4. Ash
4
ASH
T he ocean wind bites through the morning mist as I crouch by the tide pool, squinting against the sunlight.
There’s movement in the shallows—crabs darting between rocks, anemones swaying with the current.
My notebook is open on my knee, already half-filled with sketches and notes. A purple starfish catches my eye, clinging to the slick stone. Rare to see it in this area.
“Damn, you’re a beauty,” I murmur, snapping a photo.
Footsteps crunch on the gravel behind me. I know who it is before I turn. Karen. She’s been shadowing me for weeks, always finding excuses to “help.”
“You’ve been out here all morning,” she says, her voice light, lilting. She tugs at the collar of her jacket, the wind whipping her blonde hair across her face.
“I’m working,” I reply without looking up.
“Obviously,” she says with a laugh, stepping closer. Too close. “But even you have to eat. Or take a break. I was thinking, maybe we could grab lunch?”
I let out a short breath, shutting my notebook and standing. “Appreciate the offer, but I’ve got a lot to do.”
Karen’s smile falters, but she doesn’t back down. “Ash, you work harder than anyone I know. It’s one of the things I admire about you. But you can’t keep going at this pace. It’s not healthy.”
Her tone is loaded, her gaze lingering. She’s tried this before, a dozen different ways, and it always ends the same.
“I’m fine, Karen. Really,” I say and sling my bag over my shoulder.
“You don’t have to do everything alone, you know,” she presses, softer now. “Whatever it is you’re holding onto… you can let it go.”
My jaw tightens. “I’ve got to log these findings. See you back at the lab.”
She doesn’t follow, but I can feel her disappointment trailing behind me as I walk away.
The lab is cool and sterile, the air filled with the hum of computers and a faint chemical smell. I drop my bag on the counter and pull out my notebook, flipping through the pages to find where I left off.
“Bennett!” Dr. Lowe’s voice cuts through the quiet, sharp and commanding.
I turn to see her marching toward me, tablet in hand. She’s in her forties, a no-nonsense type who runs this program like a tight ship.
Her silver-streaked hair is tied back, and her glasses sit perched on the bridge of her nose.
“Dr. Lowe,” I say, standing straighter.
She stops in front of me, scrolling through her tablet before glancing up.
“The photos you sent this morning—excellent work. And your last few reports? Impeccable. You’ve got a damn good eye for this, Bennett.”
“Thanks,” I say, keeping my tone neutral.
She studies me for a moment before continuing. “Because of your results, I’ve got some great news. We’ve secured funding for a six-month study of the tide pools at Driftwood Cove. And I want you to lead it.”
Driftwood Cove. The name stirs something in the back of my mind—a quiet coastal town somewhere up north. Small. Remote.
“When do I leave?” I ask.
“Monday morning,” she says, tapping at her tablet. “Take the weekend to prepare. You’ll be there for at least six months, and I expect regular updates—photos, data logs, everything.”
“Understood,” I say, my mind already making a list of what I’ll need to pack.
As she walks away, I glance at the clock. There’s still time to wrap up a few loose ends here before heading home.
My apartment is quiet when I get back, the kind of silence that presses in on you. It’s a small place, functional.
The walls are bare, and the furniture is minimal. It works.
I toss my bag onto the bed and pull out my notebook, setting it on the desk next to my laptop. Then I open my wallet and pull out the photo I keep tucked inside.
Mia’s smile is as bright as ever, her wet hair clinging to her cheeks and a surfboard under her arm. She looks so alive in this picture, so full of light.
I drop into the chair by the desk, the picture in my hand. “Well, Mia, it looks like I’m heading to Driftwood Cove.”
She was everything—light, life, the sea itself. And then she was gone.
Stomach cancer. She hadn’t told me at first, not until it was too late. By then, the treatments were just a way to prolong the inevitable.
I stayed with her until the end, holding her hand as the light faded from her eyes.
Ten years later, I still see her in every wave, every tide pool, every fucking breath I take by the ocean.
“Jesus, Mia,” I whisper, my thumb brushing over the photo. “What the hell am I supposed to do without you?”
The room is silent, the only sound the distant crash of waves.
I tuck the photo back into my wallet and shove it into my pocket. This is good. The assignment, the move—it’s what I need. A change of scenery. Work to keep my mind busy.
Love? That shit’s not on the table. Not now. Not ever again.
The room stays silent, offering no response.
The shrill ring of my phone cuts through the quiet. I glance at the screen. Liam. Of course. I press my lips together and answer.
“Hey, Liam,” I say, leaning back in my chair.
“Ash,” my brother’s voice comes through, smooth and clipped like always. “Just wanted to check what time you’re coming tomorrow.”
“Coming to what?” I ask, though I already know what he means.
“Family dinner. It’s been three months. You didn’t forget, did you?” His tone carries that edge, the one that says forgetting isn’t an option.
We have these family dinners every three months, and no one can miss. I hate them.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Right. What time?”
“Six sharp. Don’t be late. Dad hates it when you stroll in halfway through.”
“Got it,” I reply. We both know I’m walking into an ambush.
“And Ash?”
“Yeah?”
“Try not to embarrass yourself this time,” he says, like he’s doing me a favor.
“Sure thing,” I snap, hanging up before I say something I’ll regret.
* * *
Morning light filters through the blinds. I spend most of it staring at reports and organizing my gear for Driftwood Cove.
By late afternoon, I’m in the shower, scrubbing off the tension of what’s coming. Family dinners are a ritual, but not one I’d ever choose to partake in.
I towel off and head to my closet, staring at my limited wardrobe. Fieldwork doesn’t exactly require suits, but mine isn’t the kind of family where you show up in jeans and a hoodie.
My nicest sweater, a charcoal gray cashmere thing that still has the tags from when Mom bought it, ends up being my choice, paired with black dress pants that feel stiff and unnatural.
Grabbing a bottle of red wine I bought last week, I sigh. It’s probably not expensive enough for their taste, but it’s the thought that counts, right?
I try not to dread the coming experience too much as I drive to my parents’ house. I’ve just never fit in. I’ve always been the odd man out.
Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to be part of a family who I shared interests with, who actually seemed to like being around me.
I’ll never know what that feels like, so I shove the thought into a corner of my mind and turn on the radio, hoping for a distraction.
The house looms in front of me like a damn museum, all towering columns and pristine landscaping. Owning Bennett Real Estate clearly has its perks.
The family empire, built brick by brick by my father, is plastered all over this town.
The front door opens before I can knock. Liam’s standing there in a navy suit that probably costs more than my entire wardrobe. He gives me a once-over, his brow lifting.
“No suit?” he says, his tone dripping with judgment.
“It’s dinner, not a board meeting,” I reply, pushing past him into the foyer.
The place smells like roasted meat and money. Crystal chandeliers glint overhead, and the sound of laughter drifts from the dining room.
I walk in, and they’re all there. Dad is at the head of the table, looking like a king in his tailored three-piece suit.
Mom is as elegant as ever in a navy silk dress, her pearls catching the light.
Liam’s wife, Rachel, is a vision of perfection in her designer cocktail dress, sipping from a wine glass like she’s on the cover of a magazine.
“Look who finally decided to show up,” Liam announces, his voice carrying through the room.
Dad looks up, his piercing blue eyes—my eyes—settling on me. “Ash. On time for once.”
“Barely,” Liam grumbles under his breath.
“Liam,” Mom says, shooting him a look before turning her warm smile on me. “Ash, sweetheart, come sit. It’s been too long.”
I sit at the far end of the table, the wine bottle clutched in my hand. I set it down, and Rachel’s perfectly plucked brows rise.
“Oh,” she says, her voice sweet and cutting, “you brought… wine.”
“Yeah, Rachel,” I say, matching her tone. “It’s what people do at dinner.”
Mom waves it off. “Thank you, Ash. It’s a lovely gesture.”
Dinner is served—something fancy involving lamb and truffle risotto. Everyone dives in, the conversation quickly turning to business.
Liam’s closing a big deal on a new high-rise downtown. Rachel is launching some boutique partnership.
“And you, Ash?” Dad finally asks, cutting into his lamb. “Still… chasing crabs or whatever it is you do?”
“It’s called marine biology,” I say, keeping my voice even. “And yeah, I’ve been working on some exciting stuff. Actually, I just got assigned to a six-month study at Driftwood Cove.”
“Driftwood Cove?” Liam snorts. “What the hell’s in Driftwood Cove?”
“Tide pools,” I say. “Unique ecosystems. It’s a big deal. Dr. Lowe was impressed with my work.”
“It sounds… quaint,” Rachel says, twirling her fork in her food.
“It sounds like a demotion,” Dad says. “Six months in some backwater town? What kind of career trajectory is that?”
“It’s research,” I say, voice tightening. “Important research. Not everything’s about climbing the corporate ladder.”
“No, but everything’s about results.” Dad’s gaze is sharp. “And you’re not getting any younger, Ash. You can’t keep wasting time.”
I grip my fork, the metal cool against my fingers. “I’m not wasting time. I’m doing what I’m passionate about. It’s what I’m good at.”
“Passion doesn’t pay bills,” Liam chimes in.
“Not everything’s about money,” I snap.
“Easy to say when you live in a shoebox and don’t have a family to support,” Liam shoots back.
“Enough,” Mom says, cutting through the tension. “Ash, sweetheart, we’re just… concerned. You’ve always been so independent, but you don’t have to do everything alone.”
“Thanks for the concern,” I say, standing abruptly, “but I’m fine. Really.” I nod at Mom and glance at Dad, whose expression is unreadable. “I’ve got an early morning. Thanks for dinner.”
Mom protests but it’s clear that I’m not going to budge. I grab the untouched bottle of wine that I brought as I leave. No sense in them throwing it away as soon as I’m gone.
The night air hits me as I step outside, the crispness biting at my skin. I exhale slowly, the tension finally starting to drain from my shoulders.
Six months in Driftwood Cove. Six months away from the suits, the expectations, the endless fucking judgment.
I toss the wine bottle into the passenger seat of my truck and slide behind the wheel. Starting the engine, I pull away from the house, watching the lights fade in the rearview mirror.