Chapter 20
T he house smelled like eggs and fresh oranges and caramelizing sugar. The kitchen windows were open, the sea breeze floating in, soft and bright, and for a second it felt like we were just a normal, warm, together kind of family.
But Fitz looked like he hadn’t slept. He was quiet, in that tightly wound, stiff-shouldered way that made you wonder if someone had poured concrete down his throat and told him to smile through it.
He sat at the far end of the big dining table, next to my dad, nursing black coffee like it left a bitter aftertaste.
The sleeves of his white Oxford were rolled to his elbows, forearms tanned and tense.
I couldn’t stop looking at him. And I really needed to.
Jazz was pouring orange juice into a pitcher with her usual soft energy, cheeks still pink from the sun, her curls up in a claw clip. She moved to the counter, bottle of champagne in hand, and said brightly, “Fitz, does Sloane like mimosas? I was going to make a batch.”
There was a pause. A long one .
Fitz didn’t even glance up from his mug. “She would never mix juice with champagne,” he said, voice flat. “She always says it’s sacrilege.”
Jazz turned around slowly, blinking. “Oh. Well, damn. I like my champagne with fruit and bubbles, so I guess I’m a heathen.”
Fitz let out a breath and shook his head, turning to Jazz. “Sorry. That came out shitty. You don’t need to make an extra one.” He reached for the pitcher anyway and poured some juice into a glass. “She left early this morning.”
Jazz blinked. “Oh.”
“Oh?” my mom said, from where she was slicing strawberries at the kitchen island. She looked up, knife hovering. “Shoot. I wish I’d gotten a chance to talk with her more. But I’ll see her at the wedding, right?”
Fitz’s jaw tightened. He didn’t look at anyone when he said, “That’s unlikely. We’ve...decided to part ways.”
For a moment, we existed in total complete silence like someone had muted the room mid-laugh.
“Oh,” my mom said again, softer this time. “Oh, Fitz. I’m sorry.”
“That’s too bad,” my dad added, clearing his throat and adjusting his napkin like it could redirect the conversation back into safer waters. “You two looked great together.”
Jazz came around the table and sat down, her brow furrowed. “Was it—like...mutual? Or…”
Fitz looked at his coffee like it held all the answers in the world. “It was time,” he said.
That answer wasn’t enough for the Winslow crew, of course. “Did she want it?” Jack asked, biting into a biscuit. “Or was this something you initiated?”
Fitz gave a non-answer shrug. “It wasn’t working.”
“Really?” my mom asked, tilting her head. “You two seemed like you fit well. All sophisticated and polished.”
That was the exact word, wasn’t it? Polished. Like marble. Like something cold and perfect and unchanging.
Fitz leaned back in his chair and rubbed a hand over his face. “We weren’t fighting. It just wasn’t right. Not in the way it should be.”
My stomach twisted.
“Well,” my dad said, always the closer, “better now than five years down the line.”
“Exactly,” Fitz said, grateful for the out. “We’re both adults. It was...respectful.”
And that was it. The room moved on. The eggs were passed. Mimosas refilled. My mom brought out a lemon poppyseed loaf like it had been planned for comfort food all along.
Fitz didn’t look at me once, but I could feel it—the weight of him in the room. The heat that still lived between us, pressed between the spaces of every shared silence. He might’ve been composed, but I could feel the fault lines in him, trembling just under the skin.
And all I could think was—they asked who ended it; they didn’t ask why. That was a secret we were still keeping. Even from ourselves.
E veryone peeled off to do their own thing after brunch like it was choreographed.
Mom pulled Dad toward the door with a gleam in her eye, clutching her sunhat in one hand and her phone in the other, already talking about a nearby garden that had heirloom roses in full bloom— divine, she called them.
“You’ll love them, honey,” she said, kissing his cheek as he reached for the golf cart keys.
“Or at least I will! They have this one called Distant Drizzle. It looks like a watercolor in the fog.”
Jazz offered to help clean up, already rolling up her sleeves and reaching for the sponge, but Jack caught her wrist with a grin.
“Dishes can wait,” he said. “I want a beach walk with my bride.” She smiled as he kissed her knuckles like some 1940s movie star, and the two of them slipped out into the sun, wine glasses still in hand, already laughing about something I didn’t catch.
And then it was just us.
I started clearing dishes instinctively, rinsing them, letting the silence settle around me like an old quilt. I’d half expected him to vanish upstairs or pretend to take a work call just to avoid me entirely, but he didn’t.
He stood from the table, walked over to the sink without saying a word, and started helping. No announcement. No sigh. Just Fitz—buttoned up, brows drawn, jaw set in that way that made his silence feel louder than anyone else’s shouting .
He grabbed a dish towel. I handed him a plate. And for a moment, we worked in tandem like it was something we’d done a hundred times before. Maybe we had, but not like this. Not with the air humming between us. Not with everything unsaid pushing at the walls.
I was stacking plates, rinsing the ones that didn’t fit in the dishwasher. Every few minutes our hands bumped as we reached for the same glass. Neither of us looked at the other.
“You always did retreat to the kitchen when shit got awkward,” he said eventually, voice too casual, like he was trying to land the line without showing his aim.
I snorted. “You always did pretend nothing ever was awkward.”
He didn’t laugh. Didn’t look over. He just rinsed another dish and passed it off like we were coworkers.
“She doesn’t like mimosas?” I asked, rinsing a fork. “Really? Who the fuck doesn’t like mimosas?”
Fitz didn’t answer for a second. “Said they were for people who don’t actually like champagne.”
I raised an eyebrow. “The snobbery sounds exhausting.”
“It was,” he muttered.
A beat passed. I should’ve let it go. I didn’t. “She seemed perfect for you, though,” I said, tone lighter than it felt. “Smart, glossy elegance. Neutral enough to not upset the family aesthetic. As my dad said, you guys did look good together.”
Fitz dried his hands on a dish towel, slower than necessary. “Looking good has never really been the problem,” he said. Flat. Quiet.
He turned his head, finally meeting my eyes. There was something worn there, something tired and unsaid. I felt the heat rise in my face because that comment could be about Sloane, but it could not be about her too.
I stared at the sink. My fingers were pruned, and the dishwater had gone lukewarm.
“So,” he said after a long silence, his voice clipped again, retreating back behind walls I couldn’t see over. “What’s your plan for today? Another seven-hour baking session or…?”
I hesitated. Should’ve lied. Didn’t. “Thatcher’s picking me up in a bit. We’re heading down to the bakery. He wants to see how the install’s going.”
Fitz let out a laugh. A single, bitter sound. “Of course he does.”
I turned slowly. “Excuse me?”
He leaned against the counter, arms crossed. The acerbic tone was nothing new, but I didn’t know why he was now aiming it at me.
“It’s cute—how he suddenly cares so much. Just a guy who happened to wander into your life right as your permit hit review. Right as a dozen developers decided Bellwater Cove might be the next gold mine.”
I stared at him. “Wow. Subtle.”
He shrugged. “I’m just saying?—”
“No, you’re not just saying anything. You’re making insinuations because you’re pissed off and sad and too proud to admit it.”
“I’m not sad.”
“Then you’re mean. And I’m not in the mood to be your emotional punching bag, Fitz.”
He exhaled, looked past me, out the window like maybe he could find a better version of this conversation in the dunes.
I grabbed a dish towel, drying my hands with an abrasive quickness. “You should go de-stress,” I said. “Drink a beer. Bury yourself in sand and let Jack drone on about his fantasy baseball league. That’s always relaxing.”
His eyes cut back to me. “You always this dismissive when someone’s trying to look out for you? ”
“You’re not looking out for me. You’re lashing out.”
“And you’re blind to it.”
“Blind to what, Fitz? I’m sorry that I’m going to see the guy I’m dating and you just ended a relationship and you don’t want to hear about it. I shouldn’t have told you. But you don’t need to be nasty about Thatcher.”
I took a breath. Let it sit between us like a dare. And then I said, “You didn’t want her, Fitz—and that’s fine. But you don’t get to punish me for it.”
The words landed. Hard.
He didn’t answer. Didn’t move.
I walked out of the kitchen, heart pounding, towel still clutched in my hand. And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel warm when he looked at me. I felt scorched.