
The admission sat between us, fragile and shared.
“Easy doesn’t last,” I continued, words spilling now. “Because I’ve built my life around not needing anyone. Around being enough on my own. And wanting you—wanting this—feels like standing on a dock with one foot already off.”
He didn’t interrupt, just listened and leaned closer.
“I can’t afford to fall apart,” I finished quietly. “Not now.”
He nodded slowly. “I know.”
And somehow, that made it worse.
The ferry rocked gently beneath us, the ocean rolling on without regard for our timing.
“Anna,” he said again, softer. “I’m not asking you to choose anything today.”
My breath caught.
“But I don’t want to pretend this is nothing.”
In that moment, I met his gaze, the softness dancing behind the intensity, and everything slowed.
His hand lifted slightly, hesitating between us. Not touching. Asking.
The space between us felt charged, electric. My pulse pounded everywhere.
The wind ruffled his hair, softened the edges of him, and for a split second he looked younger; like the boy I’d once known and the man standing in front of me all at once.
I leaned in without fully deciding to.
He did too.
The world narrowed to breath and salt and the faint warmth of him. One more inch and ...
“Attention passengers—”
The announcement crackled overhead, sharp and jarring.
We both froze until a wave of laughter bubbled out of us.
“Of course,” I muttered.
“Wouldn’t be us without an interruption,” he said, voice low.
I stepped back first, heart racing. He let his hand drop.
We stood side by side again, closer than before but pretending nothing had almost happened. Holding tight to that feeling, neither of us moved.
Tristan shifted his weight a fraction, like he was testing the ground beneath us. His mouth curved, not quite a grin, more like a decision.
“Well,” he said lightly, glancing around the deck as if taking inventory. “Since we’ve already missed the obvious cue...”
I frowned. “Cue for what?”
He stepped close enough to feel the warmth of him again, like my body hadn’t quite let go.
“For this,” he said. He extended his hand like he wanted to dance.
“Tristan...” My pulse stuttered. “There’s no music,” I whispered urgently, my face heating. “People are watching.”
“They’re watching the ocean.” However, he had eyes only for me. “And if they’re not, that’s their problem.”
I let out a half laugh, half plea kind of breath. “This is ridiculous.”
“Mmhmm,” he agreed easily. “But you don’t actually sound like you mean no.” He took Mr. Moose from my grip and set him on a nearby bench.
Before I could argue, he raised his hand and waited. Asking permission, and being all Tristan-like.
The deck hummed beneath our feet, and the wind rushed past us, constant and anonymous. My heart felt anything but.
“This is... incredibly embarrassing,” I muttered, even as I slid my fingers into his.
His eyes softened. “I’ll take the heat.”
He guided my hand up, resting it lightly on his shoulder, his other hand settling at my waist with a carefulness that made my throat tighten.
We didn’t sway, at least not at first.
He moved, barely perceptible, a slow shift from foot to foot and instinct took over. My body followed before my brain could object.
“Oh my God,” I breathed. “We’re actually doing this.”
He leaned closer, his mouth near my ear, his voice pitched just for me. “Relax,” he whispered. “I’ve danced in worse places than this.”
“You have not.” I pulled back to search the amused expression upon his face.
“You should hear the stories I’m sparing you.”
Tucking my head against his sweater, the gap between us disappeared once again. He leaned his whiskery chin against my cheek and the warmth of his breath sent a shiver straight down my spine.
And quietly, almost absurdly, he started to sing.
It was soft, uneven at first, with words I recognized, coaxed into the space between us like a confession. An old Bryan Adams song.
I froze. “Are you... Are you seriously singing?”
“Barely,” he said, lips brushing my ear. “Think of it as... emotional support lyrics.”
I snorted despite myself. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” he murmured, “you’re still here.”
Yes I was. Swaying with him on a ferry deck, pretending the world hadn’t narrowed to the span of his arms. Pretending this wasn’t exactly the kind of thing I’d sworn I didn’t need.
My forehead tipped forward, resting briefly against his chest. His steady, unhurried heartbeat tapped beneath his sweater, as if he had all the time in the world.
We moved like that for another few seconds, likely longer. Much longer. Time had lost its grip on me. The wind wrapped around us, shielding and exposing us all at once.
When the ferry’s horn sounded in the distance, low and resonant, he slowed, before he stilled.
He didn’t pull away right away.
Neither did I.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
“For what?”
“For trusting me with that,” he replied.
I swallowed. “Don’t get used to it.”
His smile brushed against my hair. “I wouldn’t dare.”
Eventually, we stepped apart, pretending we hadn’t crossed another invisible line.
We stood side by side again, closer than before, the space between us permanently altered.
And this time, the interruption didn’t feel like relief.
It felt like a promise waiting to be kept.
The shoreline of the island began to appear in the distance, green and solid and unavoidable.
“Looks like we’re arriving,” I said.
“Yeah,” he replied. “Looks like it.”
But neither of us looked away from the water just yet, because whatever waited on for us on shore—reality, responsibility, choices—we both knew one thing now.
This wasn’t just a road trip anymore.
And whatever came next... it was going to change something.