Chapter 30 #2
“I’m sorry,” he adds quietly. “I’m sorry, E. I should’ve pushed harder. I should’ve forced an intervention sooner.”
I shake my head, trying to speak, failing.
“We’re changing every lock,” Tony continues. “House. Storage. Boat. Cameras everywhere. Motion sensors. Don’t even think about the damage—insurance will handle that.”
I choke out a sound that might be a laugh or might be pain.
“It’s not the money,” I manage finally, voice shredded. “It’s—”
My throat closes.
“All that time,” I whisper. “All that labor. I built that house. Piece by piece. My guitar. My peace.”
A fresh wave hits me.
“She destroys everything I love,” I say, the truth of it slicing clean. “Everything.”
Then—through the sobbing, through the chaos—another thought surfaces.
“At least,” I breathe, “at least she didn’t burn down Artemis.”
The room stills.
Every head lifts.
“Oh shit,” Mark says.
He’s already pulling his phone out. “I’m calling the marina. Dry dock. Locking everything down.”
Tony nods sharply. “I’m on it too. I’ve got connections in Boston PD. I’ll call Plymouth. We’re circling the wagons now, boys.”
His voice hardens.
“It’s go time.”
Around me, phones come out. Voices drop. Names are said. Calls made. Locksmiths. Detectives. Cops. Tony’s uncle. Someone mentions the local hospital—psychiatric intake. Someone else asks if anyone knows who her doctor is.
They’re not just protecting me.
They’re trying to save her, too.
That’s what hits me hardest.
Even now—after hearing her scream my name through the phone, after watching my life get torched from a mountain away—they’re still thinking: What if she needs help? What if this isn’t jail, but a ward?
I sit there, wrecked, held together by Tony’s arms, while the men around me move with purpose—quiet, decisive, fierce.
And for the first time since Sage came into my life like a wildfire and called it love, I realize something through the ache and the ash:
I’m not alone.
They’ve got my back.
Three days later, we land together.
Same flight. Same row. Same quiet.
No jokes this time. No one reaching for their phone the second the wheels hit the runway. We move like a unit—customs, baggage claim, rental car—Tony never more than a step away, like if he drifts too far I might fold back in on myself.
The drive north is gray and silent. Late winter. Dirty snow shoved into tired piles along the shoulder of the highway.
About an hour in, Tony clears his throat.
“Hey,” he says carefully. “Maybe this isn’t the best time.”
I glance over. His hands are tight on the wheel, knuckles pale.
“But you’re my best friend,” he continues. “I’d walk through fire for you. You know that, right?”
I nod. My chest tightens anyway.
“And when the time comes,” he adds, voice steady but real, “I want you to be my best man.”
For a second, I can’t speak.
“You serious?” I finally ask.
“Dead serious. I know the timings bad but I don’t want to wait much longer. I’m going to propose maybe Valentine’s Day. Then we’ll have a year engagement t0 be sure then start planning the wedding.
I swallow. “Yeah. Yeah. Of course.”
He exhales like he’s been holding that in for a while.
We don’t say anything else about it.
The house is exactly where I left it.
And nothing like I left it.
Tony tries to stop me from going inside—steps in front of the door, one hand braced on the frame—but I shake my head.
“I need to see it.”
The insurance adjuster is already there. Clipboard. Camera. Professional distance.
I follow him through rooms that don’t feel like mine anymore.
Waterlines stain the walls. Floorboards buckle underfoot. The basement smells like rot and damp insulation. My bedroom—Christ—my bedroom smells like smoke and mildew and something else I don’t want to name.
When the agent finally leaves, I roll my sleeves up.
“I’ll clean it,” I say.
Tony opens his mouth to argue—
—but Mark, Dan, Seth, and Tony’s uncle step in behind him, duffels already on the floor.
“We cut the vacation short,” Mark says. “Figured you weren’t doing this alone.”
Something lodges in my throat.
We work until our hands ache.
Bagging ruined things. Dragging debris. Stacking what can be saved. No one asks permission before lifting, fixing, helping.
“At least she left the couch alone,” Mark mutters at one point. “I’ve been sleeping on it for two nights.”
I huff out a breath that almost feels like a laugh.
Tony’s uncle arrives mid-afternoon, quiet authority filling the room the way smoke used to.
“It’s done,” he says. “Judge signed off this morning.”
My stomach twists.
“She spent the night in the psych ward,” he continues evenly. “Suicide watch. After that, they booked her. A couple felonies. A couple misdemeanors. Charges are adding up.”
I brace a hand on the counter.
“The most important thing,” he adds, “is we got a protective restraining order against you. She’s not allowed anywhere near you.”
I nod. I should feel relief.
Instead, shame floods me—hot, irrational, suffocating.
“Her friend from Boston—Chloe—posted bail,” he goes on. “She’s staying with her for now. And her therapist flew in, spoke at the hearing. Said Sage has been under her care and will continue to be.”
“What kind of care?” Mark asks.
Tony’s uncle exhales. “Psychiatric. Breakdown. Bipolar disorder. Split personality. Some of it’s sealed—HIPAA—but enough came out to paint a picture.”
He looks at me. “Sage isn’t stupid. She knows good attorneys. She’ll self-represent if she has to. She’ll claim a psychotic break, try to plead half of it down.”
He pauses, choosing his words.
“She’s smart as she is unstable.”
Mark snorts. “Girls like Sage always land on their feet.”
Tony tilts his head. “You’re not wrong. She did have her good points.”
There’s a beat.
“I mean,” Tony continues quietly, “remember when she bailed my ass out? Or when that guy tried to sue us over that personal injury claim on the Fourth? She had those ambulance-chasing attorneys shaking in their boots.”
Dan nods. “She was terrifying when she was on your side.”
Seth adds, “She had moments.”
Silence settles—not comfortable, but honest.
Then Mark frowns. “Is she… gonna be okay, though? I mean, she got fired, right?”
I don’t answer.
Ethan—me—finally says, “Just don’t answer if she calls you. Block her email. Trust me. That’s not a door you want open even a crack.”
Tony glances over. “You gonna take your own advice, brother?”
I nod. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”
Later, when the worst of the rubble is gone, I sink onto a chair and scrub my hands over my face.
“This isn’t supposed to happen to guys like me,” I say quietly. “I’m supposed to be the alpha. The hero. How the fuck did this happen?”
Tony’s uncle laughs—not cruel. Just real.
“Why do you think I’m on my third divorce?” he says. “My prenups are airtight. It’s the power of the—”
“Don’t,” I cut in immediately.
He grins and shuts up.
Mark shakes his head. “I knew she was too good to be true the moment she latched onto you at that bar. Girls like he only live in fairy tales.”
“Or Stephen King novels,” Dan quips.
Tony snorts. “Please. You’re the only guy they ever go for.”
Mark blinks.
“She took one look at me and knew,” Tony says. “Nah. She wanted him.”
He nods at me.
“The golden one.”
I stare at the floor.
“You’re one of the good guys, Ethan,” Tony says. “You’re the hero. You build porches in a day, redesign kitchens, sing love songs and make rooms fall silent.”
I shake my head, overwhelmed.
“I’ve been jealous of you my whole life,” he admits. “I’m just some rich kid trying not to screw up the family business. You? You’re self-made.”
He claps my shoulder.
“Hold your head up.”
“Thanks,” I say quietly. “That means more than you know.”
I inhale. “Where is she now?”
“Boston,” Tony says. “Daily therapy. Chloe’s watching her like a hawk.”
“And she’s fired,” Mark adds. “Obviously.”
“So it’s over,” Dan says.
“It better be,” Mark mutters.
“She’s got more court dates,” Tony’s uncle says. “This isn’t disappearing.”
Mark exhales. “She’ll still get out of some of it. Girls like her always do.”
No one argues.
Because we all remember the good Sage.
Tony breaks it gently.
“She’s not evil,” he says. “She’s broken. In a way even you can’t fix.”
I nod.
“I can’t stay here,” I say. “Let’s rent it out.”
Tony nods without hesitation.
“I’m going back to the city,” I add. “Selling the condo.”
“What are you gonna do?” Mark asks.
I look out at the mountains.
“I don’t know. But I’m not staying where she can find me.”
A thought settles.
“Maybe the Bahamas,” I say. “Summer. Dockhand. Singing at a bar. No phone.”
Tony smiles. “Sounds perfect.”
“My uncle knows people,” he adds.
“Of course he does.”
A few calls later, it’s real.
Two days later, I walk them out. Boots crunching on the fresh snow.
“Tony—look after my ma? I’m going to spend time before I go but—I’m worried.”
“Always,” he says. “She won’t even suspect I’ll have eyes on the place.”
“I never took Sage there,” I admit.
“She was too smart to mess with a mother,” Tony says. “That’s a line you don’t cross.”
Then he grins. “Still getting her cameras. Fence. Guard dog.”
I laugh—really laugh.
Weeks pass.
Not days.
Not a rushed montage of decisions and packing boxes.
Weeks.
I don’t go back to Boston right away. I stay long enough to finish cleaning what can be cleaned, to let the house breathe again, even if it won’t be mine for much longer.
I hire a property manager. Sign papers. Rent it out furnished.
Let someone else make new memories in rooms that no longer feel like mine.
The condo comes later.
I take my time there too.
I box things carefully. Donate more than I keep. The watch goes into a drawer. The suits follow. I keep one—out of habit, maybe guilt—but it feels like a costume now.
At night, instead of drinking or calling people I don’t want to explain myself to, I write.
Not to a therapist.
To myself.
I buy a cheap black notebook and start putting things down the way they come—messy, nonlinear, honest. Some nights it’s Sage. Some nights it’s the house. Some nights it’s 9/11.
That surprises me.
I hadn’t realized how much this year pulled that thread loose again. How much I’d been running—not from her, but from that day. From the version of myself that came out of smoke and never really sat still again.
Maybe Sage wasn’t the earthquake.
Maybe she was just the last tremor before the ground finally gave way.
One night, sitting on the edge of the bed in the half-empty condo, it hits me so clearly I laugh out loud.
This is right.
As fucked up as the road here was, it brought me exactly where I’m supposed to be.
I’ve spent a decade chasing a life that looks good on paper.
Fancy watch.
Good suits.
Corporate meet-and-greets.
Kissing the right asses.
Climbing ladders just high enough to stay trapped.
Overpriced apartment.
Overpriced drinks.
Overpriced meals.
Consumerism wrapped in ambition, sold as success.
It consumed me.
And somewhere along the way, I forgot the things that ever made me feel whole.
The ocean.
Salt air.
Sunset.
Music.
Freedom.
Not financial status—financial freedom.
Not prestige—peace.
I don’t want slide decks.
I don’t want last-minute meetings.
I don’t want Jim pacing holes through the boardroom carpet while everyone pretends the numbers mean something.
I don’t want a 9-to-5 cage dressed up as a career.
I want sunburned shoulders.
Callused hands.
Water under my feet.
Music that doesn’t need approval.
So when I board the plane weeks later—condo sold, loose ends tied, notebook in my backpack—I don’t feel like I’m fleeing.
I feel like I’m stepping into my own life for the first time.
The Bahamas smell like salt and citrus and possibility.
I don’t rush anything.
I rent a small place near the water. Take work where I can. Learn the rhythms. Learn the names of the winds. Learn how little I actually need.
One afternoon, wandering with nowhere to be, I duck into a secondhand shop tucked between a dive bar and a bait store.
It’s dusty. Quiet.
And there it is.
A guitar.
Not new. Not fancy. Scratched in places, worn smooth where someone else’s fingers once lived. The kind of instrument that’s already been loved—and is ready for more.
I lift it down. Strum once.
The sound settles into my chest like it recognizes me.
New strings.
New songs.
New memories waiting to be made.
I smile to myself.
Somewhere behind me, the past finally lets go.