Chapter 22 Sarah
SARAH
Iwatched as the last of the moving trucks pulled away, the ones that had hauled off the rented chairs and the stage compartments the crew had already taken apart and vanished with.
The ocean breeze whipped my hair into my face and rattled the black garbage bag I still clutched like some kind of sad, crinkly security blanket.
It was half full, which meant plenty more of humanity’s shame was still scattered across my lawn.
These women with money. You’d think disposable income would come with a basic understanding of trash cans. Or manners. Or gravity. But no. They’d tossed paper plates, plastic cups, and napkins directly onto the grass like they were feeding an invisible herd of raccoons with refined tastes.
Motherfrackers.
There had been garbage bins, multiple of them, strategically placed and practically begging to be used. Yet here we were.
It didn’t help that the wind had gotten involved.
Plates and napkins had taken flight like they were making a break for freedom, which was how I now found myself halfway down the cliff at the edge of the property, crouched like a raccoon, retrieving soggy paper goods and whatever else these women had decided the earth could deal with.
Did none of them care about the environment?
The wildlife? The fact that this was not, in fact, a landfill with ocean views?
Apparently not. And apparently it was part of the inn owner’s job description to clean up after them like a polite, smiling servant who definitely wasn’t flipping them off silently while clutching a garbage bag.
I was pissed, deeply and profoundly pissed.
Pissed I’d let some man get under my skin. Pissed I’d been blindsided like an absolute amateur. And extra pissed, bonus pissed, that I’d had a full audience for my humiliation, complete with front-row seating and wine.
Awesome.
Just… truly a banner day for personal growth and emotional stability.
A seagull was swallowing what looked like a half-eaten shrimp roll on a plate a few feet away from me.
“Dottie will be happy to know she fed you something,” I told him and then shooed him away when he was done so I could pick up the plate.
My traitorous mind flicked back to Dust-guy, the way he looked at me, all intensity and quiet focus, like he was actually listening, like I wasn’t just another task to be managed.
The way I hadn’t understood what I was seeing at first, and then how completely derailed I’d been by that one stupid, offhand comment that had cracked something open in me.
I’d been wrong about men before. That was nothing new.
I had a long, well-documented history of being wrong about men.
But not like this. Not when my gut, my instincts, the ones I’d spent years rebuilding and learning to trust again, had been so sure.
What I’d felt during the kiss. The way he showed up every morning.
The quiet help around the inn. The fixing without asking, without billing, without making a big deal out of it.
All of it had pointed in one very specific direction.
That he felt something for me.
And I’d been dead wrong. Not mildly mistaken. Not “oops, misread the room” wrong. Spectacatastrophically wrong. (I just made that up). The kind of wrong that made you want to revoke your own emotional judgment privileges indefinitely.
Worse, my humiliation hadn’t happened privately, in the safety of a locked bathroom or under a duvet with chips.
No, it had come with an audience—a lively, opinionated audience who had apparently decided, collectively, that Dust-guy and I were a thing.
Or at least a promising almost-thing. They’d smiled, nudged, made comments, claimed he liked me too.
They were wrong, which meant either everyone else had misread him just as badly as I had… or I was the only idiot in the room who’d built an entire emotional narrative out of strong arms, quiet competence, and wishful thinking.
Either way, the conclusion was the same.
I’d imagined something that had never been there.
I was a fool. A damned fool.
“What are you doing down there?”
I looked back to find Becca standing by the railing, peering down at me like I’d lost my mind. “Fishing.”
Becca laughed. “Get your butt back up here. It’s dangerous.”
She wasn’t wrong. The drop was steep, the ground uneven, and my dignity had already taken enough hits for one weekend.
But I also wasn’t about to let my property be permanently decorated with someone else’s Chardonnay-soaked paper plates.
I scanned the ground one last time, and when I didn’t spot any more scurrying napkins making a break for freedom, I carefully climbed back up.
“Here,” said Becca, handing me a cup of coffee. “Thought you might need some caffeine.”
I settled beside the railing, dragged the garbage bag along with me, and let it slump at my feet like it had also given up. I took the cup. “Thanks. I thought you’d left.”
“Not yet,” Becca said. “I’ve got a showing in half an hour. I don’t think they’re serious. But I still have to pretend they might be.”
I took a sip. “Mmmm. Good coffee.”
Becca smiled. “Dottie made it. But I did pour it into the cup for you.”
I let out a short laugh. “She does make good coffee. Possibly magical coffee.” Knowing what I knew of Dottie now, it made me wonder what she’d slipped in the coffee for me. Some of her “special” herbs or whatever to help me “cope.”
My cousin sighed and glanced up at the inn. “Most of the guests are gone. I saw maybe two in the lobby arguing about their Instagram pictures. Once they resolve that international crisis, it’ll be quiet.”
“It will be,” I said. “Tomorrow I’ve got four rooms booked for the week. Then three more arriving the day after.”
Becca nodded. “Busy all summer. That’s good.”
“It is.”
She was quiet for a beat longer than usual, which was never a great sign. Then she cleared her throat. “You okay? With the… you know… Alex thing?”
I wrapped both hands around my coffee like it was a grounding exercise. “Yeah. I mean…” I exhaled. “I was just… surprised.”
Becca frowned. “So was I. I really thought he was about to ask you out. I mean, I would’ve put money on it. Real money.”
I snorted despite myself. “Please don’t tell me that.”
“Sorry,” she said, wincing, “but I was wrong. Clearly.”
“Me too,” I said. “Apparently I hallucinated an entire connection. That’s fun.”
Becca nudged my arm gently. “Hey. You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s not like you were dating. Or exclusive. Or even technically flirting, if we’re being strict about definitions.”
“I know,” I said quickly. “That’s what I keep telling myself. I’m just… shocked. Hadn’t seen that coming. That’s all.”
She studied my face. “You sure?”
I nodded, even though it took effort. “I’ll be fine. Really. I’ve bounced back from worse. This just… caught me off guard.”
Becca smiled softly. “Okay. But if you decide to dramatically spiral later, I’m available. I also have lots of wine.”
I glanced at her. “You’re a good cousin.”
“I know,” she said. Her face screwed up. “Hey. Why did Alex call you New York?”
Ah. There it was.
“Because when we first met, he saw my New York plates. And it’s been New York since.”
“Really?” Becca frowned. “And he’s never called you by your name? Never Sarah?”
I thought about it, and the answer landed with a dull, unpleasant thud. “No. Never.”
Weird didn’t even begin to cover it. It felt like another tiny crack in the story I’d built in my head, the one where he saw me, really saw me, and not just some idea of me attached to a place.
“Huh,” said Becca, shaking her head. “Well, I should get going. I need to turn on all the lights, open a few windows, let some air in so the house doesn’t feel stuffy. See you later. Call me if you just want to shoot the shit.”
I laughed, but it came out thinner than I meant it to. “Okay. I will.”
I watched her walk away, coffee cooling in my hands as the wind tugged at my hair like it was trying to get my attention.
New York.
Not Sarah. Not the woman who owned the inn. Not the person who’d spent days watching him fix things and reading meaning into every quiet look. Just a nickname. A placeholder. A convenient label he’d never bothered to replace.
God, I’d been a fool.
Not for liking him, that part I could forgive. But for thinking I’d been special. For believing the story I’d stitched together out of glances and gestures and my own wishful thinking.
I stared out at the water and took a long sip of coffee, enjoying the sweet bitterness.
Next time, I told myself, maybe try using your brain instead of your imagination.
Just a thought.
I sighed and looked out into the ocean. I don’t know what it was about the sound of waves crashing below, the smell, the breeze hitting my hot face, but it…
calmed me. Really did. The water didn’t care that I’d just publicly embarrassed myself.
It didn’t care that I’d spent the last twenty-four hours swinging wildly between “I am a mature adult” and “I am one awkward comment away from running into the woods to live with squirrels.”
The ocean just did what it did—crash, pull back, and crash again—like it was demonstrating how to have a reaction without turning it into a whole personality.
If I was still in New York, I’d be climbing up walls or binge eating the entire contents of the fridge, and then I’d be drinking more wine.
Yeah, not smart. I’d be doing that thing where I convinced myself I was fine while also conducting a full forensic analysis of the last conversation I’d had with a man, complete with charts, timelines, and an emotional autopsy.
And, okay, maybe I was still doing that. Just with better scenery.