Chapter Thirty-One #2
Haley stifles a laugh. “For what? Cutting the cake?”
Eleanor elbows Louisa’s side. “Or challenging our mom to a duel?”
“For sweeping Phil off her feet, obviously,” Louisa says.
“I suspect an apology would be more effective,” Eleanor says.
“And an adult conversation,” Haley offers.
Louisa rolls her eyes in a way that suggests she has no patience for our sisters’ lack of imagination.
I can’t help but smile, even while my insides are a tangled disaster and my mind is racing.
What if he’s not on the ship? What if he is on the ship?
What if he’s here to fight for me? What if he isn’t?
What am I supposed to do with that incredible ship if I don’t have a dock?
“Well?” Louisa asks. “Are you waiting for us to drag you down there?”
“No. No, sorry.” I blink myself out of my stupor and find my way to my feet, gaining courage with each step as I cross the lawn and head to the end of the long dock, where I watch the Zephyr’s Revenge II continue her approach, tacking to make good use of the wind.
As she nears, I pick out a crew of five or six and, at last, a tall, broad-shouldered man with a familiar head of tousled black curls, standing at the rail near the prow.
Louisa will be disappointed to learn he’s not in pirate regalia.
Nor does he have a sword strapped to his side.
He’s in jeans, a faded tee, and the cardigan I coveted all winter.
He’s not Zane Scarlett. He’s Dylan Harley Sterling, and my chest swells with hope at the sight of him, even though he broke my heart.
With skills I couldn’t even emulate in my dreams, the crew sails the ship up to the dock, and two of the crew members leap down to secure the lines that get tossed off the side.
I’d help, but I’m rooted to my spot, too busy taking in the polished woodwork, the fresh paint, the majestic masts, the new shrouds, and the bold black sails the crew is efficiently reefing.
She would’ve loved this, I think. My god, she would’ve loved this.
Dylan steps toward the top of the rope ladder that hangs off the side of the ship, and I step toward the base.
For a long moment, we look at each other without speaking, as though we both know the distance between us is greater than it appears, and climbing up or down a ladder won’t erase it.
But we have to start somewhere, and I’m eager to see the rest of the ship, so when he leans down and extends a hand, I tuck up my long skirt and climb.
He hauls me onto the main deck, and I take a moment to appreciate the work that’s been done.
The woodwork is beautifully sanded and stained.
The brass is polished and hammered into shape.
The masts stand tall, with gleaming cleats and rigging.
Everything smells fresh and new. And this is just what I can see from here.
What lies belowdecks, I can only imagine.
“They said she was ready,” Dylan says. “I wanted you to see her as soon as possible.”
I nod, swallowing a lump in my throat. She’s so beautiful, so whimsical, so full of life, so ready for a joyful adventure, so Iris Flynn.
I’m standing on a loving tribute to her imagination, brought to life by the fans for whom she’ll never truly be gone, and for the first time since the For Sale sign went up at the house, I don’t feel any rage or sadness. All I feel is gratitude.
“I can’t—” I start, but Dylan holds up a hand.
“Please,” he says. “Before you tell me what you can’t do.”
I close my mouth, swallow again, and nod.
He drags a hand down his face and then scratches his collarbone, restless, as usual.
“I’m sorry I left,” he says. “Really sorry. I didn’t realize the instinct was so strong until you told me you got the job.
I tried that night, but every minute, every second felt like another goodbye.
I couldn’t bear another day of that, or another two weeks.
” He grips the neckline of his T-shirt, flexes his hand, and lowers it to his side, where his fingers keep twitching away.
“When we talked about how to know if something’s worth fighting for, I think we got one thing wrong.
I think, sometimes, we do ask questions.
Then we fight. But I made the mistake of assuming I needed to ask those questions alone, instead of with you. ”
He shifts his stance. I shift mine, both of us adjusting to the light rocking of the ship. I’m vaguely aware a wedding reception is happening behind me, and children are checking out the ship while the crew answers questions and prevents anyone from boarding. But only vaguely.
“I don’t know if you’re willing to give me another chance,” Dylan continues.
“I’ll understand if you’re not. I got scared and ran.
I broke your trust. But I’ll do anything to earn it back and to show you I’m ready to fight for this.
For us.” He takes a tentative step toward me.
And then another. “I’ll move to Idaho. We’ll find a way to make enough money to keep your house standing.
I talked to Trish. We can do themed sailings this summer.
Tour the ship down the coast and back. And if we can’t write Iris’s books, we’ll write our own.
” He thrusts his hands into his pockets and takes them out again, where they fist and flex against his sides.
He’s such a mess, so rife with fears and uncertainties, but so am I, and no one falls in love with a finished product of a person.
We fall in love with the work in progress, the work that will always be in progress.
If we’re lucky, we get to do some of that work together.
“What made you change your mind?” I ask.
“Nothing. Everything.” He gusts out a laugh.
“Trying to write. Trying to sleep. Making a sandwich. Riding my bike. Taking a shower. Getting rained on. Hearing a song you used to hum. Drinking a really good glass of wine and realizing I’d rather have a terrible one if I was having it with you.
” He continues shifting and shuffling, his eyes a little wild, a little desperate, as the wind toys with his hair and twilight paints his hawkish nose and strong cheekbones in soft shades of blue and purple.
After what he’s put me through, he has no right to look so beautiful, standing here on this vessel of pure imagination, her mere existence suggesting all we’d need to do is point her toward the horizon, and we’ll sail away to the Island of Diamonds and Desire.
Although . . .
I mean . . .
It wouldn’t be the worst idea . . .
I do need a place to live . . .
And it could solve the mooring issue . . .
“Don’t move to Idaho,” I say.
Dylan frowns as he takes a step back. “Right. Sorry. Okay. Obviously, I have work to do.”
“That’s not what I mean.” I allow myself a quiet smile. “I didn’t take the job.”
Dylan’s brows pinch together in confusion. “But you had a plan.”
“Yeah, I did,” I say on a breath of laughter. “Until I didn’t.”
He continues frowning at me. I continue trying not to panic about not having a plan.
If Iris Flynn wrote this moment, I’d be in his arms by now while he showered me with passionate kisses and emphatic declarations about how he can’t live without me, but as I once told him, I like romance that feels real, so here we are.
Despite the pirate ship, this feels about as real as it gets.
Messy, uncertain, and full of mistakes we’ll probably repeat in days to come.
He assumed I was taking the job and leaving him.
I was too conflicted to even suggest otherwise.
And yet, he fought his demons to return; I fought mine to stay; and I suspect, with or without swords, we’ll have an easier time fighting the demons yet to come if we fight them together.
“The house is up for sale,” I say.
Dylan opens his mouth, but this time I stop him with a raised hand.