Chapter 32 Sandcastles #2
I keep going. “I didn’t just do the things you couldn’t. I became a different version… of both of us. I was Mom. I was the wife whose husband is never around. I was putting on the smile, making excuses, and faking that everything was just fine.”
Just saying it makes me feel exhausted.
Still, he doesn’t interrupt. He’s just watching me.
“I thought I could carry it all, Beckett, and for a while, I did. I kept pretending things would get better, until one day I realized I didn’t even know what that would look like anymore. I’ve been living a massive lie, every day. And even that, it wasn’t enough.
“It was never enough.” I glance up at him, my chest aching. “And I need to know that I can have a life that’s enough. With or without you.”
He drops his gaze, sighs, and then looks back up.
“You shouldn't have to. I mean, you could. I know you could. But you… you don’t have to.”
This shouldn’t hurt. Why does him saying that hurt?
His expression changes then. Not just regret—something deeper. Something like despair.
“I’m so sorry, Ash.” His voice is low, rough. “I never meant…”
But then he stops. Like even he knows sorry isn’t enough.
“I know,” I whisper. “But you did.”
I see his jaw tighten, and I know he’s clamping down on whatever he was going to say.
“You shut me out,” I add.
The words hover, suspended between us.
He swallows hard. But he doesn’t speak.
“I don’t hate you,” I go on. “God, I almost wish I did because that would make all this so much easier. And who knows, maybe I will later. But right now?” I shake my head.
“I’m just… mad. So mad. Because you stopped seeing us.
You stopped seeing me. I kept trying to hold everything together, waiting for you to wake up, and you… you just gave up.”
My voice cracks. “I just wish…” I scoop some sand out of the moat, while silence settles around us again.
Then finally, Beckett exhales, rough, a little broken. “Ashley.”
I look up and his gaze is locked on me, blue eyes focused and intense.
“I didn’t give up. I swear to God, I didn’t. I would never…”
“Well, what were you doing, then? Because I don’t understand.”
He glances away and my heart falls.
This is why I can’t get my hopes up. This is why I can’t let all this pretending feel like more than it is.
“It’s almost over,” he says.
I barely keep myself from choking on a sob. “I know. That’s why I—”
“No. God. Not us, Ashley. Never us. This year. The travel. The meetings.” He closes his eyes. “The secrets.” And then opens them again. “Midtown is letting me go.”
For a second, I just stare at him, trying to wrap my head around the turn our conversation just took.
We were talking about our marriage being over, and now we’re talking about his work?
Midtown is letting him go?
Did he just say he was losing his job? Confusion, and something else—fear? —shoot off in my chest.
I’ve always worked towards security, both of us have, actually. Not sure if it’s because of my mom’s crazy upbringing, or something else, so…
But we would be okay. Divorced or not. We have savings. The house is practically paid for.
Then, as the shock fades, as those what-ifs are acknowledged, other feelings take over. Disbelief. Confusion. Anger.
“Wait—what? Why?” He’d all but sold his soul to that company.
Instead of answering my questions, he’s watching me with that unreadable look I’ve come to hate so much. Only this time, there’s something else there too.
Something I hadn’t seen before.
Relief? Pleading?
But just when I think he’s going to open up, he goes silent again.
“I don’t understand,” I say. “You’ve been working nonstop. Days, evenings, weekends. You missed the twins’ birthday for them, for God’s sake.” Our anniversary. Holidays. And all those special moments you can’t put a name to. “You barely come up for air. They can’t just—”
“Ash.” His tone is quiet.
“No. Don’t you ‘Ash’ me. You can’t tell me you’d never stop fighting for us one minute, but that you’re losing your job, and then go silent again. I need more, Beckett. How long have you known?”
“A while now.”
“How long is a while?”
“It’s—I can’t… I can’t say.”
“Are you serious?”
My pulse stumbles. Everything that is logical is screaming in my head to walk away, go back to the ship alone. Get out before he hurts you again. This is just more of the same.
Isn’t it?
Trouble is, my heart, God, my heart…
It’s telling me to hold on.
And honestly, it’s pissing me off.
I’ve already made really, really hard decisions. Like picking up the phone and calling a divorce lawyer. And then, following their advice and telling my husband of eleven years he has to move out. And those decisions, they weren’t easy to make.
He’s shirtless, a little sandy, his skin glowing bronze from the sun, and his inky hair’s a mess—pushed back in that careless, familiar way that always used to undo me.
And maybe it still does.
But that’s not what makes my stomach twist.
He’s sitting cross-legged in the sand, his back slightly hunched like he’s holding something heavy. His arms rest on his knees, but his hands aren’t relaxed—they’re flexing, thumb rubbing against his palm like he’s working through a dozen thoughts he can’t say out loud.
And those damn crystal blue eyes of his.
He’s looking straight at me, like he’s trying to make sure I see him. Not just the Beckett I’ve been fighting with, not the man who missed bedtimes and forgot anniversaries—but the one I married. The one I believed in.
Damn it.
“I’ll tell you more when I can. I swear.” His voice strains. “But for now, you can’t say anything about me leaving Midtown. Not to anyone.”
“There isn’t much to say. Just that you’re getting… fired?”
“I mean it, Ash. Please.”
I narrow my gaze, searching his. “Because it’ll put a damper on the wedding?” I ask, even though the second the words are out, I know it’s more than that.
His grimace confirms it. “Well, yeah. That too.” He swallows hard, eyes flicking to mine again. “But mostly… please.”
That word again—please. It’s quiet. Desperate.
Like he’s afraid that if he says any more, it’ll all come tumbling out.
I study him—this man who has driven me crazy with his silence, who has made me question everything about our life together—and still, here I am. Watching the way his chest rises and falls too fast, the way his thumb keeps rubbing his palm, the way his expression twists as he waits for my answer.
He’s not just frustrated.
He’s ashamed.
And suddenly, the anger that’s been sitting hot in my chest for months starts to shift. Not disappear. It… moves over.
I nod slowly, even as my voice comes out tight. “Okay.”
“Okay?” he echoes, cautious. Like he doesn’t quite believe me.
“For now,” I say, holding his gaze. “But this doesn’t mean I’m okay with any of this. You’ve let them suck you dry—and now they’re what, just letting you go?”
He flinches, barely, but it’s there. His jaw tenses. “I know.”
And somehow, that makes it worse. Him just accepting it.
I’m still here though, sitting in the sand, my heart pounding, trying to pretend the ground isn’t shifting beneath me all over again.
Up until last year, Beckett was a top performer! Bonuses, commissions, corner office perks—the works. So what changed? What the heck happened?
Suddenly, all these questions feel like landmines.
“Okay.” I glance down, following the line of the moat around our castle. It’s dry now. But the tide will come.
Joy this simple never lasts.
Fine, then.
But while we’re still in it, I’m going to soak in every smile. Every laugh.
Even if the tide is already rising.
“I need more water to finish this turret,” I say, pointing.
Beckett’s still watching me. I see him swallow, his eyes shining more than usual.
And then I feel it. I see it.
He’s reaching out to me, and I’m taking his hand.
Not literally.
In my mind. But we’re both there.
And it hits me—without warning—that maybe, over this past year, I’m not the only one who was barely holding on.