Chapter 29 Now
Now
Martha’s Vineyard is breathtaking in the most casual way.
It’s not loud or showy like New York or Boston.
It doesn’t come with the adrenaline of a big city landing or the chaos of trying to make it across a crosswalk before the light changes.
Martha’s Vineyard doesn’t try to impress you.
It just is. Quiet and pretty in that understated I know who I am kind of way.
As the ferry pulls in, I spot the cedar-shingled cottages, sailboats sitting in the water, and hills that look like they belong on the front of a postcard.
The cool salty air hits me the second I step onto the dock, and for the first time in weeks, I actually exhale.
The town moves like it has nothing to prove.
Locals ride past on bikes with baskets full of groceries.
Tourists stroll the sidewalks in khaki pants and baseball caps, stopping to read menus and smell flowers—literally.
Everything feels slower here. Softer. Like maybe I don’t have to be constantly refreshing my feed or pretending I have it all figured out.
Before I boarded the ferry, I texted Lucas.
Ainsley: Heading to a writing retreat for the week so I can really lock in. Just wanted to give you a heads-up. I’ll be off the grid for a bit.
Off the grid was an exaggeration, of course. My phone was very much still glued to me. I just wanted an excuse. A buffer. A way to disappear without technically disappearing.
He didn’t respond right away, which made me irrationally nervous. But it felt right. I owed him honesty, at least some version of it. Ghosting isn’t my style. Still, I didn’t tell him why I needed the space. That’s the part I’m still trying to avoid.
I tug my suitcase over cobblestones and grab a taxi, giving the driver the name of my bed-and-breakfast. The ride winds through pastel houses, flowers starting to bloom along fences. When we pull up to a white Victorian with a wraparound porch, I feel immediately at home.
Beth, the owner, checks me in and gives me a real key—not a keypad code or plastic card but an actual brass key with a white ribbon tied to the end.
Most of the other retreat attendees are staying here too since Rose, the writing mentor leading the retreat, booked out the whole place for the week.
My room is upstairs, with a writing desk by the window, a garden view, and a quilted bed that smells like sunshine and clean linen.
It’s so quiet I can hear my own thoughts, which is somehow both peaceful and terrifying.
I change out of my traveling clothes and head out to find food.
But on the way to the restaurant Beth recommended, I pop into a tiny independent bookstore across the street.
I don’t really need anything, but I leave with a notebook, a pen, and a new romance release in case I have any spare time to read.
The restaurant is tucked between two shops and has a little patio overlooking the harbor. I ask for a table for one and order a glass of wine, placing the notebook beside me on the table like a companion I’m not sure I know how to talk to yet.
Before my drink even arrives, I check my phone. Two new texts from Lucas are waiting:
Lucas: Completely understand, hope it goes well. Just let me know when you make it there?
Lucas: Miss you
Then I see he left a voicemail. I don’t listen to it—not because I don’t want to hear his voice. I do. But because I didn’t come here to sort out my feelings for Lucas. I came here to put everything else on hold so I don’t lose myself and my writing and my voice.
Not many people in their twenties, or at any point really, get to say they’re doing what they’ve always wanted to do.
Maybe in the beginning, they think they are.
Then years pass, and they start searching for something new.
Something that brings back the fire they felt at twenty-two, when they were given their first cubicle and finally felt important—only to realize corporate America is way less glamorous than it looks in the movies.
But my experience has been different.
I had a job I liked. Liked enough to picture myself staying in it well into my fifties.
But I love what I do now. How could I not?
I get to create characters and draft stories and write feelings for a living.
Heartbreak. Friendships. Steamy make-outs.
Grand confessions. That’s my job. And while I might be completely stuck right now, I can’t imagine doing anything else.
I don’t want to do anything else. Writer’s block and meet-cutes and agonizing over the perfect love story be damned.
Maybe I’ve had this all wrong the whole time. I was trying to find a way to believe in love again. But really, I just needed to believe in myself again.
Which is why I’m here. I’m here to save my career.
The rest of it—my feelings, my fears, my what-if with Lucas—can wait.
I tuck the phone deep into my bag and let out a breath. The server, an attractive guy that seems around my age, brings my food out. Am I about to have my very own city-girl-escapes-to-small-town-to-avoid-her-problems-but-falls-in-love-instead romance moment?
“First night here?” he asks, a bit flirty.
I nod. “Yeah. Everything’s beautiful. And a lot quieter than home.”
“Martha’s Vineyard has a way of winning people over,” he says. “If you need recs, let me know. There’s a great overlook just past the cliffs, and the Black Dog Tavern has a great chowder. Don’t tell my boss I said that though,” he says, throwing in a wink.
“Thanks,” I reply.
He lingers, that too-polished smile hovering like he’s waiting for me to ask about his favorite sailing route or, god forbid, his cover band that only plays at summer bars in Edgartown. My eyes flick down to his name tag. Greg.
I set my pen down, meet his eyes, and deadpan, “Not now, Greg. This is not a meet-cute situation.”
His smile twitches. “Uh…”
“You know—burned-out city girl escapes to a small town, falls for the hot local server, learns how to fish or farm and heal her broken heart in the process? Yeah, that’s not my plotline.”
Greg blinks, then laughs a little like he’s not sure if I’m joking. “Got it. No small-town romances.”
“Exactly,” I say, waving my pen.
He walks away, still smiling, and I turn back to my notebook, clicking the pen.
The truth is it’s easier to shut it down with a joke than admit the real reason: I don’t want recommendations or small talk or some guy’s number scribbled on a receipt. I don’t want a romance plot at all. I want proof I can still write something worth reading.
I turn back to my notebook, click the pen, and begin.
For once, the words actually come. Slowly at first but then all at once.
My hand cramps, but I don’t stop. I’m scribbling faster than I can think, chasing the rush of sentences that feel like they might finally mean something.
Pages start to fill, the way they used to when writing felt less like work and more like oxygen.
By the time I pause to sip my wine, I almost believe this trip wasn’t a mistake. My pen is still hovering over the page when the bag on the chair beside me starts to vibrate.
I dig around until I find my phone. Three missed calls and a text from Maddie.
Maddie: You alive?? Call me when you’re done soul-searching and/or are ready to tell me what happened with Lucas
I stare at the screen. For a second, I think about pretending I didn’t see it. Turning my phone off and leaning into this illusion of peace. But the truth is I feel alone in a way that isn’t romantic or aesthetic or productive; it’s just lonely.
My thumb hovers over her name. I scroll through my other texts first—nothing pressing. One from a girl I went to college with saying she just started my book. One from day care of Winston playing with some new friends. Another from my mom “just checking in” again.
Finally, I tap Call, and Maddie picks up on the first ring.
“Thank god. I was about to file a missing person report.”
“I’m fine,” I say. “Just got to the retreat. It’s actually really pretty here.”
“Of course it is. Rich people love islands.”
I laugh.
“No seriously, what’s it like? Paint me a picture.”
I glance around. “Nothing but cedar cottages, sailboats knocking against empty docks, and locals who know I don’t belong. I’m sitting at the bar drinking overpriced wine, trying not to lose my mind.”
“So you’re thriving,” she says sarcastically.
“It’s still beautiful here but not in the inspirational remote writing retreat way I was hoping for.”
Maddie’s quiet, then gently asks, “Are you gonna tell me what happened after the bar?”
I hesitate. My thumb traces the curve of the wineglass. “We kissed. He came home with me. We got breakfast.”
“And then?”
“And then I freaked out like a total cliché.”
“Ah. The classic this is too good, so let me ruin it before someone else can move. Love that for you.”
“Shut up.”
“I’m not judging,” she says. “I’m just saying—maybe running away isn’t your best coping strategy.”
“I didn’t run.”
“You’re right. You did more than run. You took a plane and a ferry.”
I sigh as I swirl the wine in my glass, watching it catch the light. “I don’t know what I’m doing, Maddie. It was good. I mean, he said one thing that freaked me out but—”
“If it’s good, it means you actually have something to lose.”
Exactly. I don’t say it out loud, but I know she hears it anyway.
Something about her voice makes me feel sixteen again, calling my best friend from the bathroom floor after I found out another boy I liked didn’t like me back.
“I like him,” I say quietly. “I don’t want to screw it up.”
“So don’t.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It kind of is,” she says. “Let someone in. Stop assuming every good thing has an expiration date.”
I exhale. “It’s just—I’ve been here before. Not literally here, but you know what I mean.”
“With Cole.”
I flinch. “Yeah.”
I picture it—waking up next to Lucas, the way his arm had flopped over me like he forgot he wasn’t supposed to care anymore. The walk to breakfast. The internal freak-out I had when he mentioned dedicating a book to him.
“I just don’t know if I’m ready,” I say.
Maddie doesn’t respond right away. “You might never feel ready. You just have to decide whether you want your fears to win or if you want to give yourself a chance to prove them wrong.”
I blink hard, trying not to cry into my sauvignon blanc. “Remind me to never call you again.”
She laughs. “You say that every time I make a good point.”
“I hate that you’re training to be a therapist. You’re too good at this now.”
“Yeah, well, that’ll be a hundred and fifty dollars.”
I smile. “Thanks.”
“For what?”
“For answering. For listening. For not saying I told you so.”
“I’d never. But I will say—you’ve already done the hard part.”
“What do you mean?”
“You let someone see you. That’s way scarier than writing about love. You’ve already unintentionally been living it.”
We’re both quiet.
“I really want to get this book right,” I say. “That’s what this week is about.”
“I know,” she says. “But your heart’s still part of the story, whether you like it or not.”
I hate that she’s right about that too.