15. Sophie #2
She glances at Ashton. He’s careful—doesn’t interrupt. Just nods, accepting, almost grateful.
June’s voice is steady, the confidence hard-won. “I trust him not to mess up again. But I’m not going to move at anyone’s speed except my own. And—” She lets the silence get heavy. “If he does screw up, it’s over. No more passes.”
For a second, all the air gets sucked out of the room. Then Ashton sets down his glass, careful, like every motion is choreographed. “That’s fair. I want this to work, but it can’t unless you want it, too.”
It’s quiet again, but this time, it’s gentler.
June reaches for her champagne. Her hand hovers—maybe wanting to land on Ashton’s—but she lets it drop to her lap instead.
Eddie, sensing the emotional weight, bails us out. “You guys are adorable. But not as adorable as Meredith stress-buying nautical pillows at two in the morning.”
Meredith turns pink, possibly for the first time in her life. “One time.”
“You bought six,” I say, delighted.
“Returnable,” she snaps, but she’s laughing now.
And that’s the groove the rest of the night finds—stories, mockery, the clink of glasses against the backdrop of creaking beams and the snarl of the wind outside.
I catch June watching it all, eyes shiny, smile easy. She’s home. Maybe for the first time ever.
As for Ashton, he catches my glance and shrugs helplessly. “I know I don’t deserve it. But I’m grateful. To all of you.”
Meredith lets it stand. “Keep showing up, and maybe you’ll stick.”
He raises his glass. “To showing up.”
We all drink to that.
Then, our calm night becomes a little less…quiet.
The commotion starts even before they hit the steps. Crash of sneakers. Someone’s half-shouted, “Race you!” Then the deck boards shake, and suddenly every peaceful, careful thing from the last hour is trampled by adolescent energy and the stench of wet turf and sweat.
Trent and Danny explode onto the porch, arms around each other’s shoulders like they’ve been fused by the game. Their faces are still pink from the field, hair a disaster, uniforms streaked with mud and grass. Rebecca trails them with a smile and closes the door once she’s inside.
Danny’s talking a mile a minute, voice echoing off the lighthouse walls. “You would not believe that last-minute save. Dude, your slide tackle was legendary!”
Trent shoves him, but he’s grinning. “You’re the legend. You absolutely saved my butt out there. Coach lost ten years off his life, minimum.”
Inside, the grownups catch on quickly. June leaps to her feet, clapping, shrieking in full proud-sister mode. She grabs Rebecca and pulls her into a hug. The rest of us trail behind, riding the fresh surge.
With Trent’s girlfriend at her side, June grins at the boys, glass held high. “Show us the goal again. Walk us through your glory!”
Danny doesn’t hesitate. He pantomimes the whole sequence, hands flailing, while Trent tries to downplay it but ends up swept along. Rebecca grins with pride, and Trent reaches for her hand, pulling her from June to his side.
The air inside the lighthouse is different now. Louder, full of kinetic heat, every window fogged from the sudden spike of bodies and voices.
Even Ashton looks like he’s enjoying himself, posting up in a corner and watching the kids with real admiration. “That was impressive,” he says, nodding at Trent. “Your footwork’s a work of art.”
Trent blushes, but he doesn’t disagree.
The noise is relentless. I can barely hear myself think, which is both a curse and a relief. I let it wash over me for a few minutes, allowing the warmth and chaos to do the heavy lifting.
Danny’s already found the snacks, piling a plate with whatever June and Eddie have wrangled together from Birdie’s. The teens drop to the floor, backs against the couch, trading war stories while Rebecca regales them with praise.
Noah’s standing by the door, half-in, half-out, like he’s unsure where he belongs.
I make the call. “Hey,” I say, catching his sleeve as I pass. “Come out with me?”
He pauses. For a second, I think he’ll retreat. But he follows.
The deck is empty, except for us and the wind. The brine cuts clean, slicing away the last of the inside commotion, even though the door is open. I brace my elbows on the rail, letting the wood bite my forearms.
For a few moments, neither of us says anything.
Noah leans next to me, arms folded, stare fixed on a patch of angry surf chewing the shoreline. His presence is a comfort—steady, none of that brittle tension from our first months together.
I rest my hand on the railing. He covers it, fingers rough but careful, his thumb tracing slow, weightless circles on my knuckles. The air between us is warmer than it should be. I try to find the words, but he beats me to it.
“I like it here,” he says, voice scratchy-soft. “Guess I didn’t expect that.”
A crooked smile pushes up. “Because it’s not home, or because it’s everything you thought you wanted and it’s not as scary as you thought?”
He huffs out a laugh. “A little of both. Mostly, it’s you.”
That hits me right where it hurts, in all the best ways. I lean closer, our shoulders touching. “I think we might actually make this work.”
Noah squeezes my hand, and for the first time, his smile cracks all the way through, pure and genuine. “You think?”
“I do.”
It could be enough. It could be everything. We walk back inside, hand in hand, to join the others.
But the island’s never done with us.
Before we shut the door, there’s a crunch of tires. I stiffen, glancing over my shoulder—it’s too far for details, just the silhouette of a vehicle nosing up the drive. Noah sees it, too. He straightens, a subtle shift from comfort to alert.
The noise dips as we step fully inside. Meredith stands; Eddie sets down his glass. Even the boys freeze. For a beat, the only sound is the hammer of waves, and the uncertain hush of people holding their breath.