Chapter 4 — James
I watch her walk away through the bay doors, and it feels like watching history repeat itself.
Fourteen years ago, she left and I told myself it was the right choice. The mature choice. I convinced myself that the age gap mattered, that the timing was wrong, that letting her go was protecting both of us from something that couldn't work.
I've regretted it every day since.
And I just did it again.
She asked me what I wanted, and I stood there like an idiot with no answer, and she walked away.
Again.
I turn back toward my office and nearly run into Rhett.
He's standing in the hallway with his arms crossed, watching me with that particular expression he gets when he's noticed something and is deciding whether to comment on it.
"You good?" he asks.
"Fine."
"That why you've been distracted all day?"
I look at him. Rhett doesn't ask questions like that unless he already knows the answer.
"She's finishing the assessment tomorrow and leaving," I say, which is not an answer to his question but is the only thing I can manage.
Rhett nods slowly. "And that's a problem because?"
"It's not a problem."
"Right." He doesn't move. "So the fact that you've been checking your phone every ten minutes and looking at the bay doors every time someone walks through them has nothing to do with Investigator Holt."
I don't have a good response to that.
Rhett's expression softens slightly. "Whatever's going on with you two, you might want to figure it out before she leaves town."
He walks away before I can tell him there's nothing to figure out, which is good because we both know it would be a lie.
I head back to my office and close the door.
The room still smells like her. Faint, but there. Something floral underneath the coffee and paper.
I sit at my desk and try to focus on the reports I need to file, the scheduling that needs to be done, the dozen small tasks that make up the administrative side of running a station.
I can't focus on any of it.
All I can think about is the look on her face when she asked what I wanted and I didn't have an answer.
The problem is I do have an answer. I've had an answer since she walked through my bay doors yesterday morning.
I want her. I want her in ways that have nothing to do with convenience or history or unfinished business.
I want her in my life, in my bed, in my space.
I want to know what she's thinking when she gets that small crease between her eyebrows.
I want to know how she takes her coffee and what she reads before bed and whether she still makes that breathless sound when I kiss her neck.
I want all of it.
But wanting something and knowing how to ask for it are two different things, and I've spent forty-eight years being the person who solves other people's problems while keeping my own needs contained.
I don't know how to be vulnerable enough to tell her what I actually feel.
And because I don't know how, I'm going to lose her again.
My phone sits on my desk, dark and silent. I could text her. I could call. I could drive to her hotel and finish the conversation we started in my office.
I do none of those things.
Instead, I sit at my desk and stare at reports I'm not reading until Declan knocks on my door and tells me dinner's ready.
The crew is at the table when I walk in. Travis and Garrett are already eating. Murphy is telling some story that has Anthony laughing. Declan is serving pasta onto plates with the kind of focus that suggests he's actually proud of whatever he made.
It looks normal. It feels normal.
I feel like I'm watching it happen from outside my own body.
I sit down, and Travis slides a plate in front of me.
"You look like hell, Cap," Murphy says cheerfully.
"Thanks."
"Rough day?"
"Something like that."
Declan leans back in his chair. "The investigator finish up?"
"Tomorrow morning."
"She seemed thorough," Travis says, and there's something careful in the way he says it. Like he's testing the waters.
"She is."
"Pretty too," Murphy adds.
Garrett gives him a look that says shut up, and Murphy has the good sense to take the hint.
We eat in relative silence after that, and I'm grateful for it. I don't have the energy to participate in conversation, don't have the focus to pretend everything is fine.
After dinner, I help clean up because sitting still feels impossible. Murphy and Declan handle the washing while I dry and put things away, and the familiar routine is almost enough to settle my mind.
Almost.
"You know," Declan says, not looking at me, "when I was hung up on someone a few years back, Jonas told me something that actually helped."
I don't ask what Jonas said. I'm not sure I want to know.
Declan tells me anyway.
"He said that regret from trying is easier to live with than regret from not trying."
The words sit heavy in the space between us.
"And was he right?" I ask finally.
"Yeah." Declan grins. "Didn't work out with her, but at least I knew. Didn't have to spend the rest of my life wondering."
He heads back to the common room, and I'm left standing in the kitchen with a dish towel and the particular weight that comes from knowing someone just said exactly what you needed to hear and you're still not sure you're brave enough to act on it.
I finish cleaning up and head to my office.
The station settles into its evening rhythm. The crew disperses, some to the common room, some to the workout space, some upstairs to the bunks. I can hear the low murmur of voices, the occasional burst of laughter, the familiar sounds of people I trust occupying space around me.
I've built a good life here. I have a job I'm good at, a crew that respects me, a daughter I'm proud of, a place in this community that matters.
And I'm lonely in ways I've spent a decade pretending not to notice.
I pull out my phone and stare at Tess's name in my contacts.
We exchanged numbers yesterday during the assessment setup. Professional necessity. Except there's nothing professional about what I want to say to her.
I start typing a message three separate times and delete it each time.
We need to talk sounds too impersonal.
I'm sorry doesn't capture it.
I can't stop thinking about you is too much too fast.
I set the phone down and lean back in my chair.
The truth is I've been thinking about her for fourteen years. The truth is when she walked into my station yesterday, it felt like something clicking into place.
The truth is I've compared every woman I've been with since to an eight-week relationship I had when I was thirty-four, and none of them have ever measured up.
The truth is I'm half in love with her and have been for longer than I want to admit.
But I don't know how to say that without sounding like I've lost my mind.
How do I tell her that I think about her when I'm running in the mornings? That I wondered for years whether she was happy, whether she found someone who deserved her, whether she ever thought about me?
How do I tell her that yesterday morning when she walked through those bay doors, my first thought was that I'd been given a second chance I didn't deserve?
How do I tell her that last night wasn't just physical for me? That being inside her felt like coming home? That when she left looking like she regretted it, something in my chest cracked?
How do I tell her any of that when I'm forty-eight years old and I still don't know how to be vulnerable with the people I care about?
My phone buzzes.
For a second, my heart jumps, thinking it's her.
It's Maya. A text that says: How's work? You sounded weird when I called earlier.
I didn't realize I'd sounded weird. I thought I'd been fine.
I type back: Work's fine. How's summer session?
Boring. Are you okay?
The question sits on my screen, and I realize my daughter can read me better than I can read myself.
Yeah. Just dealing with some stuff.
Want to talk about it?
I stare at the message.
Maya is nineteen. She's smart and perceptive and has no patience for bullshit, which means if I tell her what's going on, she's going to call me on every excuse I try to make.
There's someone, I type. Someone I knew a long time ago. She's back in town for work.
The response is immediate: And?
And I don't know what to do about it.
Three dots appear, then disappear, then appear again.
Finally: Do you want her?
The question is so simple it almost makes me laugh.
Yeah.
She responds immediately: Does she want you?
I think so. Maybe. I don't know.
Then again: Did you ask her?
I look at my phone and realize my nineteen-year-old daughter just cut through every excuse I've been making.
Dad… Come on. You're smarter than this.
I reply: It's complicated.
Everything's complicated.
I read the message three times.
When did you get so wise?
I've always been wise. You're just now noticing.
Despite everything, I smile.
Thanks, kid.
Then finally: Go talk to her. Before she leaves town and you spend the next however many years being weird about it.
The fact that my daughter just described exactly what happened fourteen years ago is not lost on me.
I set the phone down and stand.
I need to talk to Tess. Need to finish the conversation we started in my office. Need to tell her what I actually feel instead of standing there like an idiot while she walks away.
I just need to figure out what I'm going to say.
The problem is I've spent my entire adult life being guarded with my words. Measured. Controlled. I say what needs to be said and no more, and that approach has kept me safe for forty-eight years.
Safe from disappointment. Safe from vulnerability. Safe from the particular kind of hurt that comes from wanting something you can't have.
But it's also kept me alone.
And I'm tired of being alone.
I grab my keys and head for the door.
Rhett is in the common room when I pass through. He looks up from whatever he's reading, takes in my expression, and nods.
"Good luck, Cap."
I don't ask how he knows where I'm going.
The drive to the Comfort Inn takes seven minutes. I spend all seven trying to figure out what I'm going to say when I get there.