There are no words.
Not after hearing that.
In silence, my eyes trace the spiderweb of scars that thread across my wrist, onto the back of my hand. The tangible damage, a visible reminder of the life I’ve lost. Much as I hate to look at them, I think I’d prefer this sort of damage to that Tommy bears. That undetectable, untraceable kind that snakes its way around your soul and sucks the life from your bones.
“Shit, I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to bring your head down, kid.” Dee clinks his glass against mine and laughs stiffly to fill the silence that’s descended over us. “Mostly just came over ‘cause I wanted to tell you that I’ve seen you around the docks. You’re a hard worker.” He pauses carefully. “One of my stern-men just up and quit on me. Right before peak season, the son-of-a-bitch. I assume you’re out of a job, what with the Ebenezer sitting on the bottom of Salem Sound. You give me a shout if you’re looking for a new gig.”
Before I can reply, Dee grabs his beer and vanishes into a shadowy corner, where several other regulars are shooting pool on an ancient table with peeling green felt. Leaving me there to nurse my drink and wonder how on earth I’m ever going to meet Tommy’s eyes again.
That’s the thing about seeing someone else’s damage.
You can’t ever unsee it.
Harvey doesn’t even ask if I want another round. He simply leans over the bar and pours, until my glass is once more full of amber liquid. I drink until the world goes out of focus, stumbling home on unsteady legs under the cover of darkness. But even after I’ve fallen into bed, water-stained ceiling swimming in and out of focus overhead, I cannot shake the desolation clenched like a fist around my heart, or the grim sadness pounding through my veins like poison.
Jo.
Jaxon.
Tommy.
I pull a pillow over my face and scream until I run out of air.
SEVENTEEN
josephine
“I’m getting on the next plane.”
“Ollie.” I sigh for the third time in as many minutes, my exasperation increasing exponentially with each breath. I try to keep my voice level. “Please. You’re overreacting about all of this.”
“You nearly died yesterday. Forgive me if I’m a bit frantic at the moment.”
“I told you, I’m totally fine.”
He’s silent for a long stretch. “I just don’t understand why you wouldn’t want me there to support you after an ordeal like this.”
“It’s not necessary, that’s why. I know how busy you are at VALENT. I’m not going to drag you halfway across the world when there’s no justifiable basis for it.”
“So… that’s the only reason?”
“I don’t follow.”
He hesitates a beat. “There’s no other reason you don’t want me coming there, right?”
“Of course not!” My pulse is pounding as the words rush out. “Why would you even ask something like that?”
“You’ve been so distant since you got there. You barely call me. You don’t answer my texts or emails. I feel like… like I’m losing you.”
My eyes press closed. God, I’m the worst girlfriend ever. “I’m so sorry, Oliver. Really, I am. Being back here has been a bit more difficult than I thought it would be. I promise from now on I’ll reach out more. I’ll communicate so much, you’ll be sick of me.”
“That, I assure you, would be impossible.” I can hear the smile twisting the edges of his voice. “I miss you, Josephine. Geneva has gone gray in your absence.”
My heart pangs. He’s so sweet, it makes me ache. Not with longing, but with something closer to contrition. “I miss you too, Ollie.”
“Do you?”
“Of course I do.”
“Okay. Okay, that’s good to hear.”
His sharp exhale of relief is audible across the line. My guilty conscience rears its ugly head. The poor man is starved for reassurance and affection.
“It won’t be this way forever,” I remind him.
“Does that mean you’ve made a decision about your attendance at Brown?”
“I have another meeting with my academic advisor in a few weeks. I’ll have to tell her whether or not I’m enrolling for next semester when I get there.”
“Ah. I see.”
There’s an awkward silence. I get the sense he’s waiting for me to tell him my decision right now, while we’re discussing it. But I can’t do that. Because that would require me knowing what I’m going to decide. And the truth is, I have no clearer picture of my future in mind than I did the last time we spoke. I still have no idea what to do about Brown, about VALENT, about Archer. About anything.
“Well,” Ollie says somewhat stiffly. “I have a meeting in a few minutes with your parents about the marketing budget for next quarter…”
“All right.”
“So… I’ll guess I’ll let you go, then.”
“Have a good meeting. I hope Blair and Vincent aren’t too unbearable.”
He doesn’t laugh. His voice is quite serious as he says,“I love you, Josephine.”
My eyes press closed. My grip tightens around my coffee cup.
Why is it so difficult to say it back?
“I love you, too.”
The call clicks off. The screen goes dark. And those three little words sit heavy on my tongue, tasting more and more like a lie with each passing moment.
It’s half-past two when the outer gate buzzer rings. I hit pause on my episode of The Great British Bake-Off when I hear it. Typically, Mrs. Granger is the one to handle the comings and goings at Cormorant House, but since she’s out at the grocery store — no doubt stocking up on a pantry’s worth of sickeningly healthy snacks — I’m the one who answers the intercom. The stranger — a wizened, white-haired man of middle years who looks like he’s spent more than a few decades in the sun — introduces himself politely as the “boat maintenance man.”
I buzz him through the gates and peer out the front window as his sagging Ford rolls slowly around the circular driveway. The truck bed is full of empty lobster traps and bait-storage crates.
“You’re not Mrs. Granger,” the man says by way of greeting, climbing down out of the cab.
“No,” I confirm. I stick out my hand, and he envelops it firmly inside his. His grip is callused, rough in a way that only comes from years of hard labor. “I’m Josephine Valentine. This is my parents’ house.”
Something like recognition flashes across the man’s expression, but it’s gone far too quickly to decipher. “Josephine, is it? I’m Tommy Mahoney.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Mahoney.”
“No need for formalities. Just call me Tommy. Everyone else does.”
“Okay. Tommy it is, then.” I shoot a smile at him. One he does not return. I’m not offended; I get the immediate sense that smiling is not something he does often. “Unfortunately, there’s not much work for you to do today. My father’s Hinckley is still here but Cupid, my Alerion, sank in that freak storm yesterday, just off the coast of Great Misery.”