Chapter 31 #2
The cabin smells faintly of leather and recycled air.
I buckle in and stare out the window as the plane taxis.
As we lift off, the skyline tilts beneath us.
For a moment, Manhattan looks small. Then it disappears into the clouds.
I lean back against my seat and relax the further we get away from it.
The turbulence starts sooner than I expected. Not violent. Just enough to make the cabin sway. I grip the armrest.
“You good?” Wilby asks.
“I’m fine,” I grit out.
The plane dips slightly, and my stomach lurches.
That’s strange. I’ve flown since I was a child.
Private jets. Commercial flights. International travel.
I’ve never gotten motion sickness. In fact, I usually read and do stuff on my computer regardless of turbulence.
Something Wilby has always made fun of me for.
The cabin tilts again, and nausea rushes up fast and sharp. I’ve felt terrible the past few days. I chalked it up to exhaustion. But this was my father’s life. Constantly working, moving, traveling. And I don’t want this life. I want a balanced life. I want a life.
I close my eyes and wonder if I’d ever be able to have both. I press my palm to my stomach. It doesn’t settle. I excuse myself and make it to the tiny bathroom just in time.
When I return, Wilby is watching me closely. “You’re pale.”
“It’s just turbulence,” I say as I close my eyes and try to focus on something boring like a spreadsheet, or anything to not think about the plane moving like this.
“You never get turbulence sick.” He eyes me suspiciously.
I finally fall asleep, exhausted, and he gently taps my arm when we descend toward Coconut Beach. The storm is visible over the water. Sheets of rain move across the ocean like curtains, and the runway glistens when we land.
I thank the pilots, grateful to hear they’re staying overnight at the Palm and returning tomorrow after the storm.
The second the cabin door opens, the salty, humid air hits me, and storm winds whip around us. It fills my lungs like oxygen I didn’t know I was missing. I step down onto the tarmac, and the wind tugs at my hair.
Thunder rumbles somewhere out over the water. I don’t care. I just feel sick and lightheaded. But I feel like I’m home. I didn’t know I could be homesick for this place. For him.
The storm is already rolling in when Cal’s truck pulls up. Wind whips sand across the driveway. The sky is dark and swollen with rain. Thunder rumbles low and steady.
He jumps out before the engine even fully cuts off. I barely have time to shut the car door before he’s in front of me.
He pulls me into him so hard my breath leaves my lungs. “I’m so glad you’re here,” he says into my hair.
“Me, too,” I whisper, sinking into him.
Wilby goes to Birdie’s and gets settled and we wave to him.
Cal’s arms wrap protectively around me. “This storm’s supposed to be a bad one.”
“I know,” I whisper.
He pulls back just enough to look at me. Rain starts to fall in thick drops. “You shouldn’t have flown in this. I was so worried.”
“I missed you,” I murmur.
Something shifts in his expression at that. He cups my face and kisses me. The wind pushes against us. The rain starts harder.
“Come on,” he says, grabbing my hand. “Let’s get inside.”
The storm hits full force within the night. Rain pounds the roof. Lightning flashes white across the windows. The power flickers twice before stabilizing.
The next morning, I stand on Cal’s porch with a cup of coffee in both hands and look out at the cottages. A few shingles are missing. One of the patio chairs is upside down in the sand. It could have been so much worse.
Cal is already down checking on the Bees and Carly with Jonah.
His T-shirt is damp and clinging to his back, hair still messy from the wind, and there is something tight in his shoulders that was not there yesterday.
He has always worn responsibility like a second skin for his mother and Jonah, but today he is on high alert, looking stressed.
I head to Carly’s house before I talk myself out of it. I’ve missed her, and we need to catch up. And I could use a friend. She answers the door after a long minute. Her eyes look tired but clearer than they usually are. The house smells like lemon cleaner and coffee.
“Hi, sweetie,” she says softly. “You made it through the storm.”
“We did,” I tell her, stepping inside. “How are you?”
She shrugs and wraps her cardigan tighter around herself. “A little shaken. But I’m alright. I don’t love that the reporters have been camped out all over.”
“I know,” I say with a sigh. “I’m really sorry about that.”
“It’s scary feeling trapped like that.”
“Actually,” I say as I take her hands in mine.
“I was thinking about that. How you can take back some control. When I go back to New York, I could help set you up with telehealth for therapy. We can find someone who can help. I know a few firms that work with executive mental health, and they’re discreet.
You wouldn’t have to leave the house to do it, but maybe one day you’d be able to leave again with the right therapy. ”
“That sounds like a dream, but I don’t know.” Her eyes flicker with something hopeful and fear all at once. “You’d do that to help me?”
“Of course I would,” I say. “And if you ever want to visit New York, even just for a week, you could stay with us. With me and Cal. We’d make it work.”
“That feels so scary.” She squeezes my fingers. “But thank you for thinking of me.”
I notice she feels more anxious, and I hate that. Maybe I was too forward. But I had to try.
When I leave, Cal is waiting at the end of the walkway. He must have seen me go in.
“What were you talking to my mom about?” he asks, his voice steady but edged.
“I offered to help her find a telehealth therapist,” I say carefully. “And I told her she could come to New York sometime if she wanted.”
His jaw tightens. “Silvie, you don’t need to do that.”
“Cal,” I say. “I’m trying to help.”
“She’s my mom,” he says, looking irritated, running a hand through his hair. “I’ve got it handled.”
I feel something in me bristle. “Do you?”
He looks at me like that question cuts. “Yeah. I do.”
We walk back toward the bar, sand sticking to our shoes. I can feel the argument building between us. He’s mad at me. Whatever was growing while I was gone feels even bigger now. And I want to fix this, whatever it is between us.
“You know you built this safe life for your mom,” I say finally. “And then you show up for Jonah. You do so much for them. You stay here because you think they need you.”
“They do need me.”
“I’m not saying they don’t,” I reply, stopping in front of him. “But what about you, Cal? What do you want?”
He stares at me as if I had asked him something in a foreign language.
“I just want them to be safe,” he says. “I want my mom to be okay.”
“That’s not what I asked.” My voice softens. “What do you want for your life?”
He exhales hard. “Why does it have to be bigger than this?”
“It doesn’t have to be bigger,” I say. “But it has to be yours. Not just you cleaning up everyone else’s mess.”
His eyes flash. “And what about you? You’re going back to your skyscraper and your board meetings and your billion-dollar company. Why do you care about us Coconut Beach peasants?”
“Cal,” I say, my spine straightening. “That’s not true.”
We stand there, a new level of emotion between us and not emotions I like. I’m mad. I’ve never treated anyone here poorly. I am kind to everyone.
“You really think that?” I ask, tearfully.
He shakes his head and looks away. “We want different things, Silvie.”
“I want to be a CEO,” I say, and my voice does not shake.
“I want to run Montclair Holdings. I want to build something that’s mine.
I also want to have a life, Cal. I want both love and ambition.
But right now, I have to focus on my job.
The board is circling. My birthday is coming.
I can’t pretend this is just a vacation anymore. ”
His face changes at that. Something shatters between us.
“So just go,” he says quietly. “I’ll keep playing along back here. That’s what we agreed on, right?”
“Don’t do that,” I whisper. “Don’t do this.”
“And don’t string my mom around,” he adds, his voice rough. “She doesn’t deserve to have her heart broken again.”
Anger flares hot in my chest. “I would never,” I say sharply. “Don’t you dare imply that. I love her. I would never do that.”
“Then what are you doing?” he asks. “Trying to get her to go to New York? Not everything is about you, Silvie.”
“I never said that,” I say tearfully, “but I’m not a villain in your small-town tragedy. Whatever happened to you and your mom is not my fault.”
He rubs his face with both hands. “I just need space.”
The words hang between us. I see the boy he must have been, the one who never knew his father and decided he would never be the one who left. I see the man he is now, terrified of wanting something that might not stay. And the one who builds a life for everyone but himself. As if he’s not allowed.
“I’m sorry,” I say, my voice softer now. “I’m asking you to think about what you want instead of what everyone else needs.”
He shakes his head. “You think you know me, Silvie. But you don’t.”
Then he turns and walks toward the beach, shoulders rigid, hands shoved in his pockets.
I watch him go until he is just a dark shape against the pale sand.
My heart aches painfully in my chest. I don’t know what to do.
Everything feels wrong and confusing. It’s like I’m being torn in half.
With tears in my eyes, I head back to Cal’s place.
Giving him space feels like the last thing I want to do, but what choice do I have?
I don’t have the time right now to smooth this out between us and that hurts.
Back at Cal’s cottage, I pull my suitcase out from under the bed. My phone buzzes with emails from the board, subject lines sharp and urgent. Cal is right. I should give him space and go back to New York.
I cry as I pack up my things because I don’t want to leave him.
But I know I have to.