9
Dyla n
Now
“We don’t have to go. I can cancel.” Aaron’s voice is careful, like he’s trying not to spook me.
I shake my head a little too quickly. “No—don’t. We go home tomorrow. Let’s have a nice evening.”
“Home?” He latches onto the word like a splinter under his skin. “Does that mean you’re finally going to move in?” The question lands like a misplaced step on an uneven sidewalk.
“Aaron.” His name leaves my lips, empty of the reassurance I wish it held. “We’ve talked about this. I’m not ready to live together. I just mean we’re going back to New York.”
“I know.” He cuts himself off, his gaze dropping as if he’s not sure he wants to say the rest. “Every night, I reach for you, and you’re not there. Every morning, I wake up, and the apartment feels too damn empty. Sometimes I wish—”
The low hum of an approaching engine drowns out whatever Aaron was about to say, and I pretend not to notice his unfinished thought. The valet attendant barely has time to shift into park before I slip into the passenger seat.
“You’re really dodging this conversation, huh?”
“No.” The word comes out too defensive. I rein it in, smoothing my expression. “You wish what?”
I really, really don’t want to hear this. I was hoping I could avoid it, that maybe he wouldn’t continue the conversation and let me off easy. I…should have known better. But here we are, and I’m doing everything I can to keep my face neutral even though my stomach flutters like a trapped bird.
Aaron exhales sharply, rubbing his palm over his jaw like he’s debating whether to say it at all. “I just wish we could be more committed, you know?”
I chew on my lip, my mind racing to find a response that won’t make things worse. “I get that, but moving in isn’t something I’m ready for yet. It doesn’t mean I’m not committed—I just…need more time.”
A lump rises in my throat. I care about him—I do. But caring doesn’t erase the way I keep parts of myself locked away. I wish I could explain it, the way it feels like I’m caught between wanting more and fearing what ‘more’ really means.
“Do you think maybe I’m just…broken?” The words feel serrated as they leave my mouth. Aaron’s fingers flex against the wheel, his knuckles paling as his head jerks slightly in my direction.
“What? No. I mean…what are you even talking about?”
I rub my hands over my thighs, trying to dispel the restless energy. “I don’t know. I just—sometimes I feel like I’m too broken to be anyone’s…anything.”
The car rolls to a stop, the faint thrum of the engine fading. Aaron doesn’t get out right away. He just sits there, drumming his fingers against his knee, like he’s trying to find the right thing to say.
“I don’t think you’re broken, Dylan.” The streetlights outside cast a faint glow across his face, softening the lines of his features. “I’m not asking you to be perfect. I just want you. You get that don’t you?”
I swallow, my fingers knotting in my lap. “I do.”
“That’s all I want. I don’t want to ruin this time with you. Let’s just enjoy tonight, and when we’re back home, we can talk—if you’re ready.”
I force a smile. I want to argue. I want to tell him that it’s not that simple, that I am broken, but something in the way he says it makes me pause. Makes me reconsider.
I’m still trying to figure out if I’ll ever be ready to let him see the parts of me I’ve hidden away. The thought of going back to New York feels like a countdown, a ticking clock that will eventually hit zero. And when it does, I know the pressure will either break our fragile connection, or strengthen it. Maybe a trip to Rockport is what I need—to finally close the door on old wounds, to take the chance I’ve been avoiding and open up to Aaron.
I reach across the center console and trace the back of his hand with my thumb, a quiet attempt at connection. He doesn’t let go. Instead, he laces our fingers together, squeezing once gently.
“You know what I see?” he muses.
I shake my head, my lips parting to ask, but he beats me to it.
“Lobster rolls. In our very near future. Maybe some fries. Definitely extra butter.”
A small laughter escapes me, barely there, but enough. I don’t know how much longer I can hold onto this fragile illusion of normalcy, but for now, I’ll let myself pretend. I’m good at that.
Less than a week back in New York, and already, the city feels as though it’s pressing in on me from every angle. I’ve managed to steer clear of nearly every conversation Aaron tries to have about commitment. I feel out of place in my own life. Maine cracked something open inside me, something I can’t seem to shove back down, no matter how hard I try. Leaving Rockport’s unfinished business behind was supposed to bring relief, but all it’s done since seeing Brooks is fester.
He texted once. I stared at the message, reread it more times than I’d admit, but never typed a response. I didn’t know what to say. Or maybe I wasn’t ready to let the past claw its way back in. But in the end, I’ve chosen to go to the reunion—not for anyone else. Just for me. For closure. Because running hasn’t erased anything, so maybe facing it will.
Now, I stand at the gate, my boarding pass almost a foreign object in my hand, like it belongs to someone else. The reality of the trip is starting to sink in, too fast. Anxiety swirls in my stomach, and I look up at Aaron, his face set in concern. He’s waiting for me to say something, to reassure him, but I don’t know how.
“You’re sure you want to do this?”
A pang of doubt prickles at the edge of my thoughts, but I force myself to stand firm. “I need to.” The truth is, I’ve been avoiding the past for too long, and if I ever want to feel whole again, I need to face it. If I don’t, I won’t be able to move forward with anyone.
“If you want, I could come with you?”
I’m sure he already senses my reluctance, but he still needs the words to come from me. I’m not going to have anyone to lean on this time. Beckett can’t come with me. So, I’m going to have to face this reunion alone. “No. I’ll be okay,” I tell him. And even though deep down it doesn’t feel true, I add, “You’ve got your own things to worry about.” I offer him a quick, almost imperceptible smile, hoping it doesn’t appear as weak as it feels.
“I could rearrange things, take off a couple more days from the gallery.”
Aaron’s gallery is more than just a business to him; it’s a reflection of his dedication. I’ve watched him pour everything into it—late nights, early mornings. Our first encounter wasn’t anything extraordinary, just a few chance run-ins on the street. The city seemed to conspire to bring us together. Then one night, he asked me to grab a drink, and somehow, without either of us planning it, we’ve barely been apart since.
“You’d really blow off work for something as silly as my high school reunion?”
“For you? Yes. Absolutely.” He beams, his eyes gentle and I can tell he means it.
“That’s sweet of you, but really…I’ll manage. You don’t need to.”
Aaron’s breath hitches, and for a moment, he stands motionless, as though he’s collecting his thoughts. His fingers graze the back of my neck, tracing the line of my spine before they anchor around me, pulling me close. “Just promise me you’ll let me know when you get there,” he murmurs, a quiet insistence underlining his words.
“I promise.”
I hope he understands I’m doing this for us too—a way to clear out everything that remains trapped between the past and my future. He presses a soft kiss to the top of my head, and I squeeze his hand a little tighter before pulling away and heading down the boarding ramp.
Once the seatbelt is secured, I settle back, feeling the slight jolt of the plane rolling to the runway. I tap Beckett’s name, the call connecting before the first ring is even done. His voicemail picks up, over the top and silly as always. I let the sound of it wash over me, his voice a brief escape from the white noise of the flight.
“Hey, KitKat, it’s me. I’m en route back to Rockport. I don’t know why I’m going back. I honestly might be spiraling a little bit, and I could really use someone to talk to right now. I–I’m nervous, Beckett. I miss you. And you know, this would be a hell of a lot easier if you were here with me. Anyway, the plane’s about to take off, so I’ll have to cut this short. I love you. Bye.”
I hang up the phone, but the sting of emotion is still there, creeping up my throat. Facing the window, I try to focus on the horizon, searching for anything to convince me this trip won’t end in disaster.
“Can I get you a drink, or a snack, ma’am?” the flight attendant asks with a tilt of her head.
“I know it’s a lot to ask, but is there any chance you could make a margarita up here?”
She arches an eyebrow, amused. “On the plane? Not impossible, but we’ll have to improvise.”
“Improvise away, and keep ‘em coming. I’m all for a challenge right now.”
She gives a quick, understanding glance, then heads off to prepare my drink. When the plane descends into Portland six hours later, I’m five margaritas in, and a serene numbness wraps around me like a blanket.
“You look a little queasy, miss,” the cabbie remarks as I step out of the terminal.
“I’m fine,” I counter, bracing myself against the cab. The tequila might be behind the dizziness, but the thought of Rockport, and all that comes with it, is what’s really making my stomach flip.
He eyes me closely, pausing a moment. “You sure? You’re not about to hurl on my seats, are you?”
“I’m sure. Let’s just get in the car. Please.”
The driver hefts my bag into the trunk with a grunt, then closes it with a soft thud. “So, where are we headed?”
I press my forehead to the cool glass of the window, the faint remnants of the plane’s buzz swirling in my head. “A hotel in Rockport. The Drift.”
He glances at me in the rearview, his nostrils flaring slightly, lips pinched in disapproval. “The coast? I don’t know, that’s pretty far, miss.”
I pull a wad of cash from my pocket and count out enough to cover the inconvenience, handling it over with a small nod. His eyes flick to the money, and his expression softens. He doesn’t argue. “Alright, The Drift. Sure thing,” he mutters, lifting a brow with a hint of a grin. “Give me a shout if you need me to pull over.”
The drive drags on for over an hour, but time refuses to move, stretching unbearably slow. With each turn of the wheel, the town I fled from pulls me back, and my resolve crumbles as we draw near.
The moment the sign marking the edge of town comes into view, a cold rush of panic floods through me. My hands tremble as I clutch the seat, heart hammering a million miles an hour against my chest. I blink rapidly, as if I can undo the decision to come back, but the landscape outside is undeniable.
We come to a stop, and I can’t tear my eyes away from The Drift. It’s been given new life, sure, but the structure—those towering arched windows, those massive double doors with their worn brass handles—it’s unmistakable. I’m looking at the church.
I think of this place as the first true escape I ever found. Back when everything felt uncertain, it was here, with a paintbrush in hand, that I finally began to breathe again. Brooks brought me here because he understood—this church, now a hotel, was where I could confront the emotion I didn’t have words for. The stillness of the place, the way the light filtered through the stained glass—it was my sanctuary.
“You good, miss?” The driver’s voice interrupts my staring, his tone a little cautious. “Still feeling off?”
I force my gaze away from the building, my stomach turning in uneasy waves. “Just carsick, nothing serious,” I reply, but my voice wavers, betraying the lie.
“Take your time,” he offers, gesturing toward the entrance. But I don’t want time—I want to turn back. The doors seem to beckon, and yet all I want to do is run.
The buzz of the alcohol might be clouding my mind, but the lobby takes my breath away. Every inch of the space is carefully curated. I pause to admire the intricate details, my eyes landing on a mural on the far wall. It’s a large-scale portrait of a young girl, her face obscured by a tangle of black hair, but the butterflies woven into her curls are unmistakable. And the way she’s sitting on the beach, toes in the water, is an image I remember all too well.
I painted it years ago. A sharp pang shoots through me, my body tensing involuntarily.
“Dylan? Dylan Rivers!”
The voice, so familiar, takes me by surprise. I turn and find Ruby Miller, the owner of the local diner and my former boss, rushing toward me. Her eyes are bright, and the curve of her lips mirror a memory I’ve held onto for years.
“Oh! It’s really you!” Her arms envelop me, and for a moment, it feels like the last ten years melt away .
“Let me look at you, sunshine.” She holds me at arm’s length, her eyes scanning my face. “Gosh, this is just the best surprise! I had no idea you were coming to town. Oh, we must catch up, dear.”
“I’d really love that,” I reply, my voice cracking slightly. Ruby was one of the very few people who didn’t flinch when I walked into her life, baggage and all. She took a chance on me my senior year, offering me a job. Her faith in me was something I didn’t recognize as a gift until the moment I walked away.
The diner belongs to another lifetime now, and the thought of returning knots my insides. I’m sure Ruby’s hasn’t changed, but I have—and I’m not ready to face the version of myself I left there.
Ruby’s eyes soften as she appraises me. “You look fantastic, honey,” she says, her voice full of an affection I hadn’t realized I’d missed. “Have you run into Brooks yet? He’s bound to be around here somewhere. I’m going to give him an earful for keeping you a secret from me.”
“Wait—what?” I whisper, caught off guard. “He’s here? Why would he here?”
I hadn’t planned on telling him I was in town just yet. I was hoping to ease into it, maybe even at the reunion.
Ruby, completely unfazed, continues, “You don’t know?”
“Know…what?”
“Well, Brooks owns The Drift, sweetie. His father helped him renovate the old church a few years ago. I figured you knew—since you’re staying here, of all places.”
My brain misfires, like a skipped frame in an old film reel. Brooks owns this hotel? My mind flails, trying to process. I didn’t even handle the reservation—I let Aaron take care of it.
“Oh,” I exhale. “No, I haven’t seen him. But I, uh, should just check in and head to my room. Get settled.” I say it too fast, like I’m trying to outrun my own thoughts. “It was good to see you, Ruby, truly,” I add, but I can’t quite look her in the eyes.
“Take care, sweetheart. Enjoy the rest of your night, and don’t be shy—come visit whenever you can.”
Her hand rests briefly on my sleeve, the touch light. She steps back, watching me go with an expression all too perceptive, she knows there’s more I’m not saying.
I sweep my eyes across the lobby, and everything seems different. The exposed beams, the stained-glass windows overlooking the ocean—it’s all so familiar, yet undeniably altered. Sleek, refined, nothing like the crumbling, forgotten place I once escaped to. A decade has passed, but standing here, it feels like nothing’s changed.
He actually bought the church.
Am I really ready to stay here?
I’m not sure how long I stand at the front desk, the check-in slipping by unnoticed as my mind drifts in a fog. When I finally move, the hallway feels like it’s closing in around me. The photographs on the wall are hard to ignore, their presence suffocating in their quiet grandeur. They document the church’s revival, each frame unmistakably displaying Brooks’ work.
One shows the church in its dilapidated state—peeling wallpaper and windows long shattered. Another holds the forgotten pews, stacked like disused relics, the same image that’s burned into my mind. My fingers brush the edges of each frame. I’ve been in town less than an hour, and already, everything I thought I outran is waiting for me.
The Drift is small, only big enough for a handful of rooms, but the view from mine is something out of a dream—glass walls stretching from floor to ceiling, framing the ocean as if it were painted just for me. I set my bags down with a delicate thud, barely registering my movements before I step onto the patio. The sky blushes with shades of pink and purple, casting a delicate haze over the water. For a heartbeat’s length, the world feels calm—as though time has paused, leaving me in this space where, just for now, I’m allowed to feel okay.
Almost.
The mural of the girl on the beach seems to call to me, and the memory of the day I painted her follows, creeping in softly, as if she’s been waiting for me to return.