15. Charlotte Gallagher
Charlotte Gallagher
Five Years Later
The wind shifts late in the afternoon. There’s something different about it, enough to lift the fine hairs along my arms and make my skin tighten.
I rub my hands over my forearms, trying to shake off the feeling.
The air’s been heavy all day, but this feels different. Uneasy. Like something out there is shifting instead of settling.
I glance toward the water, then up at the sky, not entirely sure what I’m looking for.
Dane’s at the southern wall of the shelter, working on the section that’s been loosening since the last storm. He looks over before I say anything.
His gaze flicks over me—my arms, the sky—then back to my face.
“You sense it too,” he says.
Of course Dane’s already noticed the weather. He always picks up on things before I do.
“The wind’s coming from the south.” That’s never good.
“Yeah.”
The shelter works for most things. It keeps the sun off us during the worst heat, blocks enough wind to stay warm at night, and holds up well against light rain. Open and breathable when the air gets thick. Fine most days.
Not this.
“The shelter won’t do much.”
“I agree.” His eyes drift toward the horizon again. “We should sleep on the yacht tonight.”
I keep my arms folded for a second, holding onto the warmth while I think about it.
There was a time when sleeping on the yacht felt like something you had to prepare yourself for. Something tense and uncomfortable that we only did when we absolutely had to.
That feeling hasn’t completely disappeared, but it’s changed over the years. Blurred into an act of survival the same way everything else has.
It still doesn’t feel comfortable exactly. But it’s dry, and it’ll block the wind.
I look back toward the horizon. The light feels wrong—flatter than it should be, the clouds dragging it down. The temperature’s already starting to drop, and I can feel where it’s headed.
“The yacht, it is.”
A solid shelter in the center of the island would be better. Something built to withstand weather. But we don’t have that.
What we have is the yacht. Old, damaged, and still the safest place we’ve got when the weather starts turning.
He looks at the wall for another second before letting out a quiet breath. “No point reinforcing it now. If a real storm’s coming, it’ll probably tear straight through this place anyway.”
I glance toward the trees as another gust moves through them. “We should grab supplies and go. Enough food and water for a few days, just in case.”
He nods once.
Then we move. I grab what I usually do while Dane takes the heavier things.
The walk is short. The wind follows us the whole way, steady at our backs, cooler than it should be.
I climb aboard first, step onto the deck, and head into the cabin. The air inside carries that same closed-in feeling it always does—old salt, stale air, and something faint underneath it I stopped trying to identify years ago.
We keep the things here that wouldn’t survive outside. Books wrapped against moisture. Papers we couldn’t risk losing. Small things taken from the staterooms we never really needed, but couldn’t allow to decay either.
Everything’s been preserved. Touched by time, but not by weather the way the rest of the island is.
Dane moves through the cabin in his usual way, checking things as he goes, making sure nothing’s been damaged or compromised. It’s automatic with him—that quiet, constant attention he gives anything he’s decided is his responsibility.
I settle at the table, already resigned to the fact that we’ll probably be here a while.
“We could play cards?”
“Chess,” he calls from below deck.
I lean back in the chair, considering it. “Okay. But you’re going to lose.”
He comes back up with the chessboard tucked under one arm, already looking smug about it.
“Why do you look so pleased with yourself?”
“Because I’m going to win.”
“Probably. But you cheat.”
A quiet huff of amusement leaves him as he sets the board down between us. “I don’t cheat. You’re just reckless with your queen.” His mouth curves slightly. “When you have a queen, you’re not supposed to be careless with her.”
Heat flickers low in my stomach at the look he gives me after saying it. Then he drops his gaze and starts arranging the pieces.
Everything Dane does has the same careful precision. Years out here taught him that mistakes cost you, so now he handles everything like it matters.
We fall into the game the way we fall into most things now—easily, without needing to fill the space with words. Dane opens the way he usually does. I counter the way I always do.
The early moves fall into familiar patterns—small adjustments, quiet pressure, each of us trying to get a step ahead without overcommitting. He knows how I think. I know how his mind works. It turns into a steady back-and-forth, each move just slightly ahead of the other’s expectations.
I take his knight. He takes my pawn.
The cold creeps in gradually. Easy to ignore at first—just a faint bite in the air. Then it lingers. Builds.
The cabin becomes cooler than I expected, colder than it did above deck. I shift in my seat, tuck my arms in a little closer, keep my eyes on the board.
It’s manageable for a while. Until suddenly it isn’t anymore.
Dane glances at me, just a slight shift in focus that tells me he’s noticed my discomfort. “You’re cold.”
“Yeah. I’m going to grab something warmer.” I push back from the table and point at him. “Don’t touch one piece on this board while I’m gone.”
A grin pulls at his mouth, that familiar mischievous look flashing briefly across his face. “It’ll be exactly how you left it.”
I narrow my eyes. “I mean it, Dane.”
“Okay.” He lifts one hand slightly. “I promise.”
I hold his gaze another second, trying to decide if that promise means anything at all. Then I nod once and head toward the aft stateroom.
“I’ll know if you move anything.”
The closet opens with a soft release of still air, carrying that faint scent of fabric and time. Everything exactly as it was left.
Her clothes are still there. Nothing moved or disturbed. I know what’s here without really looking.
I run my hand along the row, unhurried, looking for something heavier. My fingers brush over familiar fabrics, seams, and sleeves.
Near the end, I find it.
A jacket, heavier than the rest. Dark, a little stiff—the kind you’d wear on deck when the temperature drops.
I pull it free and slip it on. It’s a little big through the shoulders, but it fits well enough.
I fasten it, and the warmth settles in quickly.
My hands slip into the pockets. The left is empty. The right catches on something.
Small. Solid.
I go still for a second before pulling it free.
A small wrapped box rests in my hand, ribbon tied carefully around it, a card tucked underneath.
The paper’s softened at the edges but still intact. The seal hasn’t been broken. The ribbon—pink and blue—is faded but clear, the bow still neatly tied, like it’s been waiting for the right moment.
I turn it over and recognize my mother’s handwriting.
For Mitchell.
A gift. Saved for a moment that never happened.
I stand there for a second holding it, thinking about that. It’s just… sad… in this quiet, awful way that sneaks up on you before you can stop it.
I head back toward the cabin with the box still in my hand.
Dane looks up as I step into the room. “As promised, not one piece on the board touched.”
Then his attention shifts to what I’m holding.
I cross the cabin and set the box carefully on the table beside the chessboard before sitting back down.
“Found it in the pocket of the jacket.”
His eyes settle on the handwriting, but he doesn’t reach for it.
“Tara’s writing?” he asks quietly.
“Yeah.” I glance at the front again. “It’s for Dad.”
We leave it sitting there between us, neither of us touching it.
It wasn’t meant for us. It belongs to a moment that never happened. The person who meant to give it is gone. So is the person it was meant for.
Whatever this was supposed to be… it stopped before it got there.
I trace my thumb slowly along the ribbon. “I don’t know if we should open it. It feels… personal.”
He studies it for a moment, then nods. “Yeah.”
A beat.
“It’s been here this whole time,” he says.
I look up at him. “That doesn’t make it ours.”
“No… but no one’s coming back for it, Charlotte.”
Of course he’s right.
It’s been sitting here all this time, waiting. Maybe opening it is the closest thing it’ll ever get to the moment it was meant for.
I look at it one more time before sliding my finger beneath the ribbon and loosening it.
Inside is a small folded card. I open it carefully.
Something slips loose, and I catch it before it can fall. A small glossy photograph. Black and gray. Familiar somehow, though it takes me a second to understand why.
I angle it toward the fading light. At first it’s only blurred shapes and shadows. Then my eyes adjust.
The curve of a skull. A spine. A tiny curled body suspended in that unmistakable stillness.
Not fully formed yet. But there.
Dane leans forward, and I tilt it so he can see.
I watch the exact moment it registers for him—the slight pause, the shift in his expression as recognition settles in. Then he leans back slowly.
“Well.”
A beat passes.
“Damn.”
I lower the photograph and unfold the card beneath it. Three short lines written in Mum’s handwriting.
I wasn’t sure how to tell you this again so I thought I’d let this do it for me.
You’re going to be a dad one more time.
I love you.
—Tara
I read it once. Then again.
The words are clear, but suddenly my vision isn’t. The lines blur without warning as my eyes start to burn. I blink hard, trying to steady myself, but it takes a second for everything to sharpen again.
I close the card around the ultrasound photo and set it carefully on the table, thinking about how Mum carried this with her, keeping it hidden away while she waited for the right moment to give it to Dad.
I don’t know how far along she was, or if anyone else knew. Maybe she’d just found out herself and was waiting for the right moment to finally say it out loud.