Chapter 18
Noah
I didn’t sleep a wink last night and I took off at dawn.
I had to get out of Rika's house. I had to put some distance between us, and the basement apartment wasn't nearly far enough.
I'll still honor my promise to care for Matthew and Zoe until the end of the school year. There's no way I'll betray those kids.
But I know that each day will be torture.
Which is why I'm standing in the garage of Gramps' house, cleaning up decades of accumulated stuff. It's a job I've been putting off for years. Somehow, this morning seems like a fitting day to start.
Taking out the trash. Making way for a fresh start. With or without a broken heart.
The fishing lures gleam dully in the dusty shaft of morning light, their painted surfaces faded but still recognizable.
I look at them, as familiar to me as the countless days I spent with Gramps on the water.
The red and white striped one, the battered green fake fish one that Gramps swore could catch anything if you knew how to work it.
He was the only one who knew how to work it. I never managed to catch a single fish with it.
I hold the tackle box in my hands, feeling its familiar weight, and wonder when exactly I became the kind of person who stands alone in a garage on a Saturday morning, sorting through a dead man's possessions to avoid thinking about the woman who broke his heart.
The answer, of course, is last night.
I set the heavy box down on the workbench. The sound echoes in the empty garage, swallowed almost immediately by decades of accumulated silence.
I've been here since before sunrise, throwing myself into the work of sorting and packing because if I stop moving, if I let myself be still for even a moment, I'll have to feel the full weight of what happened. Of what I said. Of what Rika didn't say.
I'm in love with you.
The words hang in my memory like a noose I willingly put around my own neck.
And Rika's response: I'm sorry.
I scrub a hand over my face and rub my eyes, scratchy with dust and exhaustion. I'm running on nothing but coffee, and my stomach growls in protest. I ignore it.
The garage smells like motor oil and sawdust and time.
It has that particular scent of a space that's been closed up too long, where memories gather like dust on every surface.
Gramps' tools still hang on the pegboard in neat rows, organized with the precision of a man who believed everything had its place.
I wonder what he'd think of me now. Standing here at thirty-three, selling the house he left me because I failed at the one thing he always told me mattered most: to create my own family.
My phone buzzes on the workbench.
I stare at it for a long moment, my heart doing that stupid, painful lurch it's been doing all morning. Half of me is hoping it's Rika; half of me is terrified it might be.
It's not.
The screen lights up with an incoming video call: Sharnia Jarvis.
For a second, I consider letting it go to voicemail. I'm not sure I can manage the cheerful small talk, the performance of being fine when I feel like I'm held together with duct tape and spite.
But Sharnia helped me get the job offer at Drakesmere. The least I can do is answer.
I swipe to accept, and Sharnia's warm, familiar face fills the screen.
"Noah!" Her smile is bright and genuine, her purple scales catching the light.
Behind her, I can see floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, modern furniture, the Singapore skyline stretching to the gleaming ocean.
It's beautiful. It's fitting. "There you are! We've been trying to reach you."
I force a smile that I know doesn't reach my eyes. "Hey, Sharnia. Sorry, I've been…" I gesture vaguely at the cluttered garage around me. "Busy."
Her expression shifts, concern flickering across her features. But before she can respond, there's a commotion behind her.
"Is that Noah?!" Reginald's voice booms, and suddenly three dragon faces are crowding into frame.
"Noah!" Amethyst shrieks, pressing her purple-scaled face so close to the camera I can count her scales. "We miss you so much!"
Raelia appears beside her sister, quieter but no less excited, holding up a piece of paper covered in crayon drawings. "I made you this! Mom's going to mail it, but I wanted to show you first."
My throat tightens. These kids. God, I love these kids.
"That's beautiful, Raelia," I manage, and my voice only cracks a little. "I can't wait to get it."
Reginald leans in, all teenage swagger. "Dude, when are you coming to visit? My new tutor is terrible. He doesn't even let me listen to music during homework."
"The horror," I say dryly, and he grins.
For a few minutes, I let them chatter at me about their new school, their friends, the food court near their apartment building that Derryn swears is better than anything in the US. They're settled in. They're happy.
And I realize, with a sinking feeling that settles like lead in my stomach, that they've moved on.
Not in a cruel way. Just in the natural, inevitable way that families do. Their lives are full and busy, and I was always just one piece of it. An important piece, maybe, but ultimately replaceable. Because I was never truly a part of their family. I was always just hanging around the edges.
The thought should hurt more than it does. Instead, it just feels hollow.
Sharnia finally shoos the kids away with promises that they'll talk to me again soon. The background noise fades. She leans closer to the camera, her blue eyes sharp.
"So," she says gently. "Are you excited about Drakesmere?"
I open my mouth to deflect, to offer some cheerful platitude about being great, but the words stick in my throat.
"I'll start in the fall." The words come out steady, but it feels like I'm slicing pieces of my flesh as I speak.
"The program is incredible, Sharnia. Extensive literature curriculum, advanced placement tracks, a real community of educators who care about the work. It's everything I've ever wanted."
I hear myself selling it, listing the benefits like I'm trying to convince someone.
Maybe I am. Maybe I'm trying to convince myself.
"I'm taking the weekend to think it over," I continue, "but I'm ready. I'll call Headmistress Varrin on Monday."
There's a pause. Sharnia tilts her head, studying me through the screen.
"That's wonderful, Noah," she says slowly. "But are you okay? There's something bothering you, I can tell."
The question catches me off guard. I look away from the camera, down at the dusty workbench, at Gramps' tools hanging in their perfect rows.
"I will be," I say quietly. "Once I move on. It's just hard letting go of this place."
It's not a lie. Not exactly. It is hard letting go of Saltford Bay, of Gramps' house. Of a life with Rika and the kids I was stupid enough to believe in.
"The position is everything I could want," I add, injecting enthusiasm I don't feel into my voice. "Big city, great school, challenging work. It's a fresh start."
Sharnia doesn't look convinced. Her gaze is too perceptive, too maternal.
"If you're sure," she says carefully.
"I'm sure," I tell her, and the words taste like ash.
The sound of tires on gravel saves me from whatever she might say next. I glance toward the garage door.
A gleaming white Mercedes is pulling into the driveway, absurdly pristine against the cracked pavement.
"I have to go," I tell Sharnia. "The real estate agent just got here."
We say our goodbyes. The call ends.
Outside, a car door slams.
I take a breath, pocket my phone, and step out into the sunlight to greet Missy Hornblood, Saltford Bay's most successful real estate agent.
Missy Hornblood is polished perfection incarnate as she emerges from the white Mercedes like she's stepping onto a red carpet.
Tailored cream blazer, pencil skirt, designer heels that click on the cracked driveway as she walks toward me with a smile that belongs on a billboard.
Her minotaur horns are adorned with delicate gold rings that catch the light, her sleek brown fur groomed to glossy perfection.
"Noah Mercer?" She extends a manicured hand, her smile practiced but warm. "Missy Hornblood, Hornblood Realty. Pleasure to meet you."
Her handshake is firm, confident.
"Thanks for coming on short notice," I say.
"Not at all. A good real estate agent is always available for her clients." She's already surveying the house with an appraising eye, nodding thoughtfully. "This neighborhood is highly desirable, as you well know. With some staging and minor cosmetic updates, this will move fast."
Her smile is bright and her words should be reassuring. Instead, they feel like a countdown timer I've just started.
I lead her through the house. She takes notes on a tablet as we move from room to room, murmuring observations in a brisk, efficient tone. In the backyard, she pauses by the old oak tree. The rope swing Gramps hung still sways gently in the breeze, the wood worn smooth by decades of small hands.
"This is lovely," Missy says, genuine warmth entering her voice. "Very nostalgic. Buyers with young families will eat this up."
I stare at the swing, and suddenly I'm seven years old again. Gramps is pushing me, his deep laugh rumbling through the summer air, his big hands steady and sure on my back.
Higher, Gramps! Higher!
You got it, kiddo. Hold on tight.
My chest tightens so hard I have to look away.
"Let's head back inside," I say, my voice just a tad hoarse.
Back in the kitchen, Missy settles at the old table, pulling out contracts and staging recommendations. She's speaking, but I'm not really listening. I just nod and grunt whenever she looks up at me from the paperwork.
"So tell me about the property," Missy says, pen poised over her tablet. "How long have you owned it?"
"Since my grandfather passed," I say, leaning against the counter. "About four years ago."
"I'm sorry for your loss."
"Thanks." I push the grief down, lock it away with everything else I'm not letting myself feel right now. "I grew up here. Gramps raised me after my parents died. I always thought I'd come back someday. Settle down. Raise a family here."
Missy lifts her gaze from her paperwork for a moment, then returns her attention to her work. "And now?"
"Now I'm ready to move forward." I straighten, injecting firmness into my voice. "I have a job offer in New York. I'm taking it."
"New York?" She looks impressed. "Wonderful city."
She picks up her pen again, all business. "Well, congratulations, Mr. Mercer."
"I won't be moving until the end of the school year," I tell her. "I have a commitment to finish here first."
"Understood. That gives us plenty of time to stage and market properly. I'll start immediately. With the right pricing and presentation, I can have buyers lining up within a week."
"That fast?" My stomach twists.
"Absolutely. This market is hot, and your property has charm and character. Trust me, Mr. Mercer, this house will sell." She slides the contract across the table. "Sign here, and we'll get started."
I stare at the dotted line.
This is it.
Gramps' house will belong to someone else. Some family with kids who'll swing on that rope and chase fireflies in the backyard and make their own memories in these rooms.
And I'll be gone. New York. Drakesmere. A fresh start in a city where no one knows me.
If Rika doesn't want me, there's no reason to stay.
I pick up the pen. The scratch of ink on paper is loud in the quiet kitchen.
Missy beams, pleased. "Excellent. I'll be in touch early next week with staging recommendations and showing schedules. In the meantime, I'd suggest starting to clear out personal items. The more neutral we can make the space, the easier it is for buyers to envision themselves here."
She gathers her things, shakes my hand again with that same confident grip, and leaves in a swirl of expensive perfume and clicking heels.
The Mercedes pulls out of the driveway with a purr.
I stand alone in the kitchen, the signed contract on the table, the late morning sun slanting through the window and illuminating dust motes floating in the still air.
The ache in my chest is physical, sharp and relentless.
I love Rika.
I'm in love with her in a way that feels permanent, like it's written into my bones, into the very structure of who I am.
But she doesn't feel the same. Or she does, and she's too scared to admit it, which somehow hurts worse.
Either way, the outcome is the same: it's over.
I repeat it to myself like a mantra, like if I say it enough times it will stop feeling like my chest is being crushed.
I'll be fine. I'll be fine. I'll move to New York; I'll teach at Drakesmere; I'll build a new life.
It doesn't feel true.
But it's all I have.