Chapter 5
LOGAN
Hannah checks out of her rental on day three and moves her suitcase to my place without either of us making it official.
By day four, she knows the names of Maria's kids and asks how Boris's parents are doing in Montenegro.
She steals my coffee every morning on the porch, curls her feet under her when cozying in the chair, and watches the ocean.
When the afternoon crowd hits Shore Thing, she's there—chatting with Delilah about her grandson's baseball team or helping Eli when the bar gets slammed.
He gave her a crash course on bartending, which she absolutely enjoyed. She even showed me her "cheat sheet" of cocktail recipes.
When people say, "Time flies when you're having fun," I guess this is what they mean.
Hannah leaves in a day, and I've stopped counting because counting makes it real, the ball of dread just getting bigger in my stomach.
She fits here like she was always meant to. Like the island was waiting for her.
But she's leaving, and there's nothing I can do about it. Vacations end.
On our last night, I take her to Santini's—the Italian place on the north side where tourists don't usually venture. Candlelight, white tablecloths, and the restaurant where you go for more important celebrations.
We sit outside on the terrace overlooking the water. Hannah's wearing a blue dress that makes her eyes look like the ocean in daylight, and I can't stop looking at her hands as she talks, the way she gestures with her fork.
"Maria's going to miss you," I say over the pasta course.
"I'm going to miss her. And Boris. And Eli's terrible jokes."
"Just theirs?"
She smiles, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Okay, yours aren't too bad, either."
The weight of tomorrow sits between us like a third person at the table. Neither of us says it directly—that this is the last meal, the last conversation, the last time we'll sit across from each other like this. But it's there in every pause, every look that lasts a beat too long.
After dinner, they clear the tables and turn up the music. She doesn't protest when I pull her onto the small dance floor this time, just lets me glide her in close, her head on my shoulder, her body a perfect fit against mine.
"You're quiet tonight," she says against my neck.
"Just thinking."
"About what?"
"About how much I'm going to miss this."
Her arms tighten around me, and we don't talk after that. Just sway to the music while I memorize the way she feels, the way she smells, the soft sound of her breathing against my ear.
I'm going to need these memories to last me my whole life.
When the song ends, we don't break apart immediately. We stand there, holding each other, her heart beating against my chest.
Morning comes too fast and too quietly. Hannah's already awake when I open my eyes, sitting on the edge of the bed, staring out the window at the ocean. Her suitcase is by the door, packed and ready.
Her flight leaves at ten.
"What if you stayed longer?"
Her gaze swings to me, and she purses her lips. "Logan, please don't do this."
"I'm serious. What if you didn't get on that plane?"
"I can't just not go home. I have a job. A life. An apartment with rent due next week."
I sit up and run my hands through my hair. "Stay here, and we'll work something out."
"Work what out? I'm an accountant, Logan. There's not exactly a thriving CPA industry on a tourist island."
"Then I'll come with you."
She stares at me, her jaw hanging open. "What?"
"To the city. I'll pack up and follow you home."
"You can't do that." Her voice is sharp now as she rubs a hand across her forehead. "You have Shore Thing. You have Maria, and Boris, and Eli—people who depend on you. You can't just abandon all of that because of a few days, a week."
"Why not? Why can't I choose what I want?"
"Because it's not that simple!" She stands up and starts pacing. "What happens when you wake up and realize you gave up everything for someone you barely know? What happens when you hate the city and miss the ocean and resent me for being the reason you left?"
"That's not going to happen."
"You don't know that. I don't know that. A week, Logan. We've known each other for a week."
"So? Some people know in five minutes. Some people take five years and still get it wrong."
"And some people make impulsive decisions based on vacation sex and ruin their entire lives."
The words hit like a slap.
"Vacation sex? Is that what you think this is? "
"I don't know what this is. That's the problem."
I get out of bed and pull on jeans. "I know what it is. I know I've never felt like this before. I know I don't want to watch you walk out that door and pretend this week didn't happen."
"I'm not pretending anything. But I'm also not going to let you blow up your life for me."
"What if I want to blow up my life?"
"Then you're an idiot."
"Maybe. But I'd rather be an idiot who tried than someone who spent the rest of his life wondering, what if."
She stops pacing and faces me. "What if it doesn't work? What if we're terrible together in the real world? What if you hate my apartment and my friends and the way I am when I'm not on vacation?"
"What if we're perfect together? What if this is exactly what we both need?"
"That's not how life works."
"Why not? Why can't it work like that?"
She picks up her suitcase, and my chest goes tight. "Because I can't be responsible for your happiness. I can't be the reason you change everything. That's too much pressure, and I can't carry it."
"I'm not asking you to carry anything. I'm asking you to let me try."
"I can't."
"Why?"
"Because I'm scared, okay? I'm terrified that you'll follow me home and three months from now you'll realize you made a mistake, and I'll be the girl who ruined Logan's perfect island life."
"And I'm terrified you'll get on that plane and disappear, and I'll spend the rest of my life wondering if I let the best thing that ever happened to me walk away without a fight."
We stare at each other across the room. Her knuckles are white where she grips the suitcase handle.
"I have to go," she says quietly.
"You don't."
"I do."
"Hannah…"
"Don't bother taking me to the airport."
She walks to the door but stops with her hand on the handle. For a second, I think she's going to turn around, say something, change her mind.
Instead, Hannah opens the door and walks out.
I stand in my bedroom and listen to her footsteps on the porch, then the gravel driveway, then nothing.
The house settles into quiet. Not the comfortable quiet I'm used to, but something hollow.
I walk to the kitchen, pour coffee, and take it out to the porch.
Two chairs face the ocean, but only one of them matters now.
The waves roll in steadily and predictably, the same as they have every morning.
The same as they will tomorrow. The same as they did that first night I took Hannah to the beach.
For the first time since I moved to this island, the ocean doesn't feel like enough.