Chapter 33 Inhale, Exhale
INHALE, EXHALE
ASHLEY
Beckett’s arm is around me as I hold the phone out and snap a castle selfie of the two of us.
“Quite the masterpiece,” he says, leaning over my shoulder and watching while I send the photo to the boys.
I’m staring at it too, amazed that we can look so… happy.
I feel steady with his arm on my shoulder. Like things aren’t just normal, but… better.
But all good things must come to an end. And even though I know I should start packing up my things to get back to the ship, I don’t move.
He glances toward the water, where the sun is starting its slow descent, casting everything in a warm, gold-tinted haze. “You know,” he says, “the restaurant at the resort is Michelin rated.”
I blink up at him. “Does Luna know that?”
“If she did, I doubt she’d have gone on a taco tour,” he says.
But then he adds: “Figured we could try it. Celebrate your death-defying flight?”
I look down at my not-so-bright swimsuit, and my skin, sticky from sunscreen and sand and salt. “I’m not exactly dressed for fine dining.”
“We’re on vacation,” he counters.
“Wouldn’t they have a dress code, though?” I step away from him, and then gesture at his swim shorts.
Just then, a resort staffer carrying a tray of drinks stops. “You’re with the cruise ship, no? Your excursion comes with a room for the day—shower, towels, everything.”
Beckett looks at me. He’s giving me the option.
And for like the hundredth time today, butterflies swirl around in my chest.
“Sure,” I hear myself say.
We gather our things—my beach bag filled with all the unfinished business I’d intended to tackle today, and Beckett, stuffing the boys’ toys and plastic molds into his backpack.
He shoves his sunglasses on to the top of his head and gives the castle one last glance. “Want to leave it?”
“And let just anyone maraud and plunder?” I say, lifting my chin. “Not on your life.”
Beckett grins. “That’s my girl.”
And then we’re both at it—kicking, stomping, and smoothing… It feels ridiculous and right and a little cathartic, undoing what we made together before anyone else can.
Beckett snaps one last picture of the wreckage—a barely-there scar cutting into the windswept beach—and then we sling our bags over our shoulders.
We don’t look back.
Instead, we walk side by side toward the reception desk while Beckett checks us in.
The lobby is cool and quiet, a soft hush after the wind and sun outside. A flat-screen TV mounted in the corner plays a muted business news segment.
I’m not paying much attention… until something on the ticker at the bottom catches my eye.
Midtown Investments…
More resignations expected?
Heightened scrutiny…
I squint, trying to catch the full sentence. My brain latches onto it before I can stop it.
“Here we are.” Beckett slips an envelope into my hand—our key cards. “You go up first. I’ve got a couple things to take care of.”
He pockets his own card and shifts slightly, stepping between me and the TV.
I glance up at him.
There’s nothing overt. Just… a flicker. A twitch of something he hides quickly.
“Take your time.” He glances over his shoulder. “I’ll see what I can do about getting reservations at that restaurant..”
The smile I offer him is automatic. “Sure.”
The woman behind the desk chimes in, “Elevators are to your right. You’re on the sixth floor.”
I thank her, though my focus stays on Beckett’s retreating back as he turns toward the business center.
Something in my chest gives the smallest twist. Because even when the lies stop, the habits take longer to die.
Still…
Tonight, I’m choosing to trust him.
Not forever. Not blindly.
Just… tonight.
When I step into the room, though, I still feel a little out of sorts.
The bed’s crisply made, the bathroom spotless. Everything familiar because it’s like every hotel room ever made. But we’ll only be here for a few hours.
It’s temporary.
I drop my bag on the bench and dig out the sari cover-up I’d packed as a backup. It’s deeply wrinkled after being stuffed in my bag all day, so I run a wet washcloth over it and hang it by the air vent, hoping that some of the creases will fall out before I have to leave for dinner.
And if they don’t? Who cares? If they don’t let us in, we can eat at one of the twenty other restaurants on the ship.
No big deal.
I’ve got bigger problems than my wardrobe.
With a shiver from the air conditioning, I peel off my swimsuit and let myself actually think about what Beckett said on the beach—that he’s losing his job.
And now, that headline.
He didn’t want me to see it.
I saw the flicker in his eyes. The way he stepped in front of the screen.
What doesn’t he want me to know?
I’m almost certain the catalyst for all this traces back to that horrible night—the one where I asked about his bonuses, and he just… disappeared.
But what happened exactly?
Maybe he made a bad investment.
Lost money.
Maybe not just for himself—but for clients.
And then I suddenly remember, right after Luna came back from the Grand Canyon, my mom mentioning something about her portfolio underperforming. She’d brushed it off, and Beckett promised he’d turn it around for her.
Honestly, for being married to a man who works in finance, I’m embarrassingly clueless about how any of it works. But there is always risk involved. I do know that.
And Beckett? He’d been chasing wins, chasing more, his entire career.
But now he’s losing his job.
So either Beckett’s in trouble—
Or Midtown is.
I grab my phone and enter “Midtown Investments.”
A shiny corporate page comes up. The Press tab won’t load.
I switch to the News tab.
Kyle Kemper, Midtown’s CFO, resigns for “personal reasons.”
Wait.
Kyle? Beckett and I met him and his wife at a party a little over a year ago.
He and Beckett were joking about golf scores or scotch—I don’t remember exactly. And then Kyle’s wife even suggested we grab dinner sometime.
We never followed up.
And now he’s resigning?
Right when Beckett says he’s getting fired?
That’s not a coincidence.
It can’t be. Is Midtown going under?
I go back to the company website and on a hunch, click on the banner to enter the client portal.
Instead of a prompt for account and password, it just says: “scheduled maintenance.” On a weekday afternoon?
What does that mean?
I lock my phone and stare at the screen reflection.
None of this is a coincidence.
And I feel a shift inside, like I’m changing gears.
If Beckett won’t tell me what’s going on, I’ll find out myself.
Still mulling it over, I turn the shower on and wait for it to go from freezing cold to something I can tolerate.
I’ve still got Luna’s bachelorette party to finalize, but I can spare a couple hours to get a crash course in Beckett’s world. As soon as we get back on the ship.
Because as much as I want to believe him, I need answers.
Standing under a stream of gloriously hot water, I picture his face again—the way he looked at me when he said he’d tell me more, the quiet desperation in his voice.
And, Oh God.
The weight of… everything, lands hard.
Whatever is going on, it didn’t start today. It’s been unraveling piece by piece, and I couldn’t see it.
I kept asking for answers—and when he wouldn’t give them, I just… turned away.
What is wrong with me?
I sit down hard in the tub, knees folding, hands shaking while the water beats down, masking the sound of me unraveling.
Maybe he’s telling the truth. Maybe there’s a version of this where he fixes it, where we fix us, where the boys never have to know how close we came to breaking.
And then the other voice: Don’t be stupid. You’ve hoped before.
I inhale. Exhale. The water drums on my shoulders.
Okay, but he looked wrecked. People don’t fake that.
People fake everything. You know that better than anyone.
Back and forth. Hope, fear. A metronome in my ribs.
I want to hope. I do. But I’m terrified of what one more disappointment will do to me.
“Enough,” I mutter, and push myself up.
When I’m standing again, I struggle opening the hotel shampoo bottle and then wash. Scrub too hard, force my brain to quiet under the noise of the water. When I’m all rinsed off and the heat starts to fade, I shut it off and wrap myself in a towel..
I can’t talk to Luna.
I can’t talk to my Mom.
I grab my phone from the vanity, drop onto the closed toilet, and scroll through my contacts until I find the only person who might just listen. Who is safe.
After a few rings, Tay picks up.
“Hey,” she says. I hear sounds of talking and music in the background.
“Is this a bad time?” I ask. Calling her is a mistake.
“No, not at all. We just finished the last round of tacos and I’m stepping out for some fresh air.” And then she pauses. “What’s up?”
I close my eyes and take a deep breath.
I promised Beckett that I wouldn’t say anything about his job.
But I need to… “A lot. And… I can’t talk to Luna about this.
Or my mom, really. I mean, I have friends at home, I used to even belong to a book club, but I haven’t had a chance to get close to anyone for a long time…
And since you’re the only one who knows the truth—”
“—and since I’m also your friend, you called me. Totally okay. Now take a breath. What’s going on?”
I take that breath she suggested, and then, “Beckett doesn’t want to split up.
He’s being… himself again. Almost. But I’m not sure.
And… God, Tay. I’m just… I’m really confused.
” It takes all my self-control not to burst into tears.
I hardly know this poor girl. She probably thinks I’ve gone off the deep end.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t bother you about this… ”
“Stop with that. So, he says he doesn’t want to split up. But you didn’t get to this point on a whim. You had reasons.”
“Yeah, I did. I do—have good reasons.”
Tay’s quiet for a few seconds. There’s less background noise now.
“Is he willing to face those reasons?”
Is he? Without breaking my promise, this part is tricky.
“He says… he says that the stuff going on is almost over. It’s not another woman.
” At first, a part of me suspected that could be the case.
But after today, after last night… Even looking back.
“He’s not cheating on me,” I say with conviction.
“So, what’s almost over?” Tay asks.
“I don’t know.” And I’m back here again. “He says he can’t tell me.”
“Ah…” A pause. “And you have no idea?”
I think back to that headline that made the national news, and a chill crawls down my spine.
“It has something to do with his work…” I don’t say anything else.
A beat. Then: “Okay.” No drama. Just: okay. “You don’t have to break his confidence for me. I’m not asking for details. I’m asking what you need.”
I stare at the grout line on the floor. What do I need?
“I need to not feel crazy,” I whisper. “I need to protect the boys. And I need a plan that isn’t just… ‘wait and hope.’”
“Okay. Good. That’s a great start. First, you’re allowed to feel off balance. Seriously. Anyone would be. Second, you love the boys. Beckett loves the boys. No matter what, you’ll make things right for them, and thirdly, ‘Wait and hope’ only has to be what you want it to be.”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you still love him?”
“I don’t know.” But… Of course I do.
“Then don’t end your marriage with a question mark.
The thing is, Ashley, this is your marriage—your family.
What will it cost you to wait? Give it a defined window—even if just for yourself.
You decide the terms; you decide the timeline.
And when you’re done, you’ll know. But you’ll know you did everything you could. ”
Something in my chest loosens a notch. “So I decide what I can do. I don’t walk away until I decide. Until I’m out of hope.”
“Exactly. Not passive waiting—structured waiting. Your rules.”
I let that settle, and then, something clicks. “Where did you learn this?”
She laughs softly. “Tour guides hear things. People take vacations to find clarity. I just repeat it back when they need it.” Then, lightly: “Hi, I’m perspective. Nice to meet you.”
“Well. Thank you… Miss Perspective,” I say, and my voice steadies. “Really.”
“Are you back on the ship, then?” Tay asks.
“My mom and the bus ladies took the boys back earlier, so Beckett and I are still here. At the resort.”
“Sounds romantic…”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“Are you really?”
I laugh—nervous, but not panicked.
Not like before.
We chat a few minutes longer—confirming our plan to meet in the morning—then hang up.
The bathroom’s the same—humid air, humming fan, that faint lemon-lavender scent still clinging to the steam. But me?
I feel different. I take a deep breath and then open Notes and type three lines:
Protect the boys (no heavy talks around them, no unexplained absences).
No right or wrong choice.
I decide.
Control doesn’t flood back all at once, but it’s moving in—like I’m finding the floor under my feet again.
The mirror’s clear now, and so am I—frayed around the edges, but… I’m okay.
I work lotion over my skin, stinging a little from too much sun, but I don’t flinch.
My decisions. My choice.
Still wrapped in a towel, I drag the brush through my hair, each stroke clearing more than tangles.
Then the familiar ritual: a sweep of mascara, a hint of gloss.
For a moment, I think I hear the door.
“Beckett?” I call out.
No answer. And when I step back into the room, it’s still empty.
But then, I see it.
Neatly laid out on the bed:
A flowing white dress, gauzy and romantic, the kind I’ve seen vendors selling along the resort path.
A note, propped up beside it.
“Reservation’s at 6:30. Meet me in the lobby.
Love, Bex.”