Chapter 7 Familiar Stranger
FAMILIAR STRANGER
ASHLEY
Idon’t spend long on the balcony—just enough time to breathe, collect myself, and decide I’m not going to let Beckett’s presence rattle me.
Within half an hour, I’ve unpacked, hung up my sundresses by color (naturally), set up a mini “office” at the desk, and called down to confirm the details for tonight’s welcome party for the Faraday-Grady wedding guests.
“The event space is still the Aurora Lounge, correct?” I double-check, tapping my pen against the notepad. It’s one of the ship’s nicer event rooms.
By the time I’ve gone through my checklist with the attendant, I turn—and stop short.
Beckett’s kicked off his shoes and stretched out across the king-sized bed.
For a second, I’m tempted to make some snarky comment about him sleeping on the couch—but something in me stalls.
His eyes are closed, and even though his breaths are even, he doesn’t look all that relaxed. Arms crossed, eyebrows furrowed, mouth pulled down into a bit of a frown, he almost looks like he’s having a bad dream.
And suddenly, I’m back in those early years—when exhaustion had a purpose. Back when he was working full-time and finishing his master’s in finance, and I was proud of every late night, every bleary morning.
We were tired then, too—but that kind of tired had hope in it.
We believed in the payoff. In us.
This kind of tired looks nothing like that.
I resist the urge to sit on the edge of the bed, nudge his shoulder, and ask what’s wrong.
That’s not my place anymore. Hasn’t been for a while.
As if he would tell me even if it was.
I catch sight of that burner phone he’s left open on the nightstand beside him, and before I can stop myself, I read the last text that came through.
Of course, it’s from Sugar.
“You can thank me for the fancy digs next time we talk. There are a few perks with all this.”
Fancy digs? Does this Sugar lady know about our room upgrade?
And… why thank her?
I just stare at it for a minute, that now all-too-familiar anger seeping in. But…
No. Just… no.
I have bigger things to worry about than who Beckett’s secretly talking with.
The wedding, of course, but then the really big stuff—like telling our families that we’re splitting up.
Like discussing custody, dividing all our assets, and making it through all of this while keeping the boys, and myself, as unbroken as possible.
I grab the dress I planned for this afternoon—coral, breezy, perfect to kick off this cruise—and head into the bathroom.
The mirror fogs slightly from the shower I take to rinse off the chlorine. I towel off, apply my makeup without thinking, and give myself a perfect smile.
All the while, I’m painfully aware that Beckett is right outside the door. We used to get ready in the same space every morning. His presence was comforting then, normal.
Now I find myself sharing this awesome room with someone who feels almost like an imposter. A familiar stranger. Someone I can’t trust no matter what our history or my instincts say.
I slip the dress over my head, smooth it down, take a breath, and step back into the main cabin.
He hasn’t moved.
I clear my throat, and he opens his eyes, giving me that lazy look from beneath his lashes.
I don’t ask him about the text message. I don’t have time for that.
“I need to find Moira Foster,” I tell him instead. “She’s the ship’s events manager, and then I’ll be heading down for the Muster Safety thing. We need to check in at four thirty sharp.”
He gives a mock salute. “Aye aye, cap’n.”
But I’m not in the mood to be teased. So I just stare back at him. “The welcome party starts at six. If you’re late, Luna will notice.”
He holds my gaze, and then dips his chin. “Got it.”
I step into the hallway and close the door behind me.
Beckett’s stare still affects me.
It shouldn’t. After everything.
I’ll get over it. Every book about divorce says these feelings are totally normal at the end of a long-term relationship. It’s… like a bad case of the flu or something. Unavoidable.
It’s just something I’ll have to suffer through. It’ll fade with time.
I have to believe that.