The ride back is quiet. Now that everything has been said, Rhys and I can’t look at each other. He keeps his eyes on the dark outside the window, and not once does he glance toward Dane.
At the cottage, we scatter. I duck into the downstairs bathroom, unwilling to risk another conversation before I can steady myself. When I come out, Jules and Bianca are already on the stairs with their bags, bound for the guesthouse.
Jules passes without meeting my eyes. Bianca manages a strained smile and presses my hand once between hers. The door opens behind me and shuts again. The small, ordinary sound catches in my throat.
I can’t go into the room Rhys and I have shared all week. I take the kids’ room instead. The twin beds have been made and pushed back against opposite walls. Jules and Bianca have left almost nothing behind, only the clean trace of peppermint oil.
I sit on one mattress, trying to tell whether the loneliness is closing in from the room or rising from somewhere inside me. Maybe it has been there all along.
I change and crawl under the covers. I don’t cry, but sleep won’t come. The argument starts over in my head. The words run together; every time I reach the end, I begin again.
Why didn’t I tell them? The excuses I’ve been repeating for months sound thin now. I wasn’t afraid they’d be angry that Rhys and I had broken up. I was afraid they’d be sad. I was afraid of spoiling a trip they cared about, of changing what this place meant to them. I worried they might resent me and never say so. Without Rhys, maybe they wouldn’t like me as much. I knew I liked myself less.
They would ask what happened. Whatever explanation I managed to assemble, they’d recognize what I was trying not to say: I hadn’t been enough.
I’m not the brilliant surgeon my parents imagined. I couldn’t make Rhys happy. I wasn’t the friend Bianca and Jules needed. I’ve spent years trying to earn my place with the people I love, and somehow I still hurt them.
The room is too warm. Each time I turn, my knee knocks the wall. If there were a television, I’d put on an old mystery and let familiar voices occupy the dark. There’s nothing here to interrupt the questions or the memories.
I remember the weeks after Rhys and I split: crying into a pillow that still smelled like him, waking from dreams with my chest tight, agreeing to a double date with Taye, her boyfriend, and their friend because I thought I ought to try moving on.
Afterward I came home feeling sick and cleaned the apartment. I scrubbed the grout and the splashes on the kitchen cupboards as if a spotless room could make me feel like someone else. I stood with my phone in my hand, wishing there were a person I could call.
If I called my mother, perhaps she’d tell me to come home and let her take care of me. If I called Rhys, perhaps he’d say the breakup had been a mistake, that he still loved me the way he promised he would.
My friends were asleep or about to be. Calling Nadia would have felt strange; we hardly ever talk on the phone. I came close to dialing Rhys that night, then blocked his number instead. The longer I waited, the harder it became to explain how badly I was coping. I was ashamed of missing him so much.
The future I pictured was made of things I thought a successful career could buy or prove. My parents in the crowd at graduation, proud enough that all the years of sacrifice finally seemed to have a purpose. Their mortgage paid down. Thoughtful gifts I could choose without worrying over the price. A house with working air-conditioning and doors that stayed open; long dinners at a restaurant, everyone laughing, their cheeks pink from wine and warmth. Family vacations we’d never been able to take. I imagined giving them good news, seeing relief replace worry, making their work feel repaid at last. Mostly, I imagined them looking at me and saying they loved me.
That was the future I kept chasing. Not the work itself, but what I believed it would bring: happiness, love, safety.
For a long time, that promise was enough. School became a way to measure whether I deserved a good life. If I did everything right, I believed the world would reward me. I would be happy. I would be loved. I would be safe.
Instead, I’ve pushed away everyone I love.
My heart is beating too hard. I need to move. I pull the sheet from the bed and wrap it around my shoulders. The hallway is cold, and the stairs colder, but I still feel stifled.
In the kitchen, I set the sheet aside and put away the dishes. I load the dishwasher, wipe the counters, sweep. I tell myself that tomorrow the room will look less like tonight feels.
It doesn’t help. My skin still feels too tight. I take the sheet and slip out the back door. The wind can’t cool me down. I make my way to the bluff. Below, the water sounds loud in the dark. I picture letting it carry me somewhere else, opening my eyes in a life that doesn’t feel like this one.
Then Bianca’s words return: I’m losing the person I love because I couldn’t choose a wedding date. Rhys’s words from earlier come with them. He’d thought I didn’t want to marry him, that I kept putting off the future because I wouldn’t talk about it.
I had hidden so much from him. I thought my feelings would become one more burden and push him away. Even tonight, when he told me what he’d been thinking, I couldn’t make myself answer. Now the things I held back churn inside me.
Once I decide, I’m moving before I can talk myself out of it. The climb from the bluff, the patio, the stairs, the hallway—all of it passes in a rush. I stop at Rhys’s door and knock. It’s already opening.
He’s dressed. Surprise crosses his face, then gives way to something I can’t read. A packed bag waits beside the door.
“You’re leaving?”
He looks toward the bag. “I thought that might be easier.”
“Easier how? There are only a few flights out of here, and none in the middle of the night.”
He closes the door behind me. “I don’t know.”
“No,” I say.
His brow rises. “No what?”
“We’re not done fighting.”
“I thought we weren’t fighting.”
I move close enough to feel his warmth. “We’re having a full-scale fight.”
He looks away. “About what?”
“For one thing, you packed a bag in the middle of the night.” My voice falters. “And I don’t want you to go.”
His hands settle at my hips, holding me without pulling me closer. “I shouldn’t have come. This is my fault.”
“It isn’t.”
“It is.”
I move nearer until our chests touch. “There. That’s another thing.”
A brief smile touches his mouth, then disappears. “I’m so sorry, Mara. If I’d stayed away this week like I said I would—”
I put my hands on his shoulders and guide him to sit on the edge of the bed. In the lamplight, he looks up at me. I step between his knees and touch his jaw. His eyes close; he turns his face into my palm and kisses it. His hands find my waist as I climb into his lap, the sheet still wrapped around me.
“This is fighting?” he murmurs.
I nod.
His hands hold my thighs. “This is what you wore to fight?”
“I’m new to it. I didn’t know there was a uniform. Should I change?”
His gaze moves over me. “Did you pack anything smaller?”
“Not unless you know how to wear a toothbrush.”
“We’ll manage.” He draws me closer. “So, what are we fighting about?”
“Everything.”
He cups the back of my neck. “It’s easier to start with one small thing and let it become everything. That’s how my parents did it.”