Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
SCOTT
Grayson’s truck kicks up oyster shell dust as it rolls down the long drive, past the live oaks draped in Spanish moss, past the marsh grass gone gold in the afternoon light.
I’m on the porch with coffee I’m not drinking, watching him arrive at the one place I’ve never been able to let go.
Grandma Vera’s house.
Built in 1847 by a ship captain whose name is carved into the cornerstone.
Two stories of weathered cedar shingles and heart pine floors that creak in specific places I memorized as a child.
A tin roof that sounds like applause when it rains.
Porches that wrap around three sides because people used to understand that a house should breathe with the water.
Grayson parks and climbs out, squinting up at the facade. He’s been here before—handful of times over the years—but he always looks at it like he’s seeing it fresh.
“I forget how much I like this place,” he says, climbing the porch steps. “Every time I come out here, I wonder why you keep that sterile condo in town.”
“It’s convenient.”
“Maybe but it looks like a hotel room.” He drops into the rocker next to mine. “This place feels like someone actually lives here.”
Someone did. Someone who taught me that stories matter and love isn’t weakness and soft isn’t the same as broken.
I don’t say any of that. I just hand him a cup of coffee.
“Thanks for coming out.”
“Your text said ‘need to get on the water.’ That’s Scott-speak for ‘I’m falling apart and can’t admit it.’” He takes a sip. “So. What’s falling apart?”
I look out at the tidal creek, where The Meet Cute is tied to the dock, bobbing gently in the current. The tide’s about half out. We’ve got a few hours before it drops too low to navigate the shallows.
“Let’s go out first. I’ll talk better if I’m moving.”
Grayson studies me for a moment, then nods. “Lead the way.”
The dock is original to the property—rebuilt four times over the years, but in the same spot where the captain would have tied his skiff. The boards are bleached gray from salt and sun, solid under our feet.
Grayson stops when he sees the boat’s name. Same as he does every time.
“The Meet Cute.” He shakes his head. “I’ve always thought you named this boat ironically.”
“You never asked.”
“I thought you hated romance.”
“You thought wrong.”
I step aboard and start the engine checks. Fuel, battery, bilge. Grayson settles into the passenger seat, watching me work.
“So let me get this straight,” he says. “You’re a secret romance novelist. You named your boat after a romance action beat. You’ve been in love with a bookstore owner for months. And you let the entire town think you’re a cold-hearted businessman who doesn’t believe in feelings.”
“That about covers it.”
“Why?”
I untie the stern line, then the bow. Push us off the dock with the boat hook. The engine purrs to life, low and steady, and I ease us into the creek.
“You know why.”
“Your dad.”
The word lands like a stone in still water. I don’t answer. Don’t need to. Grayson was there for some of it—not the worst years, but enough to understand.
The creek opens up as we round the first bend, marsh grass stretching out on both sides, the sky enormous overhead. A great blue heron stands motionless in the shallows, watching us pass with ancient indifference.
“Where are we headed?” Grayson asks.
“Vera’s spot.”
He doesn’t ask what that means. He’s been there before.
The spot is a wide place in the waterway where the creek meets a smaller tributary, tucked behind a hammock of cedars that block the wind. Vera used to bring me here in her ancient Boston Whaler, anchor up, and read aloud while I fished.
I never caught much. I was too busy listening.
I kill the engine and drop anchor. The silence settles around us—not really silence, but the particular quiet of the marsh. Cord grass rustling. Water lapping against the hull. The distant cry of an osprey circling overhead.
“Alright.” Grayson stretches his legs out. “We’re on the water. We’re at Vera’s spot. Start talking.”
I stare at the horizon, where the marsh meets the sky in a hazy green-gold line.
“I finished the book.”
“The one about Jessica?”
“It’s not—” I stop. Breathe. “It’s fiction.”
“Scott. You’ve been writing obsessively for two weeks. You barely sleep. You look at your phone every thirty seconds hoping she’s texted. It’s about Jessica.”
The osprey dives, hits the water with a splash, comes up empty. Even the birds are striking out today.
“My publisher wants it. Rodney says it’s the best thing I’ve ever written.” I dig my thumb into the steering wheel cover. “They want to fast-track release alongside the reveal event. Full marketing push.”
“That sounds like good news.”
“Legal is asking if the Jessica character is based on a real person.”
Grayson is quiet for a moment. “Ah.”
“I wrote our story. Her wound, my lies, the letters, the beach. All of it.” I finally look at him. “I can’t publish it without her permission. But asking her permission means showing her the manuscript.”
“So show her.”
“She’s not speaking to me, Grayson. She called me Mr. Avery at the committee meeting. She won’t look at me. She—”
“So you’re giving up?”
“I’m giving her space.”
“You’re hiding.” He says it without judgment, just observation. “Same thing you’ve always done.”
The words hit harder than they should. Probably because they’re true.
A pelican glides past, impossibly graceful for something so ungainly. It lands on a channel marker twenty feet away and settles in like it’s planning to stay.
“My father used to say my mother ruined me.” The words come out before I can stop them. “Said she filled my head with fairy tales and made me soft and useless.”
Grayson doesn’t respond. Just waits.
“He called me ‘your mother’s son’ like it was an insult. Like loving stories was a character defect.” I pick at a loose thread on my shirt. “When he left, he told her it was her fault. Said her expectations were unrealistic. Said no real man could live up to the fantasies she’d built in her head.”
“Your father was a jerk.”
“He wasn’t wrong about everything.” I meet Grayson’s eyes. “I did learn to hide. I built walls so high I forgot there was anything behind them. I pretended to be exactly what he said I should be—cold, practical, dismissive of anything that couldn’t be measured or monetized.”
“And then you wrote romance novels under a fake name.”
I almost laugh. “Because I couldn’t stop being my mother’s son. I just got better at hiding it.”
The pelican makes a sound—a low, guttural grunt—like it’s joining the conversation.
“Your mother sounds like a good person,” Grayson says.
“She is.” I haven’t called her in three weeks. Another thing to feel guilty about. “She doesn’t know about V. Langley.”
“You never told her?”
“I rarely told anyone.”
The pelican shuffles on its marker, getting comfortable. Apparently it’s not going anywhere.
“You know what this reminds me of?” Grayson says.
“Please don’t psychoanalyze me.”
“Your father left when you showed him who you really were. Now you showed Jessica, and she left too.”
“That’s not—”
“And instead of fighting for her, you’re doing the same thing you did as a kid. Retreating and building the walls higher, then telling yourself it’s ‘giving her space’ when really you’re just terrified of being rejected again.”
The words linger as the cord grass rustles. The pelican grunts again.
“When did you get so insightful?” I ask.
“Michelle made me go to therapy.”
I laugh despite myself. “How’s that going?”
“Terrible. I’m learning all sorts of things I didn’t want to know about myself.” He grins. “Highly recommend it.”
We sit in silence for a moment. The tide is still dropping, and the mud banks are starting to emerge around the edges of the channel. We should probably head back soon.
“There’s something else,” I say.
“Of course there is.”
“I didn’t just hide from Jessica. I did to her exactly what my father did to my mother.”
Grayson raises an eyebrow.
“I pretended to be someone I wasn’t. Made her think the real me was shameful, something to be concealed.
Let her fall for pieces of me instead of the whole truth.
” I grip the wheel, knuckles white. “My father made my mother feel like her love was foolish. I made Jessica feel like I was three different people who couldn’t be trusted. ”
“That’s different.”
“Is it?”
“Your father was cruel on purpose. You were scared.” Grayson shrugs. “Still wrong, but different.”
The pelican chooses this moment to take off, massive wings beating the air as it launches from the marker and glides low over the water. We both watch it go.
“I want to send her the manuscript,” I say.
“Okay.”
“Not to win her back. Not as some grand gesture.” I shake my head. “Just because she deserves to see how I see her. To know what she means, even if she never forgives me.”
“That’s either very mature or very stupid.”
“Probably both.”
Grayson considers this. “What if she hates it?”
“Then at least she’ll hate the real me. That’s better than her hating someone I made up.”
He nods slowly. “That’s actually not terrible logic.”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“You’re constantly full of surprises.” He sits up straighter. “Did you say the tide is dropping?”
I look over the side. The water level has fallen noticeably since we anchored. The mud banks are fully exposed now, and the channel is looking...narrow.
“We should probably go,” I say.
I pull up anchor and try to start the engine.
It turns over. Coughs. Dies.
I try again. Same result.
“Tell me that’s not what I think it is,” Grayson says.
I look over the side at the propeller. Which is currently buried in mud.
“We’re stuck.”
“On a sandbar.”
“Yep.”
Grayson stares at me. “You’re a boat owner. How do you not know the tide schedule?”
“I was distracted!”
“By your feelings?”
“By the—yes, fine, by my feelings. Happy?”