Chapter 37
Thiago walks beside me, talking on and on about shite I couldn’t repeat if you paid me. Normally, I’d throw comments back, wind him up for sport, but today, nothing sticks in my head except her.
Did she read my letter?
Will she forgive me?
Will I ever get to touch her again?
We drift through the hotel lobby. I stop because muscle memory tells me to—sign shirts, smile for pictures, shake hands like I’m not falling apart inside. My body performs the role, but my mind is somewhere else, trapped in the hope she might still choose me.
The doors slide open, and the cold Portland air meets my face. The lads bunch near the bus, quieter than usual. Then I see why.
June stands near the steps, phone up, recording. The players stall and joke, giving her content, moving slower than necessary.
And beside her …
Catalina.
My heart flips, trying to claw its way out of my chest.
She stands in a soft sweater, hair loose around her shoulders, handing something to each of the boys while June films. She looks tired, but steady, holding herself with a quiet strength that makes me want to fall to my knees in the street.
Thiago reaches her first with a grin.
“What do you have for me?”
She opens her palm and there’s a beaded bracelet.
Thiago gasps, grabbing it. “A friendship bracelet? I love it.” He slides it on immediately.
“Do you like the colors?” she asks.
He flashes his wrist at the camera. The bracelet is blue, white, and yellow.
Thiago practically beams. “Are you kidding? This is elite. World-class jewelry right here.” He turns his wrist like he’s showing off a trophy. “Did you make it?”
She nods, and he pulls her into a bear hug, lifting her off the ground, all warmth and joy.
Lucky bastard.
Then it’s my turn. I step forward while my heart pounds so loud I swear everyone must hear it.
She reaches into her bag and pulls out a single bracelet. When her fingers brush my palm, heat shoots up my arm like someone plugged me back into my life.
It’s simple. Green and orange beads strung in a neat little row, white letters spelling my name.
My voice comes low, strained. “Thank you, lass.” I stretch the bracelet and slide it onto my wrist.
“Do you like the colors?” she asks quietly.
“I love it,” I say, and I mean every word.
June shoves her wrist toward me, still filming. “We got bracelets too.” Light pink beads spell JUNE. “Show him yours, Cat.”
Catalina lifts her sleeve. She holds out her arm.
Green and orange beads, just like mine, with white letters spelling her name.
Her cheeks warm, turning pink. It nearly undoes me.
I manage a small smile. “Thank you, lassies.” My voice is rough in my throat. I nod and step onto the bus before I embarrass myself in front of the lot.
I drop into my seat next to Thiago. He studies his bracelet like it’s gold.
“Feels like we’re going to a Taylor Swift concert,” he says, spinning the beads.
I glance at the bracelet on his wrist—Uruguay colors, and when he turns it, I catch two tiny beads showing the number 13. I look down at mine and turn it, and the back beads show my number too.
23.
My chest tightens.
I look at her bracelet across the aisle as she climbs aboard. She tucks her arm close, sleeve covering the beads.
What number did she put on hers?
Is it mine?
Am I still hers?
Or am I just a ghost in a friendship bracelet, praying I haven’t already lost the best thing that ever happened to me?
The winter wind hits the moment I step off the bus.
Proper winter sharp, the kind that wakes you whether you want it to or not.
Pine, wet stone, river chill cutting straight through the jacket.
We’re in the Gorge, at Multnomah Falls, and even though I’ve been here before, it still gets under the ribs the way old memories do.
The lads hop down after me in their Strikers sweats, laughing, stretching, talking over each other.
Thiago’s already announcing facts about moss, narrating a documentary none of us asked for.
Someone pulls him in for a selfie, and he nearly fumbles the phone.
Groans everywhere. The cold doesn’t dim them; they’re still buzzing.
A little boy in a Strikers beanie tugs his dad’s sleeve when he sees me. His father lifts his phone, hopeful, so I crouch for the photo. The kid’s grin is priceless, bright enough to warm the cold a little.
And then I look forward because she’s there.
Catalina walks with June a bit up the path, filming as she goes.
Her scarf is pulled high, hair damp from the mist, shoulders tipped forward.
She looks delicate today. Not breakable, but precious.
The kind of delicate that makes me want to guard her from the world, not because she can’t face it, but because she shouldn’t have to do it alone.
June stays beside her, talking low, keeping the energy light. The rest of the lads drift ahead in loose groups, eager to stretch their legs. I stay back a little, not far, just enough that she has room to breathe. Even if she knows I’m here, I am not pushing myself into her space.
We climb the stone steps. The path turns, and the falls appear through the trees—two white drops spilling over the cliff, mist blowing sideways in the wind.
Tourists fill the viewing area and the bridge above, hoods up, cameras out.
The waterfall’s rumble is steady and deep, vibrating through the air.
Ancient. Bigger than any of us. It’s always been a place that reminds me the world keeps going no matter what storm is inside you.
She slows when the view opens, taking a quiet, instinctive moment to breathe it in.
June’s moved ahead, laughing with the lads and filming them messing around, and Catalina ends up at the railing on her own, still and small against the roar of the water.
Her hands rest on the metal, fingers curled around it.
I walk up, keeping a little distance between us. When she notices me, she turns her head, voice soft, and says, “I don’t know where I am yet.”
I keep my voice low, steady. “I’m not here to fix anything. I only came to stand where you are.”
Her shoulders drop, like holding herself upright has been a task. “I read your letter. I’m still trying to figure out how I feel.”
“Take the time you need. I’m not going anywhere.”
We fall into a silence that isn’t uncomfortable.
Boots scrape stone behind us, voices drift on the cold air, and the falls crash below in a rhythm older than any memory I have.
She lifts her hand to tuck her hair behind her ear, and I have to stop myself from doing it for her. My hand damn near twitches.
That movement shifts her sleeve enough to show the bracelet again. Green and orange beads catch the light, and then I see it, the answer I’ve been looking for. White beads with the number 23 on them tucked right above her pulse.
My heart kicks hard. There’s still something here. There’s still hope, even if it’s small and quiet and hanging on by a delicate thread.
I clear my throat lightly, keeping my voice low. “Have you ever been here before?”
She shakes her head. “No.”
I nod, and the memory rises before I can stop it. “The first time I came here, I was six. My da had business in Portland, chasing some deal he thought would change everything. My mum and I came with him, and he brought us here for the day.”
I breathe once, remembering.
“He wasn’t drinking. He wasn’t angry. He just …
let himself be a father for once. And my mum laughed.
Proper laughed, the way she only did when it was just the two of us and she felt safe enough to let it out.
I remember looking at them and thinking This is what a family is supposed to feel like.
It was the only day I ever saw them like that. Both of them happy at the same time.”
I draw in a slow breath, that old ache settling and softening.
“I’ve spent my whole life chasing that feeling.
Even when I was living on the other side of the world, I found my way back here.
Every chance I got. I kept coming hoping I’d feel even a fraction of that day again.
Just a sliver of peace. A reminder that once, things were good. ”
She looks at me then, eyes soft, guard dropped. “This is your Coney Island.”
“It is …”
She studies me. “Is that why we’re here? You planned this whole outing so you could show it to me?”
“It took a bit of convincing to make it happen, but after everything that’s happened, I knew you wouldn’t come here with me on your own, and I wanted to show you a piece of my heart.”
She doesn’t look away, and under that gaze, I keep going, because I can’t hold it anymore.
“Kitten, you’re my new Coney Island. You’ve become my happiest memory, and you’re where I want to go when I need light again.”
Her breath catches. She steps closer—barely anything to anyone watching—but I feel it like heat hitting skin after a long winter.
Tears gather in her eyes, her lips curve into the smallest smile, and the sight knocks the breath from me.
She leans her head against my arm. I don’t move, giving her the space she needs.
We stay there, surrounded by rushing water and cold air and people passing by, but it all fades. The only place that feels steady in the whole world is right here beside her.