EPILOGUE
JUDAH
“I can’t believe you sold the boat.”
Mabie’s voice reaches me before she does, which is standard. My sister has never announced her presence with anything as mundane as a knock.
I tape shut the first cardboard box in a stack I’ve been wrestling with for the past ten minutes. It’s easy to forget how heavy books are until you have to carry a few dozen of them at a time.
Then I straighten up just as she appears in the doorway of my bedroom.
“The boat is leased,” I correct her. “Not sold.”
“Same difference.”
“It’s actually a very significant legal difference.”
She waves a hand dismissively, already crossing to the window seat where I’ve stacked the boxes meant for storage.
Her dark hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, and she’s wearing one of my old flannels over what looks like a bathing suit top.
The yacht company orientation starts in three days.
She’s been practically vibrating with nervous energy since she got the confirmation email.
I grab another roll of packing tape from the floor and start assembling a new box. “It’s only for a year. After that, we’ll see how it goes.”
“Sounds like it might go forever.”
I pause, tape dispenser in hand, and meet her gaze.
Mabie’s expression is carefully neutral, but I can still read the mix of emotions swimming behind her eyes. Hope. Worry. The particular brand of sisterly concern that comes from watching your brother pine for a decade.
“I guess we’ll have to see,” I admit quietly.
She nods slowly, accepting that non-answer for what it is. Then she ruins the moment by dragging what appears to be a suitcase the size of a small refrigerator through the doorway.
“I need help.”
I stare at the monstrosity. “With what? Smuggling a body through customs?”
“With closing this goddamn suitcase.” She drops onto the bed beside it, slightly out of breath. “I sat on it for twenty minutes. The zipper’s stuck.”
I set down the tape and approach the luggage situation with the wariness it deserves. The suitcase is bulging at every seam, fabric straining against the frame like it’s moments away from explosive decompression.
“How much did you pack?”
“Everything I might need.”
“For a yacht contract? They provide uniforms. And bedding. And meals.”
“What if I get cold? What if there’s a formal event? What if I meet someone important and need options for date night?” She gestures imperially at the straining zipper, a queen demanding service from her underling. “Just help me sit on it.”
With a sigh, I move to help her.
We both press down with our full weight and the suitcase creaks ominously.
“On three,” she says. “One, two—”
We bounce. The fabric groans. Something inside makes a sound that might be a shoe box collapsing.
“Harder,” Mabie commands.
“I’m trying—“
“Really put your back into it—”
The zipper gives way with a sound like surrender, teeth finally meshing together in one long, triumphant zip. We both freeze, still perched on the overstuffed luggage, waiting for it to explode.
It doesn’t.
“Ha!” Mabie punches the air triumphantly. “Told you it would work.”
“You told me nothing. You just demanded I participate in almost destroying your luggage.”
She grins at me, and for a moment she looks exactly like she did at fifteen—all enthusiasm and determination, ready to take on the world with nothing but stubbornness and a questionable amount of optimism.
Then her expression softens.
She slides off the suitcase and turns to survey the room.
Most of the shelves are empty now. The books I’m keeping are boxed.
The ones I’m not have already been donated.
The closet door stands open, revealing a fraction of the clothes that used to fill it—just the essentials, the things I’ll need when I visit, the things worth shipping cross-country to a city I’ve never lived in.
“It’s weird seeing it all empty like this,” Mabie says quietly.
“Not empty yet.” I gesture at the remaining boxes, the stripped bed, the desk I still need to disassemble. “Still got plenty to pack.”
“You know what I mean.”
I do know what she means. We’ve spent our entire lives here, in this house and this town.
Now we’re leaving.
And maybe it’s not forever.
But maybe…it is.
“I noticed Dom didn’t come back to help,” Mabie comments, and there’s a hint of teasing in her voice that tells me she already knows the answer. “How’s he doing?”
I let out a grunt of patient annoyance and gesture at the chaos surrounding us. “Well enough that he refused to come back from Los Angeles to help me pack up the house. Said the only thing that might get him back in town is a funeral.”
She almost chokes on a laugh. “Sounds like him.”
“Absolutely useless? I agree.”
Mabie bites her lip, nudging a box with her toe. “You don’t actually have to do any of this right now either, you know. I’ll empty the fridge and turn off the water main. Everything else will be right where you left it when you want to come back.”
I pause in the middle of taping another box shut.
The logical thing would be to leave everything in place. Not throw everything I have into a pack that only just formed and move across the country. I can just lock the door, hand over the keys to our caretaker, and walk away knowing this place will stay frozen in time.
Which is exactly why I can’t do it.
Because if I’m not all in, then I’m not really in at all.
I abruptly pull her into a tight hug, resting my chin on top of her head.
My sister is so small, I have to remind myself that she’s a grown woman.
When I finally lean back enough to look at her, Mabie’s eyes have gone bright and shiny though I know she would never actually let me see her cry, not if she can help it.
“I’m proud of you,” she whispers.
“For packing boxes?”
“For finally going after what you want.” She pulls back, swiping at her eyes with the heel of her hand. “All of this sentimentality is gross, by the way. I’m going to go finish packing before I have to redo my mascara.”
With a laugh, I give her one last quick hug before she scampers away.
Then I pick up another box and get back to work.
I have other places to be.
DOMINIC
The bar at Atticus’s house is better stocked than any I’ve ever seen before.
I’ve been stationed here for about ninety minutes now, which started as a coping mechanism to avoid the growing crowd and has evolved into genuinely pleasurable activity.
Someone passes by and asks for a gin and tonic. I make it without thinking, hands moving through the familiar motions while my eyes scan the crowd.
I don’t know anyone here. Or rather, I know of them—Atticus has been making introductions all evening, guiding me through a parade of faces attached to names I vaguely recognize from entertainment news.
That woman with the silver hair? Grammy nomination last year.
The guy in the velvet jacket laughing too loud by the fireplace?
Three films in post-production, according to Atticus’s whispered briefing.
Back in Harmony Harbor, conversation was simple. The weather. The fishing. Whose kid made varsity this season. Here, I’ve listened to a twenty-minute debate about whether some director’s “European period” represented genuine artistic growth or a calculated career pivot.
I contributed absolutely nothing.
And honestly? I’m fine with that.
I’m making drinks. I’m useful. Hopefully, no one expects me to actually hold a conversation.
Across the room, Atticus catches my eye. He’s holding court near the floor-to-ceiling windows. But his attention cuts through the crowd to find me, and his expression clearly communicates: You don’t have to stay behind the bar.
I give him a look back that says: Yes, I do.
He shakes his head with a small smile and returns to his conversation. This is already becoming a fluent language between us.
Phoenix and Mason are somewhere in the thick of it. This is technically their housewarming party so it makes sense for them to be the center of attention. Technically, it’s my housewarming also since I’ve basically moved in, but I prefer that no one outside of our new pack seems to realize it.
In the meantime, I’m happy amusing myself.
I didn’t intend to create a signature cocktail for the evening.
Just started poking around the bar setup during a lull, marveling at ingredients I’d never had access to at The Rusty Anchor.
Fresh herbs in little pots. Bitters in flavors I didn’t know existed.
A citrus selection that includes things I can’t even identify.
One thing led to another.
The cocktail I’ve been making all night started as idle curiosity and became something I’m actually proud of. Elderflower and St. Germain liquor, prickly pear puree with a rum float that literally changes color when you light it on fire, thanks to the edible shimmer powder I just discovered exists.
I’m calling it the Rising Phoenix.
“Whatever that delicious thing is that everyone keeps talking about, can I get one?”
I look up.
The woman standing at the bar is attractive in that specific LA way—polished and expensive, but in that effortless style that likely takes endless amounts of time.
“Coming right up.”
When she takes her first sip, her eyebrows climb up her forehead
“Oh, this is good.” Another sip, slower this time, savoring. “I am genuinely impressed.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re wasted on house parties.” She leans against the bar, resting her elbows on the surface in a way that brings her a little too close. “Do you do private events? I’d love to connect.”
I swallow hard, hoping I’m not mistaking her intent here. “I do.”
“I’m very flexible on any arrangement you might be able to offer me.”
I open my mouth, entirely unsure how to respond, when a familiar weight presses into my side.
Phoenix materializes practically out of thin air. She loops one arm casually around my waist and rises on her toes to press a kiss to my cheek.