35. Charlotte Gallagher
Charlotte Gallagher
The beach here is not the same as the island. The sand’s lighter, the trees sit differently, and the water is a different shade of blue. Despite the differences, some mornings I wake up and just lie there listening to the water, and for a second it’s easy to forget I’m not back on the island.
Until I reach for Dane and find the space beside me empty.
But I’m not alone.
I didn’t expect a relationship with Christina. I didn’t think she’d be much help either, and I was wrong about that almost immediately.
What surprised me more was that she stayed.
When I told her she could go home, she looked at the water, then the cottage, and just shrugged, like the decision had already been made.
She likes it here.
We’ve fallen into something without ever naming it. She makes coffee before I’m up. We cook dinner together—she teaches, I follow. In the evenings, we sit on the porch and watch the light fade. Sometimes we talk. Sometimes we don’t. It’s comfortable either way.
Marcus and the girls come down every couple of weeks—Friday to Sunday—and the cottage that feels just right for two somehow stretches to fit five without it feeling crowded.
By the time Friday rolls around, I find myself listening for the sound of their car in the driveway.
I like having them here.
Zara’s out of the car and straight to the water every time, only stopping long enough to drop her bag. It gets me every time.
Isla hangs back at first—watching, taking it all in, figuring out the place before she lets herself settle. By Saturday she’s barefoot in the kitchen, singing under her breath, her shoes kicked off by the door like they’ve always lived there.
It’s one of those weekends when the cottage feels full in all the right ways.
I leave them to it for a while and head down to the beach.
I’m taking an evening walk along the shoreline when Dane calls. I answer, and his face fills the screen.
There it is—that pull in my chest. Like my breath catching halfway in.
“Hey, babe,” he says.
“Hey.”
He’s sitting at the kitchen table in our house in Brisbane, the window behind him, the edge of a curtain just visible in the frame. The distance between that room and this beach feels impossible sometimes.
He looks tired.
“Tell me again... how much longer until I see you?”
“Two more months. We’ve made it four. We can do two more.”
The plan is working.
The media has mostly moved on. There are fewer stories, fewer photos, fewer strangers dissecting our lives online. Every week the noise fades a little more.
That was the whole point.
Give people enough time, and eventually they find something else to care about.
“I’m starting to wonder if I can last that long.”
I smile. “You can.”
“I’m running out of patience when it comes to being away from you.”
“That’s not new.”
“No,” he says. “I suppose it’s not.”
Something softens in his expression.
“I miss you too,” I say.
“Tell me something,” he says after a second.
“Like what?”
“What you’re doing.”
“I’m walking on the beach. Getting some exercise.”
“That’s not helpful.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because I’m picturing you in a bikini.” He pauses. “And it’s not making this any easier.”
I smile at the screen.
If he only knew.
“I’m not wearing a bikini, if that helps.”
“Good,” he says immediately. “I don’t want anyone looking at you.”
I glance down the shoreline, empty in both directions, the sand stretching clean to the headland.
“There’s no one here. Not for miles. It’s almost like being back on the island.”
He lets out a low breath.
“Charlotte—”
“I’m just telling you what it’s like.”
“You’re doing more than that.”
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
I smile, watching the water slide over my feet.
“Maybe.”
“I could leave,” he says suddenly. “Get on the yacht. Be there in a few days.”
“You’re not doing that.”
“I could though.”
“Dane—”
“I’m serious.”
“Dane—” I can't help smiling. “Two more months. Then you'll be here with me.”
I turn the phone and give him the view—the water, the fading light, nothing but open space.
“Our own private paradise.”
“Two months is too long.”
I step into the shallows, warm water swirling around my calves.
“It’s almost over.”
“Good,” he says, quieter now. “Because I’m so fucking done with being away from you.”
Something in my chest tightens.
“Me too,” I say softly. “Come the second you can. I’ll be here waiting.”
“Yeah.”
He holds my gaze.
“I love you.”
“I love you too. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Talk soon.”
After I hang up, I keep staring out at the water.
The water shifts around my legs, warm and steady. The sun has dropped lower now, everything washed in pink and amber. Soon the sky will turn that deep shade of blue that comes just before dark.
Two more months.
I’ve gone over how to tell him more times than I can count. Thought about saying it over the phone. Thought about blurting it out halfway through a conversation.
But it never felt right. A screen is too small for something like this.
So I’ve kept it to myself.
He thinks I came here to find a home for the two of us.
And I did.
But now it’s a home for three.
My hand drifts to my stomach before I even realize I’m doing it.
It always does now.
There’s someone else waiting for him too.
A smile tugs at my mouth before I can stop it.
I don’t let myself think too far ahead. Not yet. Not after the way things ended last time.
Keeping this from him is the right thing to do.
The second he finds out, he’ll be on that yacht and halfway across the ocean before anyone can talk sense into him. He’ll come straight to me—to us—and risk everything we’ve spent the last four months trying to protect.
So I wait.
Let him get here first.
Let him step onto this beach and breathe.
Let the last six months fall away from him properly—not through a screen, not in pieces.
Then I’ll tell him.
Then I’ll show him.