Chapter 8
BETH
Summer is supposed to be loud.
It’s supposed to be sticky fingers and sunburns and laughing too hard in tank tops you only wear three months a year. It’s supposed to be late nights and early mornings that don’t hurt because the light makes everything feel possible.
And for the most part?
This is the best summer of my life.
If you don’t count the fact that my boyfriend, Eric is always gone.
But he does calls me every morning at seven on the dot.
I’m usually standing in line for coffee, keys looped around my wrist, purse already heavy with the day ahead. He’s just getting off shift—voice rough, tired in that bone-deep way that smells like smoke even through the phone.
“Hey, beautiful,” he says, every time, like it’s a promise.
“Hey, babe,” I say back, smiling into my cup.
We talk in fragments. Half-sentences. Weather. Groceries. What we’re doing later—except “later” never lines up.
When he’s waking up, I’m clocking in.
When I’m done for the day, he’s showering and pulling on his uniform.
When he finally has time, I’m already in bed.
Star-crossed lovers, but make it municipal.
We steal time where we can.
Burgers and fries at the diner down the street from the firehouse.
Him still smelling like soap and metal. Me still in heels, kicking them off under the table.
He eats fast, checks his watch too often.
I tell him about work—about deadlines and decks and the new hire who can’t format a spreadsheet to save her life.
Sometimes I surprise him.
I used to.
I’d bring coffee. Pastries. I’d pop in during shift change before I head into work.
But the past few months—I’d stay out with my coworkers and sleep in after and later… maybe it was my fault. Maybe I am the one letting this romance slip by.
“Time to rekindle, things, Beth.”
I had slept here—planned on seducing him for a quick, hot, shower sex session. To remind him I was still his girl.
I woke up before my alarm, the dark still thick against the windows. Made sure my legs were still smooth, Wore silky shorts and just a bra.
Sean’s apartment was quiet in that hollow way it always was when he was on night shift.
His side of the bed was cold, sheets barely wrinkled, we barely sleep together anymore.
I lay still for a moment, listening—traffic far below, a distant siren fading somewhere across the city—then rolled out of bed and started getting ready for work.
This was our rhythm now.
I turned.
Sean stood in the doorway, jacket slung over his shoulder, helmet tucked under his arm. He looked exhausted—eyes rimmed red, jaw unshaven, that familiar slump in his posture that meant it had been a long night.
“Hey,” I said softly. Propping on an elbow to give him a glimpse of me posing in his bed.
“Hey.” His voice was rough, like he’d been breathing smoke instead of air. His eyes didn’t even widen at the sight of me almost naked.
I crossed the room and wrapped my arms around him. He smelled like the firehouse—soap and metal and something burned away but never quite gone. His arms barely came around me.
“Everything okay?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “Just beat.”
I glanced at the clock. I was already cutting it close. “I’ve gotta run. But—” I could stay for a quick shower?” I whispered huskily. I went to press a kiss to his lips but he stepped back.
“I still have soot on my hands, babe.”
Not like I cared.
He was already turning his back on me.
I hesitated, then rushed ahead before I could talk myself out of it. “So, tomorrow? We’re still going to Plymouth with my friends?’
He shifted his weight.
I felt it immediately. That tiny pause. That almost-invisible hesitation.
“Yeah ” he finally replied.
“We sail at dawn,” I continued, forcing brightness into my voice. “I’ll pick you up right from the fire station. You can sleep on the boat on the way down, we go out that night, then you crash again on the sail back. It’s basically designed for night shift.”
That earned a faint smile.
“You really thought this through,” he said.
“I did,” I said, squeezing his hand. “You only miss one shift. It’s just a weekend. A mini vacation.”
He rubbed a hand over his face. For a second, I thought he was going to back out on me.
Then he nodded. “Okay.”
Relief flooded me so fast it almost made me dizzy.
“Sounds… perfect.”
I smiled. “I’ll pick you up from the firehouse when you get off and I’ll bring breakfast.”
“Actually—” He hesitated again, softer this time. “Maybe you should sleep at your place tonight? That way you can pack your stuff, grab your things, and just come straight to get me.”
It stung more than it should have. Or maybe exactly as much as it should have.
“Sure,” I said, too quickly. “That makes sense.”
He kissed me—quick, distracted—and headed toward the bedroom.
“I’ll call you later,” he said over his shoulder.
“I’ll be at work,” I reminded him.
“Right,” he said. “I’ll leave a message.”
I watched him disappear down the hall, already halfway asleep, and then I left—him just getting into bed, me already running late for my day.
The next morning I was so excited. Finally, Sean and I would be able to hang out, make out in the waves and reconnect as a couple.
I stopped at Dunkin’ Donuts on the way, like I always did when I was excited. Sean’s order rolled off my tongue without thinking. The coffee was hot, the bag warm, grease already soaking through the paper.
I was smiling when I pulled into the firehouse lot.
The bay doors were open. Red trucks gleamed in the early light, chrome polished to a mirror shine. Inside, the smell of coffee was thick and comforting, the low burble of voices bouncing off concrete walls. A radio crackled. Someone laughed.
I grabbed the bag and walked in, already scanning for him.
“Hi,” I said to the guy at the desk. “I’m here to pick up Sean. We’re heading out.”
He looked up.
And then he looked… sorry.
Not startled. Not confused.
Sorry.
My stomach dropped.
“He left,” he said gently.
“Left?” I repeated.
“Yeah. He was wiped. Went home early.”
“Oh,” I said.
He studied my face, like he was bracing for something. “He said to tell you he was sorry.”
I nodded, even though my head felt too light. “Okay. Yeah. That’s—fine.”
The word fine landed wrong. Hollow.
I glanced down at the coffee in my hand, then back up at the gleaming trucks, the familiar morning hum of the firehouse continuing like nothing had changed.
“I’ll just—catch him later,” I said.
The pity in his eyes followed me all the way back out.
I shut myself into my car and sat there, hands shaking around the steering wheel.
The smell of coffee filled the space. Hot. Sweet. Useless.
I pulled out my phone and dialed.
Straight to voicemail.
Again.
Straight to voicemail.
No text. No missed call. No explanation waiting.
I didn’t leave a message.
I didn’t cry.
Not there. Not with the radios chirping and the coffee percolating and the red trucks gleaming like everything was still exactly where it should be.
I smiled, waved, and walked back out into the morning.
The second my car door shut, the silence hit me like a wave.
I stared at the steering wheel. At my hands. At the Dunkin’ logo on the bag sitting in the passenger seat, grease already starting to bleed through the paper.
He didn’t call.
He didn’t even email.
I sat there and breathed in the smell of coffee and warm bread and disappointment until my chest started to ache. My vision blurred. A tear slipped down anyway, then another, and suddenly I was crying—quiet, shaking, ugly.
I pressed the heel of my hand against my mouth and let it out in small, broken breaths.
It was fine, I told myself. He was exhausted. He worked nights. This was what we’d signed up for. This was just… schedules.
But somewhere deep down, beneath the rationalizations and the loyalty and the love, a bad feeling unfurled its claws.
When I finally pulled myself together, my eyes were red and my head hurt and my heart felt scraped raw. I dabbed at my face with a napkin from the glove compartment, checked the mirror, and told my reflection not to ruin the weekend.
Artemis was waiting. My friends were waiting. I wasn’t going to show up already broken.
The drive to the marina felt longer than usual. The city woke up around me—delivery trucks, joggers, seagulls crying overhead—but I stayed sealed inside my own little bubble of hurt.
By the time the water came into view, the sun was fully up, glittering across the harbor like nothing in the world was wrong.
I parked, took one last steadying breath, and stepped out of the car.
Whatever this weekend was going to be, I would survive it.
Even if I had to pretend I wasn’t already grieving something I hadn’t officially lost yet.
The boat rocks when I step aboard.
Not enough to throw me off balance—just enough to remind me that Artemis is awake, impatient, already leaning toward the open water.
The dock creaks softly beneath my feet, ropes knocking against the hull in a lazy, hollow rhythm.
Somewhere overhead, a gull cries, sharp and lonely, then another answers it farther out over the harbor.
The sun hasn’t fully cleared the horizon yet.
It’s still creeping—low and pale—casting everything in that early-morning blue that makes the world feel quieter than it really is.
The air is cool, brisk enough to raise goosebumps on my arms, even through my jacket.
Flags and loose canvas flap lightly, restless, like they’re waiting for permission to run.
Ethan looks up from the lines and freezes.
His eyes flick behind me first. Dock. Parking lot. Empty space where Sean should be.
Then back to my face.
I don’t say anything. I just shake my head once and haul my bag aboard, letting it thump softly against the deck. The sound feels louder than it should.
“Is Sean meeting us?” Ethan asks.
He keeps his voice casual, but his shoulders tighten. He’s already bracing.
I shrug, smaller this time. “No.”