I shut my eyes, wishing I could shut out the memories. Wishing I could rewind the moment I screwed everything up by not taking the ring immediately from his outstretched hand, sliding it onto my fourth finger, and flinging my arms around the neck of my new fiancée.
I tried to accept.
I swear I did.
But for some incalculable reason, instead of saying yes, of course I’ll marry you! what came out of my mouth was a mumbled, I need some time to think about this. Instead of making Oliver happy, I watched in horror as all the light faded out of his eyes, as his jubilant expression clouded over with bitterness.
So that’s it, he’d whispered haltingly. You’re saying no.
I’m not saying no!
Well, you’re not saying yes.
Ollie, it’s just so fast!
We’ve been together almost a year.
That’s fast!
Who cares? If we want to be together...
This isn’t just about us. Our families—
Your parents love me. I already feel like I’m part of the Valentine clan.
And what about your parents?
They’ll adore you!
How do you know?
Because I adore you.
Oliver…
Just say yes, Josephine.
I can’t! Okay? Not right now. Not yet.
There was a long beat of silence, the air thickening with unspoken accusation.
This is because of him, Ollie hissed. Isn’t it?
Who? Archer?!
He’s got your head all confused.
This has nothing to do with him!
Whatever you say.
Please… Can we just talk about this?
Not right now. I’m exhausted. I’m going to bed. With that, he’d closed the box with a snap that made me flinch, set it on the counter, and walked out of the kitchen without a backward glance. His parting words hit me like a bullet as he paused briefly at the threshold. If you want to talk about this tomorrow, we can. But… maybe I’m not the one you need to be talking to, Josephine. Maybe the clarity you seem to be looking for has to come from… someone else.
I didn’t even have time to respond before he vanished down the hallway. Heart in my throat, I stood in the empty kitchen, listening to his leather loafers traversing the atrium, ascending the stairs. Carrying him as far from me as he could get within the confines of Cormorant House.
Even now, hours later, I’m haunted by his words. Much as I want to dismiss them as nothing but jealous speculation, I cannot deny their ring of truth. Oliver is right — I cannot give him an answer. Not until I’ve heard an answer of my own from Archer. Not until he’s explained what he meant yesterday.
You were my dream, too.
God, it’s a mess. All of it. My entire life. Every time I think I’ve found my footing, the very ground beneath my feet shakes and shifts, tectonic plates jolting without warning. I do not know what my path forward looks like. All I know is, I will not walk into the future with my heart still tethered to the past. I will not ride into the fairy tale sunset burdened by the baggage of a broken relationship. I will not accept a ring from Oliver with my fingertips still tingling from the warmth of Archer’s skin.
My grip tightens on the velvet box, squeezing so hard the lid skews out of alignment. I’m consumed by the strangest urge to crush it into dust, if only to remove the heavy weight its existence has placed upon my shoulders. To hurl it into the ocean lapping below, where the waves could banish it to the depths as if it never existed. Maybe then, Oliver and I could go back to the way things were before — before the proposal, before the rejection, before everything got so very complicated.
A wide yawn cracks my face in two. I’ve been up all night thinking and have nothing to show for it except deep circles under my eyes and restless energy buzzing through my limbs. I long for the universe to send me a sign. Some cleverly disguised message to prompt me down the correct path. But that’s not really how life works, is it? There is no mystical interference reaching down from the heavens to show me the way, no omnipotent hand stirring the pot.
In absence of a higher power, I’d take some sage advice. But there are no wise Exeter Academy teachers to dispense wisdom, no guidance councilors to gently pivot me, no Flora or Miguel to prod me along with calming words. I’m on my own. I guess that’s the difference between adolescence and adulthood. When you’re a kid, you’re surrounded by people telling you what to do, how to live. Your every action is dictated, every breath orchestrated. Then, you graduate. And, at the ripe old age of eighteen, you’re thrust into the cold reality of the real world without so much as a map or a compass.
There’s no one to clean up your messes. No one to ground you or teach you to tie your shoes the proper way or press cold compresses against your brow when you’re burning up with fever. All you can do is muddle along in the darkness, picking directions at random and hoping they’re the right ones. Hoping they don’t lead anywhere too terrible. And eventually, when you take a wrong turn, when you wind up somewhere you never thought your feet would carry you… you stand alone at the precipice of disaster. Watching the metaphorical shit hit the metaphorical fan, powerless to stop it. Bracing for the fallout with the only person you can really count on to be there for you, no matter what.
Your ride or die.
Your constant.
Your own damn self.
I hear the sound of a car rumbling down the circular driveway, tires crunching on pea stone. It must be Mrs. Granger, arriving for the day. She’s early; the sun is barely up. I jolt to my feet, prepared to race back to the house if it means beating her there and avoiding any judgmental looks at my raggedy state — barefoot with grass stains on my toes, a baggy sweater layered over thin pajamas. In my haste, the velvet ring box slips from my fingers and hits the ground, skating across the dusty floorboards and disappearing beneath an old, chipped nightstand.
The rafters house a hodgepodge of similar castoffs from the mansion, dragged up here over the years to turn the space into a proper clubhouse. Boxes of spare boat parts and retired household appliances are stacked haphazardly beside paint cans and myriad tools.
Cursing my clumsiness, I drop to my knees and peer beneath the old nightstand. I can’t see much of anything in the dimness, so I grope around blindly until my fingers brush something velvet. It’s only after I’ve pulled the jewelry box into view that I see it’s not the one I was looking for — not small and square, but wider and flatter. The kind crafted for a necklace or a bracelet instead of an engagement ring. The crushed velvet exterior is not black but champagne colored, and coated in a thick layer of dust.
It’s been up here a while, that much is clear. Less evident is who left it behind. It certainly isn’t mine. I seldom wear jewelry — especially not the kind that comes in a fancy velvet box. Yet, no one else comes up here. So the owner remains a mystery.
Some forgotten family heirloom, perhaps?
Doubtful. The Valentine jewels are locked away in a safe somewhere, meticulously catalogued according to size and value. I tell myself it’s not my business. To put it back down and continue my search for the ring, but my fingers aren’t cooperating. Curiosity wins out. Rather than placing the box back on the dusty floor, I flip open the lid.
And very nearly drop it.
My fingers shake as I reach out to trace the pendant. Thin cords of gold twine together, forming an elegant coil. It’s a shape I recognize instantly, both from my nautical experience and also from the old legends. A fisherman’s knot. A knot that, once fastened, will not fray — no matter how the elements strain it, no matter if meddling hands tug at it. Pressure only makes it stronger, only tightens the bond, until the ropes grows so tight they might as well be fused together.