Chapter 11
ETHAN
The next few weeks slide into something that almost feels… normal.
Which is weird.
Because nothing about us is normal.
But somehow life starts organizing itself into couples.
Like we’re all pairing off two by two without talking about it.
Tony meets Melissa one night at the docks. She’s twenty-four, works in big Pharma— sleek dark hair and big blue eyes. Italian last name. Tony is a goner.
I know it’s serious because he starts ironing shirts.
Tony has never ironed a shirt in his life.
Then suddenly it’s “double dates” and “you guys free Friday?” and Melissa bringing homemade brownies to the marina like she’s already someone’s wife. The Artemis might be in Plymouth but Tony’s sport fishing boat finds another open slip.
Beth and Chris start disappearing to Red Sox games.
Mark’s got some new girl from accounting.
Happy hours splinter into smaller groups. Email threads multiply. Half the time I don’t even know who’s going out with who anymore.
It’s like high school but with car payments and rent.
Even Beth somehow gets Sean to show up more.
I catch them one night outside The Dockyard bar, her arm looped through his, laughing at something he whispers in her ear.
She looks… lighter.
Like she’s finally getting what she wanted.
Good for her.
Really.
I mean that.
Then Jim stops by my desk on a Thursday.
Not emails.
Not calls.
Actually walks over.
Which never happens unless someone’s either getting promoted or fired.
“You free tomorrow night?” he asks.
I blink. “Uh… yeah?”
“Corporate dinner. Harbor Club. Old guard’s thing. Wives invited. Show face.”
Oh.
That kind of thing.
The kind where you’re not networking—you’re auditioning.
“Bring Sage,” he adds. “These guys like to see stability.”
Stability.
Like she’s a résumé bullet point.
Still.
My chest tightens a little.
Pride.
Because that means something.
It means I’m being seen. Jim’s never met Sage just hears all the shit the guys talk in the breakroom.
This is either going to be a great success or a great disaster. I’ll just make sure Sage drinks wine spritzers and like one.
She shows up ten minutes late.
On purpose.
I know she does.
Because she likes entrances.
And Jesus Christ.
Every head in the lobby turns.
Not because she’s loud.
Because she’s quiet.
Classy.
Black dress. Simple. Elegant. No skin. No drama. Pearls at her ears. Hair smooth and glossy. Makeup soft and expensive-looking. Short French manicure.
No cleavage.
No chaos.
Just power.
She looks like money.
Like old money.
Like she belongs in rooms I still feel like I snuck into.
She slides her hand into mine.
“Hi, baby,” she says softly.
And I swear to God, I’ve never stood straighter in my life.
Walking in with her feels like walking in with a trophy.
Which sounds awful.
But it’s true.
Every man in that room clocks her.
Then looks at me.
Then back at her.
And I see it.
That flicker.
Jealousy.
Respect.
Approval.
Like I just won something.
Jim claps me on the shoulder. “Atta boy.”
Like I built her myself.
The night turns into scotch and handshakes and too many cigars.
The old-timers pull me aside one by one.
Big laughs.
Red faces.
Hands that grip too hard.
“Marketing’s looking good this quarter.”
“You’re making moves, son.”
“Smart kid.”
Someone shoves a glass into my hand.
Another presses a cigar between my fingers.
The VP of Marketing wraps an arm around my shoulders like we’re lifelong friends.
“Ha-ha-ha,” he booms, voice thick. “Man like you? With that girl?”
He whistles low.
“I know what you’re doing later. Good for you.”
They all laugh.
Slap my back.
Like we’re sharing some private joke.
And I laugh too.
Because what else am I supposed to do?
But something sour crawls up my throat.
Because I know exactly what they’re picturing.
And it makes my skin itch.
They’re not seeing her.
Not really.
They’re imagining her naked.
Reducing her to a story they get to tell themselves about me.
Like she’s proof of my masculinity or something.
And suddenly the whole room feels slimy.
Like I climbed a ladder but stepped in something gross on the way up.
I glance across the room.
She’s laughing with Jim’s wife.
Graceful. Polished. Perfect.
Not a clue what these idiots are saying.
And I feel weirdly protective.
Weirdly pissed.
Like they don’t get to talk about her like that.
Even if they’re congratulating me.
Even if this is what “making it” looks like.
Because if this is success—
Why does it feel like I need another shower?
I’m halfway through the new product targeting slide deck when my BlackBerry buzzes.
From: Sage
What time can you get out today?
I glance at the clock. Three-thirty. Jim’s out of town. The office has that sleepy, half-checked-out Thursday energy.
I email her back.
Probably 3. Why?
Her reply comes fast.
Sage:
Good. Don’t make plans tonight.
I smile, already suspicious.
I’m packing up my desk when she calls—not my BlackBerry, my flip phone. Jim said Hr is starting to notice all the roaming and after hour calls and charges. And that I needed to start using my personal cell more.
“You’re not going to poker tonight,” she says, not asking.
I laugh. “That so?”
“Yes. Because instead, we’re going to the Cape.”
I stop mid-step. “The Cape. Like… now?”
“Like in two hours,” she says, pleased with herself. “Tony’s already in. Melissa too. Couple’s night on the boat.”
My brain scrambles to catch up. “Sage—”
“I know,” she cuts in gently. “I know how much you miss it. The ocean. The salt. You get that look when you talk about summer like it’s oxygen.”
I lean against my desk, suddenly quiet.
“I talked to Beth,” she continues. “She said you could leave early today. She’s covering tomorrow and Friday. Don’t worry—I checked.”
I exhale, stunned. “You— planned all this?”
She softens. “I’ve been selfish lately. I know that. And I know summer is… your thing. Your fuel.”
I smile despite myself. “It’s like blood in my veins,” I admit.
“That,” she says quietly. “Exactly that.”
By the time we’re driving south, the windows are down and the air smells like salt again. Sage hums along to the radio, sunglasses perched on her nose, hair whipping in the wind like she belongs to this version of me.
“You’re ridiculous,” I tell her. “You know that?”
She grins. “You love it.”
We meet Tony and his girl at the marina. She’s sharp, funny, confident in a way that matches him perfectly. Tony gives me a look like I approve before clapping me on the shoulder.
“Five-star dinner in Sandwich,” he announces. “My card and Ethan’s are taking the hit.”
“I didn’t agree to that,” I say.
Tony grins. “You will.”
The sail out is smooth and easy, the boat cutting clean through the water as the sun starts its slow descent. Sage sits close to me, legs tucked under her, fingers brushing mine like she can’t help herself.
“This,” I say quietly, watching the shoreline slide by, “this is what I needed.”
She leans her head against my shoulder. “I wanted to give it to you.”
Dinner is perfect—white tablecloths, candlelight, wine that costs too much but tastes like it’s worth it. Laughter comes easy. Tony’s arm is around Melissa’s waist, Sage’s hand rests possessively on my thigh beneath the table.
Back on the boat, we open another bottle. The night is warm, the water calm, the deck glowing under soft lights.
Tony clears his throat dramatically.
“So,” he says, standing. “We’re gonna head to the bed-and-breakfast.”
Melissa snorts. “Translation: I do not want to hear you two going at it.”
Tony nods solemnly. “No offense, but the sound of you and Sage would make me horny, and then I can’t sleep.”
Melissa swats his arm, laughing. “You’re disgusting.”
Sage laughs too, burying her face in my chest.
“We’ll see you in the morning,” Tony says, already backing toward the dock. “Try not to sink the boat.”
They disappear, still teasing each other.
The boat settles into quiet.
Just us.
Sage lifts her drink, eyes bright, a little tipsy now. “Best Thursday ever,” she says.
I clink my glass against hers. “Best surprise ever.”
She shifts closer, careless and happy—and that’s when it happens.
Her drink tips.
Liquid splashes across my lap—and straight onto my flip phone.
The screen flickers.
Then goes dead.
“No—no, no, no,” I mutter, grabbing it.
“Oh my God,” she gasps. “Ethan, I’m so sorry—”
She reaches to wipe it, her hand slipping—
The phone bounces once off the edge of the bench.
Then—
Plop.
Gone.
Overboard.
“Oh my God,” she gasps.
I don’t even think. I kick off my shoes and dive.
The water’s cold and shocking, sobering in a heartbeat. I surface, sputtering, then dive again, hands searching blindly. My fingers close around the familiar shape near the ladder.
I haul myself back up, soaked, heart pounding.
The phone drips uselessly in my hand.
Salt water.
Fried.
I stare at it, jaw tight.
“Ethan,” Sage says softly. “I’m so—”
I exhale hard, running a hand through my wet hair. “It’s… it’s fine.”
It’s not.
She sees it anyway—the way my shoulders tense, the way I don’t quite meet her eyes.
“I mean,” I add quickly, because she looks like she might cry, “it’s not my work BlackBerry. That’s the important thing.”
That doesn’t help.
Her face crumples.
“I’m so sorry,” she says again, voice breaking. “I ruined it. I ruined your night.”
She actually starts crying—quiet, mortified tears slipping down her cheeks like she’s embarrassed by them.
My frustration drains right out of me.
“Hey,” I say, pulling her into me, water and all. “Hey. It’s just a phone.”
She shakes her head against my chest. “No, it’s not. I know how you are about your stuff. I should’ve been more careful.”
She pulls back suddenly, eyes bright with urgency. “It’s okay. There’s a Verizon store in Buzzards Bay. We’ll go first thing in the morning. I’ll buy you a new one. I swear.”
I laugh despite myself. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to,” she insists. “Please.”
She presses her mouth to mine then—soft at first, then deeper, like she’s trying to apologize with her whole body.
Her hands slide under my damp shirt, warm and insistent, nails dragging down my chest as she pushes me back onto the wide bench cushion.
The boat rocks harder beneath us, matching the sudden heat building between us.
“I’m going to make this up to you,” she whispers against my lips, voice low and filthy, eyes dark with intent. “Right now. With every fucking inch of me.”
She straddles me in one fluid move, dress riding up her thighs, and grinds down slow and deliberate against the bulge in my soaked jeans. I groan, hands gripping her hips, already forgetting the cold water dripping off me.
“Look at you,” she murmurs, rocking harder, her heat pressing through the fabric. “So hard for me already. Forget that stupid phone. I’m the only thing you need tonight.”
She yanks my shirt open, buttons scattering, mouth hot on my neck, sucking marks into my skin as she works my belt loose. My cock springs free, aching, and she wraps her hand around me—tight, sure strokes that make my head fall back.
“I’m so sorry I ruined your phone, baby,” she says, voice dripping with that beautiful, filthy edge that’s only ever for me. “Let me apologize properly. Let me fuck the frustration right out of you.”
She shoves her panties aside—no time for more—and sinks down onto me in one slick, perfect slide. We both moan, loud and raw in the open air. She’s soaked, tight, clenching around me like she was made for this.
“God, yes,” she breathes, starting to ride me hard, hips rolling in that ruthless rhythm she knows drives me insane.
Her full breasts bounce with every thrust, nipples hard against the thin fabric of her dress.
“Look how you love me riding your cock, Ethan. Look how deep I take you. This pussy is yours—only yours—and it’s saying sorry so much better than words. ”
I thrust up to meet her, hands sliding under her dress to grip her ass, spreading her wider as she slams down again and again. She’s filthy and gorgeous, hair whipping around her face, moonlight painting her skin silver as she leans forward, lips brushing mine.
“You feel that?” she gasps, grinding slow and deep, circling her hips until I’m seeing stars. “That’s me making it up to you. Every bounce, every clench. I’m your dirty little apology tonight—fucking you until you can’t remember anything but how good I feel wrapped around you.”
It’s too much—her words, her body, the way she owns me completely. I come hard, buried deep, groaning her name into her neck as she milks every pulse from me, her own climax hitting seconds later with a sharp cry that echoes over the water.
We collapse together, breathless, tangled, her body draped over mine like a promise.
By morning, the phone feels like an afterthought.
The Verizon store smells like plastic and carpet cleaner and possibility.
We’re both a little hungover, but Sage is glued to my side, fingers laced through mine like she’s afraid I’ll disappear if she lets go.
“I’m so sorry, baby,” she murmurs for the fifth time. “I still feel terrible.”
“I survived,” I say dryly. “Barely.”
She smiles at me, relieved.
The guy behind the counter pulls out the newest model like he’s unveiling a prize.
“Slick, right?” he says. “Motorola V60. Chrome finish. Real clean.”
It is slick. Silver. Heavy. Looks like something Batman would own if Batman had a phone.
He walks me through the basics—how to flip it, how to set up voicemail.
“So you hit *7,” he says, “then set a four-digit PIN. Just don’t make it something obvious.”
I don’t think.
I punch in 0109.
My mom’s birthday.
The system accepts it. Beeps cheerfully.
“Good to go,” the guy says.
Same number. New phone.
Problem solved.
Or so it seems.
Sage squeezes my hand, grinning up at me. “See? Fixed.”
I smile back.
But as I clip the new phone onto my belt and feel its unfamiliar weight there, something unsettles quietly in my chest.
Because everything is fine.
Too fine.
And I don’t know yet that some mistakes don’t disappear when you replace what’s broken.
They just wait.