20
Victoria watches us suspiciously. “I’m sorry—do you two know each other ?”
“Uh,” we both begin in unison, laughing nervously.
“It was ages ago,” Colm explains, picking up the slack. “Right?”
“Yeah,” I say, at a loss for words.
“We met on a train,” Colm continues, “in Switzerland, I think?”
I nod, smiling. “Correct.” I can only assume that he has no awareness of our reunion or that beautiful proposal in his family’s
pub. But it felt real—it was real—at least to me.
“Wow! How’ve you been?” he asks, searching my face as Victoria hovers.
“Uh, great,” I say, choosing my words carefully. “One adventure after the next!”
He rubs his forehead nervously. “So, you work in hospitality, I take it?”
“I... do,” I reply, glancing ahead, where Del is presently held hostage by Charles. “I’m the chef, and that’s my...
husband over there, you know, the captain.” I’m pretty sure I’ve never uttered a more foreign sentence.
“A dynamic duo,” Colm replies, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow.
Victoria sighs, helping herself to another glass of champagne. I ignore her, keeping my eyes fixed on Colm. “So... you’re...
married now?”
He nods. “Yeah, recently.”
“Colm, darling,” Victoria interjects, her frown melting into a saccharine smile. “What have you done with that sister of mine?”
“Oh,” he begins, at a loss for words. “Pamela decided to go... shopping.”
Pamela . The mere mention sends a chill in the air.
“Shopping?” Victoria sighs, visibly unamused. “Did you not inform your lovely wife of our imminent departure? Ah, my dear
baby sister—never one to understand the virtue of punctuality .”
Colm scratches his head, smiling nervously as he shifts his gaze from Victoria to me. “Vickie,” he finally says, “I think
we’re both aware that Pamela does what Pamela wants .”
“I suppose you’re right,” the elder sister replies as she lets out an exhausted sigh. “And yet, the tales of her ill-timed
escapades will surely become bedtime stories for generations to come.” She smirks. “Remember last month in Cannes, when Pamela
insisted on stopping at Cartier right before our flight? How long did we sit on the runway, waiting for her?” She grimaces.
“I must say, this is becoming rather tiresome.”
Before Colm can respond to his sister-in-law’s grievances, our attention is swiftly drawn to commotion on the back deck. A
blond thirty-something woman captures the scene, her shrill scream piercing the air.
Hurricane Pamela has arrived.
Colm darts ahead, eyes wide. “Darling,” he says, taking her hand, “are you all right?”
“I might be if there was a crew member to help me aboard,” she snaps, extracting the spiky heel of one of her Louboutins out
of a gap in the teak decking. She looks around the ship, frowning. “Oh, how charming, a floating broom closet .” Colm shoots me an apologetic look as she drops her shopping bag on the deck. “Vickie, I thought you said this was a yacht . Perhaps you mistakenly booked the minimalist excursion?”
Victoria is clearly annoyed with her sister’s tantrum, but it’s no question that they’re cut from the same cloth. “I know,
darling,” she says, handing me her empty champagne glass before adjusting her enormous sunglasses. “It is rather ordinary, isn’t it? A shame—the photos online told a different story. Oh well, we’ll survive.”
“Darling,” Pamela says, shooting Colm an exasperated look, “please find the crew and have them take these bags to our stateroom.
I bought some Greek olive oil for Mummy, and I want it out of this heat.”
Colm looks at me nervously, before nodding at his wife. “Yes, love, but first I want you to meet an old friend of mine.” He
shifts his stance, smiling at me. “This is Lena.” He fumbles with his hands, as if he doesn’t know what to do with them. “We
met a million years ago, on a train through Switzerland. Her husband is the captain; the two of them run this ship.”
Pamela stares ahead indifferently. “How quaint.”
I feel Del’s hand on my shoulder. “Lena, I’m sure our guests are dying to freshen up. Why don’t we show them to their staterooms?”
“Right, yes,” I say, following his lead.
“Sheesh,” Del says later in the galley, setting an octopus on the counter. “Might be our stuffiest group yet.”
“I know,” I say, eyeing the creature’s nubby tentacles with trepidation.
“So, you... know that guy, huh?” He adjusts the brim of his hat. “The Irishman?”
“Yeah,” I reply, avoiding eye contact. “Small world, right?”
“Shockingly small,” he says, scratching his head. The concern in his eyes disappears when we hear glass breaking on the deck
above. “I’ll take care of that,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Why don’t you get started on this octopus, okay?”
I nod, staring at the eight-legged specimen for a long moment, before finally reaching for a cleaver and forcing myself to get to work. I wince with each cut, completely clueless. I mean, I’ve had calamari, but this is an altogether different beast. Am I supposed to fry it? Bake it? Sing to it? I pull a cookbook down from the upper shelf, flipping to the seafood section, which is when I find a recipe for octopus
ceviche. Yes, ceviche!
While I can’t find half of the ingredients, we do have lemons, onions, and salt. What did Pamela say earlier? Yes, I’ll make
a minimalist ceviche for this minimalist excursion . Laughing to myself, I arrange the desiccated octopus on a serving plate, dousing it with lemon juice and salt, then onions
for garnish. “Here goes nothing,” I whisper, climbing the stairs to the upper deck.
I find our guests sunning themselves in lounge chairs to my right. “Care for some ceviche?” I say, clearing my throat. “The
captain caught it just this morning.”
Colm looks up from his phone, smiling. “Yes, please!”
I hand him a napkin as he reaches for a piece—well, a leg—taking a bite off the edge.
“You like it?” I ask nervously.
He covers his mouth, nodding, then coughing.
“Did you say this is ceviche?” Victoria asks, eying the platter cautiously as Charles helps himself.
I nod. “And locally sourced. We just pulled it out of the water this morning.”
“Hmm,” she says, finally reaching for a piece, which she stares at for a long moment. “Peculiar presentation.”
Pamela appears pained, lying on her chaise in a geometric-print bikini, which leaves little to the imagination. “None for
me,” she says, grimacing. “I stopped eating sentient creatures a decade ago.” She sighs, reaching for the bottle of body oil beside her. “Colm, darling, will you get my back, please?”
He nods, leaping to his feet—the bulge in his right cheek making it obvious that he hasn’t yet swallowed his first bite.
Pamela shifts to her side as Colm begins lathering oil on her skin. Lovingly or just dutifully? I can’t tell. They’re married, of course—so am I—and yet, the sight of them together makes my heart contract. Yes, the memory of our connection is fresh, but it’s more than that. How could Colm be truly happy with a woman like her? I leave the platter on a table, slipping off before anyone notices I’m gone.
“Lena,” Del says, concerned, when he finds me at the front of the boat, wedged into a corner, knees to my chest. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I lie, composing myself. “I’m just, honestly... a little homesick.”
“Ah,” he says, sitting beside me. “I know this life has a way of getting to you sometimes, doesn’t it?” He looks out at the
sea, the enormous white sails billowing in the wind overhead. “But isn’t it amazing that we get to be out here? To live like
this? Just you and me and the sea.” He laughs, gesturing to the back deck. “Well, and those assholes, I guess.”
I grin. “Do you ever miss home?”
Del shrugs. “Land? Sometimes. That’s what three hundred and thirty nautical days a year does to you, I suppose. But home?”
He shakes his head. “Nah, the sea is my home— our home.”
I’ve heard stories about adventurous people like Del—mountain climbers, triathletes, paragliders. They thrive on adrenaline,
chasing it like a drug. So what if you summit Mount Fuji? There’s always Kilimanjaro. Home isn’t a single place where you
lay your head down each night, but rather the journey. It’s obvious that Del loves it. Do I? I have to admit, all of this
is far more exhilarating than my career in investor relations. Maybe this is what I’ve been missing all along?
We sit in silence for a long moment, until Del reaches for my hand. “Listen, this is probably the worst time to tell you this,
but I need to get it off my chest.”
“What?”
He fidgets with his gold wedding band for a moment. “I know you had your heart set on visiting your aunt Rosie next month, but... I screwed up. I didn’t look at the calendar right. We have a charter that week, and there’s no getting out of it. The group booked the trip a year ago, and somehow I didn’t notice the overlap. Honey, I’m so sorry, but we’re going to have to reschedule your trip home.”
“Oh,” I say, a little disappointed, not that it really matters—we would never take that trip anyway—but his words still sting.
“Well,” Del says, eyeing the horizon. “Better get back to it. The weather forecast changed, and it doesn’t look good. There’s
a storm brewing out there—might get nasty.”
I follow his gaze to a mass of dark clouds in the sky above, threatening to blot out this glorious weather in one fell swoop.
The wind has picked up, too, churning up white-capped waves all around. I shiver, feeling a raindrop hit my arm.
Exciting, maybe, but in this reality, the sea is my ball and chain. But Del, with his wild eyes gleaming? It’s the freaking
love of his life.
By late afternoon the storm has arrived, and with a vengeance. Rain splatters the deck, sending Pamela and Victoria scurrying
from their chaise lounges to take cover, while Charles paces nervously, pelting Del with rapid-fire questions. “How many storms
have you encountered in your career? Where are the life vests? How many knots is this wind blowing? Will the storm pass by
cocktail hour?”
“Listen, mate,” Del finally says, obviously frustrated. “I assure you, we’re going to be just fine, but I do need you to let
me do my job. This is going to get worse before it gets better.”
Charles’s eyes get big, digesting Del’s words. “Right,” he says, retreating belowdecks.
Del’s biceps flex as he grips the wheel, veering left. “Lena,” he calls to me. “Take my spot for a second, will you? I need
to reduce the sails before the wind gets any stronger.”
“Okay,” I say, terrified, as I reluctantly take the helm. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, just that I need to hold on , and I do—fiercely.
Fifteen minutes later, the storm is only gaining momentum, and when Del returns to resume his position at the wheel, I’m overcome with relief.
“Nice work, sweetheart,” he says. “We’re bearing forty knots south. With any luck, we’ll be out of the woods in three hours,
maybe four.”
“Four hours?” I reply, frightened as rain and seawater batter Del’s face. His eyes blaze, not with fear, however, but excitement.
It’s clear that he was born for this. I, on the other hand, just want to run and hide.
“Listen,” he says, gripping the wheel, “it might be too late, but I need you to secure what’s left on the upper deck. Chairs,
tables—everything. Tie down whatever you can; throw the rest below.” He locks eyes with me. “Be careful, okay?”
I nod, gripping the railing as I make my way to the center of the vessel, where Pamela is screaming hysterically, huddled
next to Victoria. They both look green, and when Pamela leans over, vomiting all over the deck, the sight triggers her sister,
who follows suit. I look away, covering my mouth as a wave of nausea rises.
“Girls,” Colm says, climbing up the stairs. “Come down, quickly!” He shepherds the two women belowdecks, before making his
way up again. “Can I do anything to help?”
“Yes, please,” I say, holding one of the lines to steady myself as the rain lashes down. “We need to get all this furniture
secured—tie down what we can, collapse the rest and bring it down below.”
“Okay,” he says, swiftly mobilizing. “I’ll take the left side; you get the right.”
I nod, scared out of my mind, but at least we have a plan. I collapse a set of teak chairs, depositing one belowdecks, before
losing my footing. I fall on my left side and slide across the deck when the boat’s nose dips up into the air. When it crashes
down again, the force hurls me in the opposite direction, depositing me in a pool of Pamela’s vomit.
“Lena!” Colm says, crawling toward me. “Are you okay?”
“I think so,” I say with a gasp, clutching a rope for dear life.
He reaches for my arm. “It’s not safe up here. You need to get down below.”
“But the furniture,” I say, looking around as the wind plucks a chair, spinning it like a feather before it flies overboard.
“To hell with the furniture,” Colm replies as we brace ourselves for another swell. It’s too dangerous to scramble the twenty
or so feet necessary to get to the stairwell, so we hunker down in place. “Hold on to me!” He clenches the rope with one hand
and holds me close with the other. I can feel the stubble of his chin on my cheek, smell his cologne. I, on the other hand,
reek of Pamela’s vegan stomach acid.
“Don’t let go,” Colm says as a table slides across the deck, narrowly missing us. “We’re going to get through this.”
“Okay,” I whisper, chin quivering as I cling to his arm.
It’s a miracle that Del still has his hands on the wheel. “Hold steady,” he shouts from the bow. “We’re almost through the
worst of it.”
A bolt of lightning illuminates the dark sky, followed by a boom of thunder and more screams from down below. I detect Charles’s
voice in the hysterical symphony belowdecks, as another chair comes barreling our way. Fortunately, Colm thinks fast, shielding
my face and extending his leg to blunt the impact.
I squeeze his bicep so tightly that I might be cutting off circulation. I don’t have to be an expert sailor to know, full
well, that at any moment we could succumb to the might of the ocean. She could pluck us into her tendrils and toss us into
the abyss. Maybe that’s the thrill Del keeps chasing, the fragility and awe of being at the mercy of the sea? Maybe. I, however,
can’t wait for this to end. I feel dizzy.
“Let’s play a game,” Colm suggests, attempting to lighten the mood.
“Strange suggestion for a time like this, don’t you think?”
“Nah,” he says, grinning. “The only way to get through a tough situation is to distract yourself.”
“Fair enough,” I say. “So what’s the game?”
“Places.”
“Uh,” I say. “Maybe clue me in a little more?”
“Right,” he continues. “If you could magically teleport out of this hellhole right now, where would you go?”
“You first,” I say.
Colm nods. “Kinsale, Ireland. I’d have a pint, then a plate of my mum’s roast chicken.” He pauses, eyeing me skeptically.
“What’s that face for?”
“What face?”
“You’re making a face .”
“No, I’m not!”
“Yes, you are!”
“Well,” I finally say, laughing, “I guess I just assumed you’d rattle off some posh location like... Hotel du Cap-Eden-Roc
in Antibes.”
“Hotel du what? Honey, yer going to need to translate that for this humble Irishman.”
I grin. “It’s some place I read about in Vanity Fair , you know, the type of hotel you and Pamela frequent.”
He screens his face from the rain. “Can I tell you a secret?”
“Sure.”
“I despise fancy, and I’m allergic to posh.”
“Probably shouldn’t admit that to your wife,” I say, laughing. “Or Victoria Beckham.”
Colm secures his grip around my waist. “I have a confession.”
“What’s that?”
“Pamela bought me these god-awful Louis Vuitton slides in Santorini, and I fecking hate them. I look like a clown, don’t I?”
“Sorry, but yes, you do.”
He frowns. “Should I toss ’em overboard? Tell her that the storm swept them away?”
“I dare you.”
He chuckles, slipping the slides off his feet before hurling them into the sea, one by one. “Wow,” he says, turning to me.
“That was weirdly cathartic.”
“Glad to be of service.”
“Okay,” he continues. “You next: If you could be anywhere right now, where would it be?”
“Easy,” I reply. “My aunt Rosie’s house, on a little island called Bainbridge in Washington State.”
“Guess we’re a couple of homebodies, the two of us,” he says, looking up at the sky, where a patch of sunlight beams through
the dark clouds. “Looks like blue skies ahead.”
As if on cue, there’s a momentary reprieve from the thrashing, and Colm takes the opportunity to carefully shepherd us to
the ship’s midsection, before we hit another swell and take cover under the bar.
“You sure you’re not hurt?” he asks, draping his arm around my shoulder again.
I shake my head, brushing away a chunk of vomit from my shirt. “No, but I can’t wait to take a shower.”
Colm laughs. “Sorry about that.”
“How do you think Pamela’s faring?”
“She’ll be fine,” he replies. “Pamela may look like a shrinking violet, but don’t be fooled. She comes from a long line of
tough Brits with plenty of fortitude running through their blood. Keep calm and carry on, you know?”
“Right,” I say, nestling my head against his shoulder as another round of seawater splashes up over the railing.
“Crazy running into you again,” he continues, marveling, “and under these circumstances. It’s almost like it was... fate.”
“Yeah,” I say with a raised eyebrow. “ Almost. ”
An hour later, a seabird squawks overhead, flapping its wings across the horizon. The winds have subsided, and the water is calm again.
“All clear,” Del says, peering under the table where Colm and I have waited out the storm. He reaches for my hand, lifting
me to my feet. “You all right, sweetheart?”
“I’m okay,” I say, tugging at my soiled shirt. “I just... need to find a shower—pronto.”
“You do that,” Del says before turning to Colm. “Thanks, man—for looking out for my girl.”
“My pleasure, Captain,” he says, giving me a final look before slipping down below.
After a hot shower and a change of clothes, I head back to the upper deck, where Del has just dropped anchor in a serene-looking
bay beside an island dotted with cypress trees. “Mind keeping an eye on things while I head down to the engine room for a
bit?” he asks. “Just want to be sure everything’s in order.”
“Sure,” I say, finding a dry spot on the edge of the bow. I sit down, dangling my legs over the edge. No one seems to have
an appetite, so instead of cooking dinner (if one could call it that), I watch the sun begin its slow descent. With broad
strokes of orange and crimson, it’s obviously showing off and in full farewell pageantry.
When I hear footsteps approaching, I look up to see Colm. “Nothing better than a sunset after a storm,” he says, holding up
two glasses. “A little Irish whiskey to wash away yer troubles?”
“Thanks,” I say as he tucks in beside me.
He hands me a glass. “That was quite a wild ride. How ya feelin’?”
“Sufficiently traumatized,” I reply with a chuckle, “but still breathing. You?”
“Same. Still standin’, still smilin’, and with a proper glass of whiskey in my hand.” His eyes twinkle. “Guess that’s all
a fella can ask for.”
I smile, breaking eye contact. “And Pamela?”
He rubs the stubble on his chin. “She’s stable—finally—but staying in for the night. The others, too. Let’s just say, I feel a little sorry for those toilets in their staterooms.”
I bite the edge of my lip. “I hope it wasn’t the ceviche.”
“That, combined with the swells?” Colm chuckles. “The perfect storm.”
“Sorry,” I say, trying not to laugh, but humor has a mind of its own, and suddenly we’re both in stitches. “I have to admit
something,” I continue, struggling to compose myself. “I didn’t go to Le Cordon Bleu. I can’t cook—at all.”
“Ah, you thought you fooled me, did ya?” He grins. “I knew all along.”
I grimace. “Was I that obvious?”
“You were,” he replies knowingly. “Then again, I was born with the sixth sense for detecting shenanigans.”
“Ha,” I say, resisting the urge to rest my head on his chest as my mind turns to Liam. Liam! “Uh,” say, pausing, “how’s... your son?”
Colm shakes his head. “Wait, how did you know about—”
“Pamela,” I lie, nodding. “I, uh, overheard her talking about him.”
“Really?” Colm scoffs. “Pamela talking about Liam? That’s a pleasant surprise. She can barely remember his birthday, let alone
his existence.”
“Oh,” I say, pausing for a long beat.
“Listen, I don’t mean to throw her under the bus or anything—it’s just... it is what it is. Some women make amazing mothers;
Pamela’s not one of them.” He nods to himself, as if trying to justify every choice that led to this moment. “I hoped that
motherhood would come naturally to her—well, stepmotherhood—but... no dice. She and Liam are like oil and water. She doesn’t
get him, and he can’t stand her.”
I remember how I tucked Liam into bed, how he’d asked if he could call me “Mummy.” I may not be a “natural” mother, either,
but I know one thing for sure: That little boy was easy to love. So was Sabrina. A surge of emotion rises in my chest, but
I push it back down. “So... where is he? Why isn’t he on this trip with us?”
Colm’s expression turns pensive. “Look, like I said, Pamela comes from a very prestigious British clan. They’ve sent their children to the same boarding school for centuries.”
Boarding school.
“It was only logical that we gave Liam the same opportunity,” he continues. “I mean, with all of our travel, and my business—it
actually made a lot of sense.” He smiles proudly. “If ya haven’t heard, I own one of London’s most popular distilleries. In
fact, we happen to be drinking one of my finest vintages.”
He clinks his glass against mine, but I feel more unsettled than congratulatory. I stare off to a nearby island, where a seabird
has just dropped a clamshell onto the rocky hillside. So Colm left that beautiful little village, said farewell to his family’s
cherished pub, and set off for greener pastures—aka, a prestigious, affluent life with a vapid woman in Louboutins. And he
sent his son away? This isn’t the character of the man I thought I knew.
“When we met,” I begin cautiously, “you told me about your family’s pub in Kinsale. It sounded so charming.” I swallow hard.
“Is your mom still running it?”
“No,” he says, shaking his head solemnly. “After her stroke, I stepped in for a while, but the back-and-forth from London
was a lot, and Pamela didn’t see the point in me trying to keep a struggling business afloat, especially when my own company
was taking off.”
My heart seizes, remembering Dalton’s Pub, where he proposed to me with Liam by his side.
He sighs. “I sold it. I mean, I didn’t want to, but it was the logical thing to do. Mum had medical expenses piling up, and
we got a decent offer from a developer who’s been hounding us for decades. My brother, Declan, was adamantly opposed, but
I’ve learned a lot from Pamela’s father. In business, you can’t think with your heart.”
“Right,” I say, my eyes drifting out to the sea. What does Pamela’s blueblood father know about an Irish pub beloved for generations?
“Hey,” Colm says, touching my arm. “Why the broody face? You don’t like the whiskey?”
I shake my head, forcing a smile. “The whiskey’s... fine,” I say, choosing my words carefully. “Listen, I know we met a
thousand years ago, and only for a moment, but I guess I’m just a little surprised how things turned out for you. I mean...”
I pause, unsure of how to continue or even if I should. “Well, it doesn’t matter. Congrats on all your success.”
He shakes his head, contemplative. “What were you just about to say? Go ahead, be blunt.”
“Well,” I begin slowly, “Pamela is the last person I’d imagine you ending up with.”
“Fair play,” he says, nodding. “I’m not gonna lie, Pamela is, well...”
I grimace. “Pamela?”
Colm chuckles before his expression turns pensive again, his eyes distant. “I met her at a party in London, the two of us
about as different as a pebble and a gemstone. But somehow, I made her laugh, and, you see, she hadn’t laughed in a great
while.” He pauses. “We went on a few dates after that, and when she told me her father was interested in funding my business,
it seemed too good to be true, but then the wire came—straight into my bank account.” He rubs his forehead. “It was a windfall
for me, and it couldn’t have come at a better time. Without that funding, we would have folded. She saved me, and, well, I
guess I felt that I had to do right by her.”
“And by that you mean marry her,” I add.
He nods.
“So, you did right by her and wrong by your son?”
“Ah, Lena,” he says, leaning back onto his elbows. “So black-and-white. Life’s a bit more complicated, don’t you think?”
I shake my head, struggling to understand. “Is it?”
Colm tops off each of our glasses as he gathers his thoughts. “Success is a funny thing. You spend your whole life chasing it, but when you catch it, then what? Are you really any happier?” He shrugs. “I’m not sure if I am. But I will say that having wealth makes life a whole lot easier.”
I tuck my knees to my chest, overcome with disappointment—and sympathy—for Colm. This version of his life breaks my heart
as much as it makes me mad, and yet, who am I to judge? Earlier this week, I was married to a con man who was ripping off
retirees.
All I know is that when we were together, Colm led with his heart, and the result was something beautiful in Kinsale. Yes,
while I can still see glimpses of that version of him, they’re only faint whispers of the man I fell for—in another life.
Above all, today has cast a magnifying glass on his character—what he’s capable of, and what he’s not. I thought he was strong,
and maybe he is, in a sense. But Colm has no anchor. He’s just a feather drifting in the breeze, the direction of his path
subject to the next gust.
“Well,” I finally say, taking another gulp of his prizewinning whiskey before pulling myself up to stand. “I should probably
turn in.”
“Wait, Lena,” he says, rising to his feet. “Before you go... can I just ask you something?”
“Sure.”
He looks around, making sure no one’s in sight—or earshot. “That night we met, on the train... I gave you my phone number,
remember?”
I nod.
“I’ve always been curious... why didn’t you call?”
“I wanted to,” I say. “I mean, I intended to—but when I got to my hostel, the scrap of paper in my pocket was gone. I guess
it slipped out.”
“Oh,” Colm says, his expression thick with regret. “But why didn’t you try to look me up? On Facebook, or something. You knew
my last name—I told you—but I never knew yours.”
I pause, collecting my thoughts. “It was so long ago,” I say, our eyes meeting for a long moment. “Part of me wonders what our lives might look like if I did, but at the end of the day, we only get one life.”
Colm nods solemnly. “So, what you’re saying is we weren’t—”
“Meant to be,” I reply, before he can finish.
He looks down, hands clutching the lacquered railing. “And this is? Out at sea with your Aussie captain, tending to fussy
people like us week after week?”
“I wouldn’t call you fussy, Colm. But the others in your party? Uh-huh.”
He laughs. “Guilty by association, I guess.”
“Honestly, I’m just trying to figure it all out, like you are. Doing my best with the hand I’ve been dealt.”
“Right,” he says with a long sigh. “Speaking of, I should probably go check on the missus.” He grins—that same Colm grin that
will be forever cemented in my heart. “Lena, it’s been amazing to see you again.” I can’t help but notice a tinge of loneliness
in his eyes as he searches my face.
“Yeah,” I say with a genuine smile. “You, too.”
The sun dips below the horizon. While Del charts tomorrow’s course on the map, I make my way down to my bedroom. Yawning,
I ignore my growling stomach as my head hits the pillow, where I glance through the porthole window, taking one last look
outside before it all fades away. Under the moonlight, a sparkle of phosphorescence catches my eye. I marvel as plumes of
green and blue light dance under the water’s edge. It’s far from supernatural, just phytoplankton giving off light in response
to the shifting tides. Rosie explained the phenomenon when I was in seventh grade, shortly after my mother’s death, and I
guess, somehow, those moments fused together in my brain. I can’t see phosphorescence without thinking of her —without thinking of home.
I’m thousands of miles away, of course, in the middle of the Aegean Sea, but home feels closer than ever, somehow—like it’s almost within reach. Is it because the fog is finally lifting, allowing me to see my life, and myself, in new ways? I’m not sure, only that I feel a sense of knowing—about what matters and what doesn’t, what I thought I wanted in life and what I really need .
For now, one of those things is sleep. Heart heavy, I curl into a ball. Please, let me go home. I want my life back. I can hardly take much more.