Chapter 3
RYAN
The storm continues through the night, and there’s a chance Poseidon’s fury might get unleashed on my cottage, so I don’t sleep a second.
Marshall, who’s generally okay through a storm, is equally unsettled, and alternates between pacing around my bed and whining at the door.
I never usually close it at night, but it felt like the right thing to do to give Sloane some extra privacy.
His whine gets louder.
“Okay, okay,” I say, sliding out of the bed. I’ll get him a treat, then hopefully he’ll settle.
Bleary-eyed, I pad to the kitchen and almost have a heart attack when I all but crash into Sloane, who yelps at our near-collision.
“I’m so sorry,” I say. I’m suddenly aware that I’m shirtless, which adds another layer to this awkward moment.
“I couldn’t sleep,” Sloane says.
“I don’t blame you,” I say over the faint sound of Sloane’s stomach rumbling, audible even through the din of the storm outside. She looks exhausted.
“Why don’t I make us a snack?” I offer. “Just, uh, let me put a shirt on.”
Marshall seems very happy at this turn of events. He follows me to my room, panting happily, then when we return to the kitchen, he sits right next to Sloane. I guess I’m in charge of snacks.
I open the fridge, now keenly aware that what’s on offer is embarrassingly…bachelor-esque. “Grilled cheese okay?” I ask. I at least had the wherewithal to pick up some fresh bread at the market yesterday, and there’s a hunk of decent aged cheddar.
“Sounds great,” Sloane says. “Can I help?”
I don’t need her help, but I appreciate the offer. “Want to slice that tomato?” I say. “Knives are on the block there.”
We start to prepare the sandwiches. Luckily, the sound of the storm is enough to prevent the silence between us from getting awkward. When I glance over at her, the tomato has been nicely sliced and now Marshall is in heaven with the pets he’s getting.
“You’ve found his favorite spot,” I say.
“He’s a real sweetheart,” she said. “I want a dog one day. Or a cat. Or one of each.”
“You’ve never had a pet?” I asked.
“We bought a condo that doesn’t allow pets,” she said. I wonder who that decision had belonged to.
I tip the grilled cheese onto two plates and carry them to the table.
“Thank you,” she says. “You’ve gone out of your way.”
It’s a small thing, but it strikes me that she’s acknowledging something as simple as a sandwich. With Calista, my ex, gratitude had always felt conditional, something offered when I got things right. Not because I’d made a sandwich.
True, Sloane does owe me some gratitude, I suppose. But the way she holds up her sandwich as though to cheers mine, it feels like this small moment is a celebration.
I cut my sandwich into fours, and pass a square to Marshall. “Sorry,” I say. “It’s a grilled cheese tradition around here.”
“Lucky guy.” She takes a small bite of her sandwich, chews, and swallows. “Yum,” she says.
I notice that for the second time, she glances at my phone charging on the counter as though she’s bracing for it to come to life.
“What time do you have to be up for work?” she asks. “And, what’s work for you?”
“This guy usually gets me up around seven,” I say, nodding to Marshall, who’s still worshiping at the throne of Sloane. “But hopefully he’ll let me sleep in a little. I work over at the Marine Research Center.”
“Cool,” she says, her expression brightening. “What do you do there?”
“Depends on the day,” I say. “I’m in charge of the local wildlife. Any injuries that wash up on shore, get tangled in nets, that kind of thing. Preventative stuff, like keeping any invasive species at bay.”
“That sounds really fun,” she says.
There’s something thick and unspoken in the air between us, a silent acknowledgment that I’d been performing my duties yesterday, too.
“How about you?” I ask. “What do you do for work?”
“I’m an actuary,” she says. “So, almost as much fun as rescuing dolphins.”
I have to laugh. “Not many dolphins around here,” I say.
“After my mother passed, I wanted to find a job I was certain would be stable, and financially lucrative. I’ve always been good at math.” She shrugs.
“And if stability and money hadn’t been a priority?”
Sloane chuckles lightly. “Isn’t that the dream?” She pauses for a moment. “I always loved drawing and painting. Art was my favorite subject in high school. I had a borderline obsession with the Impressionists.”
For the first time all night, she looks animated.
“And then math got the best of you.”
“Exactly,” she said.
“What about your…” I pause. Is he still a fiancé? Already an ex?
“Jack’s a medical doctor,” she said. She takes another small bite of her sandwich. “Dr. Fordham. The pride and joy of the Fordham family.” She smiles wryly and shakes her head. “Comes from a long line of doctors. Guess what our hypothetical child was going to do as a career?”
I raise an eyebrow, and I’m about to speak, but Sloane isn’t done.
“The wedding was just as prescribed. At least I got to pick my own dress. But everything else—the guest list. The location. The music. Even the cake flavor. Jack’s mother, Vivienne, liked to pretend to ask for my input, but I’m pretty sure the deposits were all put down the moment Jack asked her for this.
” She flashes her diamond ring at me, then slides it off her finger and sets it beside her plate.
The diamond catches the light from the stove and looks more like evidence than jewelry.
“Not to sound ungrateful, but it’s not what I would have chosen for myself either. ”
Yikes. I’m no therapist, but it seems like Sloane narrowly escaped a seriously controlling family. “That sounds pretty terrible,” I say.
Her expression softens. “It wasn’t all bad. Jack is actually a good man. But he’s no match for Vivienne. I tried pointing it out a few times, but I don’t even think he saw it.”
“Hard to, I guess, when it’s all you know.”
“I guess,” she says, then yawns. “Sorry.”
I’m aware that our plates have been empty for longer than usual for a midnight snack. “Seems like it’s dying down a bit outside,” I say. The downpour has lightened to a steady shower. “I hope you can get some sleep.”
“You too,” she says. “Thanks for the sandwich. The outside was the perfect amount of toasted.” She pauses. “It might be the best grilled cheese I’ve had in years.”
“That’s a sad commentary on your life.”
Sloane smiles. A real smile this time.
And then my phone lights up on the counter, but neither of us moves. Of course, whatever message has come through isn’t for her, but her smile vanishes instantly. A reminder of the outside world.
“Thanks again for everything. I’ll be out of your way tomorrow. Good night, Ryan,” she says, and I can barely wish her goodnight before she disappears back into her room, the lock clicking shut.
The smart thing would be to ignore the feeling that something had sparked between us there. But I’m fairly certain that ship has already sailed.
***
The Wild Rose Point Marine Research Center sits just inland from the beach, a weathered little building that somehow manages to house everything my team of four need to keep the place running.
I make my way along the gravel path, the early sun glinting off the ocean, and take in the familiar view: the outdoor kid-friendly exhibits, the sun-faded signage, the sound of the pumps running the big touch tanks just inside the front doors.
Inside, the place always smells faintly of salt water and fish food.
Floor-to-ceiling tanks line the walls, the touch pools burbling quietly.
In the back, we’ve got a modest lab, a quarantine and research rooms, and an outdoor enclosure where we keep the sea lions who’ve become entangled in fishing line, or the birds— cormorants, pelicans—recovering from oil or injuries. It’s not fancy, but it works.
This is where Annie, Oscar, Kathy, and I spend our days: rescuing stranded wildlife, rehabbing them, educating the steady flow of tourists about conservation.
We partner with the Oregon Department of Fish and Wildlife and Oregon State University, who send us interns during the school year.
I’m the field specialist. Annie’s the marine biologist. Oscar’s our wildlife vet, and Kathy, the coordinator, basically holds the whole place together.
Marshall, of course, is our unofficial mascot. On the days I’m working in the center and not out on the water, he comes with me and spends most of his time napping under my desk.
I toss my keys on my desk in the lab and flip open my laptop. A handful of new emails wait for me. Nothing thrilling—a newsletter from a scientific journal, a request for a reference letter from a winter-term intern applying for a PhD program.
Then one subject line catches my eye, and I groan.
Reminder: Calista & Matt Make it Official! Rehearsal Dinner Deets
My stomach sinks. As if going to the wedding of Calista Ferguson and Matt Hubert next weekend isn’t bad enough, I’ve been invited to the rehearsal dinner too. The intimate little warm-up event of the day I’ve been dreading for months.
I open the email, silently praying it’s a cancellation. Wedding over budget. Bride overwhelmed.
Yeah, right. Calista Ferguson is the most organized overachiever I’ve ever met.
She even broke up with me like an item on her to-do list, complete with a color-coded spreadsheet of our co-owned possessions, their approximate retail value, and a suggested timeline for selling the condo we shared up the coast. That should’ve been a red flag years earlier, but hindsight works just like that.
I can imagine the rehearsal dinner—some curated farm-to-table thing with matching linen napkins, personalized menus, live acoustic music, a slideshow of childhood photos on a projector screen. And the wedding itself? A whole other level of over-the-top.
And even though I dated Calista for three years—owned property with her, for goodness’ sake—I’m still expected to attend her wedding.
Because Matt Hubert is my jackass cousin and because the entire town of Wild Rose Point will be in attendance.
If I skipped it, it would be taken as proof I’m still hung up on her.
Or worse, that I’m the gloomy forever-single field biologist who can’t move on.
“Guarded,” she’d called me. “You’re always in your own head.”
Truth is, though I never told her this, I’d been considering ending things months before she dumped me between her 6:00 a.m. Peloton ride and her 7:30 smoothie from Sam’s. Check it off the list. Next task.
So now in six days I’ll have to pull up a chair at a table full of people sneaking glances at me to see how the ex is holding up. Alone.
I rub a hand over my face. This unexpected houseguest of mine is turning out to be a decent distraction, if nothing else.
When I left this morning, she was still asleep in the guest room. I left her a note on the table saying she could tuck the key under the burlap mat when she leaves, and here are a few coffee shops in town she and her friend might like to hit before heading back to Seattle.
The day flies by, with the rescue of a juvenile harbor seal, some intake notes in the lab, cleaning tanks, and coordinating with Annie about a school group coming next week. By the time I finish tidying the workbench and log my last notes, I’m ready to head home.
I leash Marshall, and we walk along the beach as usual. I unclip him so he can chase a piece of driftwood through the shallow waves, then call him back when we reach the path up to my cottage.
“Come on, buddy,” I say. “Let’s get you some dinner.”
He bolts ahead, the promise of kibble apparently more exciting than wildlife rehabilitation.
I follow him up the sandy path and blink.
There’s someone sitting on my porch. Someone in my T-shirt and sweatpants. Someone who should be long gone by now.
Sloane.
Maybe her ride is running late.
I raise a hand in greeting as I get closer. Her hair’s loose around her shoulders, her skin golden in the late-afternoon sun. She looks like every visitor who’s ever come to Wild Rose Point and taken a deep breath for the first time in months.
Except the moment she sees Marshall bounding up the stairs, and me behind him, her expression shifts. Trouble settles over her features again.
“Hey,” I say, stepping onto the porch. “Didn’t expect to see you here still.”
“Yeah.” She shifts awkwardly. “I’m sorry. I was planning on getting out of your way, I just—” She stops. And something in her face tells me the change of plans isn’t minor.
I hook Marshall’s leash over the railing and tap the sand off my shoes.
“You,” I say, “look like you could use a drink.”
She hesitates, then nods. “Sure. Thank you.”
I head inside, grab two beers from the fridge, and return to the porch. I open one and hand it to her before popping the cap off mine.
“So,” I say, lowering myself into the chair beside her. “Want to tell me what’s really going on?”