Chapter 22
ETHAN
“You gonna say something,” Tony says, “or you just gonna stare at her like she’s about to sink?”
I blink and look up.
The boat’s already halfway out of the water, straps tight around her hull, her name—Artemis—tilted at an angle like she’s embarrassed to be seen this way.
“I’m saying goodbye,” I say.
Tony snorts. “You said goodbye in September. This is just winterizing.”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “That too.”
He doesn’t push. That’s the thing about Tony—he knows when to let silence do the work.
The marina’s quieter than it’s been all summer. No music. No sunburned tourists. Just gulls and wind and the slow hydraulic groan of the lift. The guys move around us, efficient, practiced. Drain lines. Check seals. Wrap the engine. Everything done right. No shortcuts.
Tony always takes care of what he loves.
We stay that night. One last one.
It’s cold enough that the beer barely sweats in our hands. We sit on the deck wrapped in jackets, cigars glowing like fireflies, the water knocking hollow beneath us.
Tony breaks first.
“I’m gonna marry her.”
I turn. “Melissa?”
He grins, softer than usual. “Yeah.”
Something tightens in my chest, but it’s a good kind of tight. “That’s… that’s good, man.”
Then his smile fades. He looks straight at me.
“But I can’t have bullshit, Ethan. No drama. Not at my wedding.”
I nod. Once. “We’re done. For real.”
He watches me a beat longer than necessary, then hands me another beer.
We talk. No jokes this time. No gloss.
I tell him about the fights. Her trashing my bedroom, putting her hands on me. Deleting my voicemails by calling into my phone from blocked numbers.
Tony doesn’t interrupt.
When I’m done, he exhales slowly. “Jesus.”
“Yeah.”
“I knew she liked to stir shit up,” he says. “But… man.”
“I didn’t know either,” I say. “Not at first.”
He stares out at the dark water. Then, quieter, “There’s something else.”
I glance over.
“My family owns the Z-port bar, right?”
“Unfortunately.”
“We got applications.” He hesitates. “Beth applied. So did… her.”
My stomach drops. “Sage?”
“Yeah. And Ethan?” He shakes his head. “She’s thirty-eight. Birthdate’s right there. And half that resume doesn’t add up.”
I run a hand down my face. “I know. Don’t hire her.”
“I’m not,” he says quickly. “Too messy. Too close. And I don’t want money going sideways.”
“Thank you.”
He nods. Then, lighter, “I’m asking Melissa to move in with me over the holidays.”
“After everything?” I say.
“After everything,” he replies. “9/11 flipped the script. I don’t wanna wait.”
I get that. More than I want to.
We sit there until the cold seeps through our bones and the stars sharpen overhead.
For the first time in weeks, I breathe all the way out.
My apartment is quiet in a way that feels wrong.
Not peaceful.
Vacant.
Her shampoo’s still in the shower—citrus and something floral I can’t name. Her coffee mug sits in the sink. The one she claimed immediately. “This one’s mine,” she’d said, like it was a joke.
I don’t wash the sheets.
I stand there longer than I should, staring at them like they might explain something.
In the kitchen, her fingerprints are everywhere. Yahoo recipes taped to the fridge. Notes in her handwriting. New cutlery she insisted we needed. A second deck chair—for guests, she’d said, smiling like she already knew she’d won.
I finally understand something ugly:
The silence is good.
But the absence is loud.
I start leaving on weekends.
I wedge a paperclip in the doorframe before I go—something small, something only I’d notice if it moved. It makes me feel stupid and smart at the same time.
I drive north.
My mother opens the door in her robe, hair pinned up, surprise flashing across her face.
“Ethan?”
“Hey, Ma.”
She pulls me into a hug that lasts a second longer than usual. “You okay?”
“I will be.”
She doesn’t ask about Sage. She never does.
I gut the guest bathroom first.
Tub out. Tile up. I Home Depot the shit out of the place—tools spread everywhere, radio blasting classic rock, my hands doing what my head can’t yet. It’s familiar. Comfortable.
I refinish cabinets. Replace hinges. Re-caulk windows. Fix the steps out back that always wobbled.
My mom watches from the doorway sometimes, quiet, like she doesn’t want to scare the moment away.
“You don’t have to do all this,” she says once. “Again.”
“I know,” I answer. “I want to.”
At night, my muscles ache the good way. The honest way.
For the first time in months, I sleep without waiting for the sound of keys.
I don’t know if it’s really over.
But I know this:
I’m still here.
I’m halfway up the family room wall when my mother’s friends arrive.
Tile spacers between my fingers. Level pressed against the marble.
The radio’s low—Springsteen humming through the house like it always has.
I’ve already pulled the old plaster out, cleaned the wall, measured twice.
This part is almost meditative. I’m installing a custom made marble hearth for a new wood stove and then adding a mantel.
Press.
Set.
Check.
“Ethan,” Mrs. Donnelly says from the doorway, awe in her voice, “would you look at that.”
I glance over my shoulder. Three of them stand there—coffee cups in hand, coats still on—taking in the kitchen like it’s a magazine spread.
“He did the bathroom too,” my mother says, proud but trying not to sound like it. “All of it.”
“No,” another one says. “You hired someone.”
I smile without turning around. “Nope.”
They shake their heads like they’re seeing a magic trick. One of them mutters something about men these days and where did you learn that.
I don’t answer.
I press another tile into place, wiping excess grout with my thumb, feeling the satisfying resistance as it locks in.
This makes sense to me.
Not the compliments.
Not the admiration.
The work.
Somewhere between champagne flutes and linen napkins, I forgot that I came from meat and potatoes. From casseroles and coffee brewed too strong. From hands that earned their keep and homes that stayed standing because someone cared enough to fix what broke.
Sage loved the polish.
The image.
The version of me that knew which wine paired with what and how to look effortless doing it.
And for a while, I thought that meant I’d outgrown this.
But standing here, covered in dust and grout, my shoulders sore and my hands steady, I realize something simple and sharp:
That life never fed me.
It looked good.
It sounded good.
But it didn’t hold.
This does.
I glance at my mother, who’s watching me like she’s afraid the moment might disappear if she blinks. Her friends keep talking—about resale value, about how impressive it is, about how lucky she is.
I smile to myself.
They think this is about skill.
It’s not.
It’s about remembering who I was before I learned how to pretend.
Before I traded callouses for cufflinks.
Before I mistook intensity for love.
Before I confused chaos with passion.
Tile doesn’t lie.
A wall is either straight or it isn’t.
There’s peace in that.
I set the last piece, step back, and finally turn around.
“Coffee?” my mother asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “I could use one.”
And for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like I’m escaping something.
I feel like I’m returning.