Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
CAMILA
There aren’t many things Camila truly dislikes, but unpacking and organizing her house after her move from Chicago has got to be up there.
She swears boxes multiply overnight when she isn’t looking, and furniture that once fit together seamlessly now refuses to do so—angles wrong, screws missing, and Camila’s patience?
Gone. But that’s not the worst part; the real tragedy is that Camano Island apparently has a vendetta against coffee shops.
There are maybe four on the entire island, and the closest one is a ten-minute drive away.
Which—okay—isn’t that far, but it’s at least an hour’s walk, and that’s what Camila truly hates.
That small things like that aren’t readily available, so she can’t just decide to go on a quick morning walk for coffee.
In Chicago, Camila would walk out her front door and be swallowed whole by the hiss of espresso machines and the burned-sugar perfume of caramel syrup within minutes. Here, she gets gas stations, drive-thrus, and a single bakery that closes at two on weekdays.
She tells herself she’s making the best of it—new house, new job, new .
. . well, everything. Still, as she waits in the drive-thru line for her coffee, engine idling, cup holder empty, she can’t help thinking this might be her least favorite thing about her new town—and that’s saying something, considering she just learned the local hardware store doubles as the post office.
She does love how quiet it is, though. The silence here settles gently instead of pressing in, and her new coworkers have been nothing but kind and welcoming.
The house helps, too. It’s perfect, really.
It sits right on the beach, where waves comb the shoreline at night and replace the old soundtrack of traffic and sirens with something soft and melodic.
She hasn’t touched her white noise machine in days, letting the waves outside her window do the work of easing her to sleep.
She’s back in Washington because her mother had a stroke, and because being an only child leaves little room to say no.
It doesn’t help that her parents know exactly which strings to tug.
Not that much convincing was needed. As soon as Camila’s dad told her about her mom’s stroke, all the regret about their strained relationship hit her at once.
When he asked her to come back, she agreed right away without thinking it through.
No matter what’s happened between them, Camila loves her mom and wishes they had been closer, even though their being distant isn’t her fault.
Her mother’s idea of bridging the gap is the house on Camano Island. Bought outright and handed over to Camila as a peace offering. A clumsy, expensive apology for the years of silence, for the way her being a lesbian was treated like a disappointment to be endured rather than understood.
Camila hadn’t said no when her parents offered; she wasn’t going to. It was the least her mother could do. Now, though, the house comes with expectations. Time. Visits. Her mother looks at her as if something is owed, and Camila is running out of excuses to keep putting off seeing her.
What Camano Island does not do gently is rain. One moment, the sky is clear, a most beautiful shade of baby blue, no clouds in sight, and the next it opens as if it’s been holding a grudge. Rain slams down hard enough that Camila swears it’s denting the hood of her car.
A knock raps against her window, startling her. She rolls it down low enough to accept her coffee from a thoroughly soaked barista. Water pours in with it. Her sweater darkens instantly, sleeves heavy with rain. The lid on the cup wobbles, barely hanging on.
“Thank you!” Camila calls, voice raised over the drumming rain, and eases her foot onto the gas. She barely gets a car length before realizing she can’t see more than four feet ahead. The wipers flail uselessly, smearing the windshield into a watercolor of gray.
Camila considers pulling over, but there’s nowhere to pull over. Just rain, road, and a latte that she’s convinced is more storm than coffee at this point.
Camila exhales and tightens her grip on the steering wheel, eyes tracking the rain as it claws down the windshield.
She grew up near here, but she hasn’t been back in Washington long enough to re-familiarize herself with the way storms materialize without warning in early fall or the wet, gray weight that settles over everything.
Driving through it now has her nerves wound tight, stress buzzing under her skin.
It’s bad enough that she considers canceling her plans.
She’s supposed to meet her friend Ella in fifteen minutes, but with the rain coming down this intensely, that feels wildly optimistic.
Camila imagines pulling over long enough to text an apology.
Except she’s already more than halfway to Stanwood, and she promised herself she wouldn’t be flaky here.
Still, the alternative glows temptingly. Going home, curling up on the couch, and hearing the rain drum against the windows while she reads? Yeah, that sounds so much better.
The thought dissolves when she realizes she’s only ten minutes away from Ella’s. No point turning back now. Camila presses on, wipers screeching in protest, headlights carving narrow tunnels through the downpour, hoping the road keeps meeting her where she expects it to be.
Camila hasn’t seen Ella since they met in Chicago about five years ago at an art convention. Camila had been on a panel that day, talking about the importance of art conservationists, fielding questions under sharp fluorescent lights while trying not to think about how stiff the chair was.
What followed afterward hadn’t exactly been a hangout.
It had been closer to an awkward one-night stand that ended with both of them agreeing that friendship would be the better category for them.
They’d parted on polite terms and checked in on each other sparingly through the years until their communication had fizzled out.
It’s been at least two years since they last spoke.
Camila wasn’t sure if Ella still lived in the area until a few months ago, when she reached out to say she was moving nearby and wondered if Ella might want to catch up.
Camila doesn’t really know anyone out here.
Sure, she grew up a couple of hours away, in Bremerton, but there’s no one there she feels the faintest pull to reconnect with.
So, Ella’s familiar face feels like a lifeline, or at least a foothold—something to make the transition easier—or so her therapist had said during their last session.
Rain comes down harder, thickening into ripples that force Camila to ease her foot off the gas.
She flicks her eyes to the dashboard screen and exhales when she sees the estimate.
Five minutes. She’s so close. The relief barely lands before the car beside her suddenly veers into her lane.
No blinker. No warning. Total asshole move.
Camila slams the horn and hits the brakes.
Her stomach drops as the distance between their bumpers shrinks to nothing.
For one terrible second, she’s sure that she’s about to rear-end someone in the middle of a downpour.
What the hell is wrong with them? she thinks.
The car slows to a crawl, and so does Camila, pulse roaring in her ears. She inches forward, trying to get past the other vehicle, when, at the last second, it swerves back into its lane and speeds off, taillights dissolving into the rain.
“What the fuck,” Camila mutters, hands locked tight around the steering wheel. Her heart hammers so hard it rattles her chest, breath coming quick and shallow.
It takes a few shaky inhales before she trusts her foot enough to ease off the brake.
She can’t just sit here, stalled in the middle of the road.
As she starts to move again, something dark on the shoulder catches her eye.
A black shape, indistinct in the rain. She tells herself to ignore it; she doesn’t have the bandwidth for curiosity right now.
Still, she slows. Probably trash, she thinks.
Except it moves, and suddenly, she realizes trash isn’t the right word at all.
Her heart sinks as the shape of a cat breaks through the blur of water. Small and soaked, barely more than a blur against the shoulder until she’s right beside it.
She eases off the gas, creeping forward until the car crawls alongside. The cat balls itself up against the cement, trying to disappear, shaking so hard the rain slicks its fur flat. Its ears lay pinned to its head, body hunched tight and defensive.
Camila pulls over. Hazards on. She rolls her window down a crack.
“Hey, honey,” she calls softly.
The cat hisses, sharp and frightened, pressing itself closer to the concrete.
Camila stays where she is, hands still on the wheel, watching this tiny creature shiver on the side of the road. Yellow-green eyes stare back at her, wide and terrified. It’s so small, she can’t imagine it being more than a few months old.
Her heart clenches into a hard knot, but she doesn’t know what to do.
If she moves too fast, she might scare it into bolting straight into traffic.
So she watches instead, scanning carefully for blood, for torn fur, for anything obvious.
Thankfully, she doesn’t see any open wounds, which feels like a small mercy.
Still, something’s wrong.
The cat’s posture is off; the way it’s sitting isn’t quite right. It’s as if part of it refuses to cooperate. Camila squints through the rain, trying to pinpoint why, but she can’t figure it out.
She opens her car door, never taking her eyes off the cat, and steps into the pouring rain. Cold droplets soak through her clothes instantly, stealing her breath and warmth.
“It’s okay,” she murmurs as she kneels on the slick pavement. “I’m not here to hurt you.”
She inches closer, moving slowly as rain plasters her hair to her face.
Camila extends one arm, palm open, letting the cat catch her scent.
She isn’t entirely sure this is the right thing to do.
She’s only ever had dogs. Cats are a different language altogether, and she’s improvising, hoping instinct counts for something, but it must have been the wrong thing to do, because the cat suddenly darts away.
Camila follows, heart leaping forward, and that’s when she sees it—a limp. One hind leg drags instead of landing. The cat tries to run again, but pain must steal the effort halfway through, and it collapses back onto the shoulder. Relief and dread tangle in Camila’s chest.
Confident now that it won’t make it far, she moves closer, close enough that she’s almost touching it. To her surprise, the cat doesn’t try to run. It trembles in place, lets out a thin meow, but stays rooted to the pavement.
Carefully, Camila gathers the small body into her arms.
It’s lighter than she expects—too light. Bones feel sharp beneath rain-soaked fur as the cat sags against her chest, utterly spent.
A heaviness settles behind her ribs as she wonders what it must have gone through to give up this easily, to allow itself to be lifted without a fight.
“Good job,” she whispers as she tucks the cat inside her jacket, shielding it from the rain, and hustles back to the car.
Once inside, she shuts the door and cradles the small, shivering weight against her carefully, one hand steadying its back.
“Hang on, buddy,” Camila says, glancing down at the damp little face peeking out from her jacket. “I’ll get you help.”
She grabs her phone, fires off a quick message to Ella to cancel, then pulls up directions to the nearest veterinary clinic. The engine revs, wipers thrash, and Camila pulls back onto the road.