Chapter 19 #3
As the night deepens, Henry and Mimi have shifted closer toward each other.
Henry’s big hand rests on the arm of Mimi’s chair.
Not touching her. Not quite. But the space between his fingers and her leather jacket has narrowed to nothing accidental.
She leans toward him when she speaks, her wild dark curls catching firelight, and he listens the way men listen when they’ve stopped pretending they’re not invested.
I find Shea by the dessert table, rearranging pies that don’t need rearranging.
“Hey,” I say. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.” She doesn’t look up. “If it’s about the hand pies, Wren made them. I had nothing to do with the structural integrity issues.”
“Not the pies.” I nod toward Henry and Mimi. “Them. How long has that been going on?”
Shea follows my gaze. Her forehead creases. “What do you mean?”
“Henry and Mimi. How they’re sitting. How he looks at her.”
She stares. Actually stares, like I’ve asked her to translate something from a language she doesn’t speak. “My dad and Mimi?”
I stare back. She can’t possibly be that blind, but she looks so shocked at the idea, I backpedal. “Never mind. I was just—it’s nothing.”
Shea gives me a long look, then shakes her head. “Mimi helped with us after Mom died. She and Dad have always been close.”
“Right,” I say. “Of course.”
But Shea is still looking at them now, and I can see the gears turning behind her eyes. She’s seeing it for the first time because I pointed it out, and I feel a stab of guilt. Some things are better left unseen until they’re ready to be seen.
I spot Malcolm coming my way and excuse myself.
Yes, I’m aware it’s full cowardice now. No maybe about it.
Dean finds me by the driftwood log where Zade had been. Zade is gone —back to whatever dark corner of the island he prefers.
“You can’t avoid him forever, Hollywood.”
“I know. Just for tonight. I’m having too much fun tonight to deal with him.”
He holds out a hand. “Walk with me.”
I look at him. The fire lights one side of his face, gold and shadow, the scar through his eyebrow a pale line. His eyes are gray-blue and steady, and they see more than I want them to.
I take his hand, and we walk south, away from the bonfire, along the tide line where the beach goes from sand to rock. The sound of the crowd fades. The fire becomes an orange smudge behind us. The water murmurs against the shore, black and endless, carrying the reflected points of harbor lights.
Dean stops where the beach curves toward the marina. The dock lights strung along the harbor make a necklace of gold against the dark.
He takes me by the shoulders and makes me face him. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“You’re lying.” Lines appeared between his brows. “Do you regret last night?”
Is that what he thought? “Oh, Dean, no. Of course not.”
“Then what? I know I’m not…” He trails off and takes a breath and looks more vulnerable than I’ve ever seen him. “I’m not the easiest to talk to, but I want you to know you can. Talk to me.”
“My scan came back clear today,” I blurt.
Dean goes still.
“Scan,” he repeats and doesn’t quite hide the horror that crosses his face before he locks it down. “You had cancer.”
“Breast cancer. Stage two. I had a double mastectomy and reconstruction eighteen months ago.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. The wind off the water lifts his hair, and he lets it.
“The clip,” he says finally. “The meltdown. That was—”
“I had found out literally minutes before, and when my coffee order got screwed up, all of the anger and fear just poured out of me onto that poor barista.” I dig the toe of my boat into the wet sand.
“They fired me the next day. After I got through the recovery, I traveled a lot and became an unintentional influencer. That’s how Malcolm found me, and I took the job because I didn’t have other options, and I was too proud to admit that. ”
I inhale to prepare for the next part, exhale it in a rush.
“A week before I was scheduled to come here, I went for a follow-up, and they saw something they thought was concerning. They did all the scans and tests, and I couldn’t stand the thought of waiting around my apartment for the results, so I came here early. ”
The water sighs against the shore. Somewhere behind us, the bonfire crowd laughs at something, the sound carrying thin across the sand.
“They sent my results right before I left for the bonfire. Clear.” I laugh, the relief finally sinking in. “Cancer free.”
“Thank you,” he says finally.
“For what?”
“For telling me.” He takes my hand again. His fingers lace through mine, firm, certain. “That’s a hell of a thing to carry alone.”
“It was. It is.” My voice cracks.
He rubs my shoulders. “You don’t have to carry anything alone anymore.”
I press my forehead against his chest and let the tears come.
Not the pretty ones. The ugly, sniffling, mascara-ruining kind that I’ve spent a career hiding from cameras.
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pat my back or tell me it’s okay or try to fix it with words.
He just stands there, solid as the dock behind him, and lets me fall apart against his chest.
When I pull myself back together, he wipes my tears with his knuckles. “Do you want to go back to the fire?”
I look back at the bonfire, where Malcolm is no doubt still searching for me. Then I look ahead to the marina. “I’d rather go back to your boat.”