It’s late. All the lights are off. No doubt, Jo is fast asleep inside. Probably curled up beside her boyfriend.
I don’t like it — the thought sets my teeth on edge — but so long as she’s safe, I’ll deal with it. I don’t intend to tell her I’m here. Not now, not in the middle of the night. I’ll just keep watch until dawn, an invisible layer of protection in case my brother really is dumb enough to show his face here. The chance I’m right — however slim — is still too big a risk to ignore.
I forget sometimes that this was his home, too. Before he went to prison, Jaxon lived on this sprawling property. Or, more specifically, in the staff quarters tucked away in the back thicket of trees. Gull Cottage — a single-story, shingled building we shared with Ma and Pa. I doubt he’d come back here now, but it’s worth checking.
I divert down the side path that leads away from the main house toward the cottage. It’s strange to be back here, but I can’t deny, there’s a certain morbid curiosity in my veins. Each footstep I walk closer to the place where I spent my childhood makes my pulse pound faster.
On this side of the estate, the lawn is slightly overgrown, the hedges trimmed with a rushed sloppiness my father never would’ve allowed, if he were still in charge of the grounds. I wonder who Blair and Vincent got to replace him. I wonder if they even hesitated as they dismissed a man who’d cared for their precious Cormorant House with meticulous precision for more than two decades.
It was all for the best, in the end. Pa sounded happier than I’ve ever heard him when we spoke on the phone yesterday. He has a house of his own to care for now — one he and Ma have made into a home on a small island off the coast of their native Puerto Rico.
I could hear the sound of waves crashing in the background as we chatted, tropical birds singing high-pitched songs from the trees overhead, the creak of a hammock strung up between two palms.
There are more wild horses on Vieques than there are people. They run through the yard like chickens, grazing on the herb garden, driving your mother crazy, Pa told me, a grin audible in his voice. You’ll love it. When are you coming to visit, mijo?
Soon, I’d assured him. Maybe I’ll try out fishing in some warmer waters.
He’d laughed, launching into a vivid description of the local catch. Long-billed marlins and colorful mahi-mahi; massive blackfin tuna and razor-mouthed barracuda.
We’ll catch them all, when you visit.
Okay, Pa. It’s a deal.
Some of his exuberance faded as we eventually circled around to the real reason behind my phone call. He was sad — but not entirely surprised — to hear that Jaxon has once again landed himself in trouble; that he’ll most likely be heading back to prison — this time, for far longer than two years.
Before we hung up, Pa promised to share the news with Ma as gently as possible. He always does his best to spare her whatever pain he can.
Be safe, Archer. Remember, you are loved. Even if we’re far away, we are always with you.
It’s amazing — even through a phone, from thousands of miles away, Flora and Miguel Reyes’ love shines so brightly, it could blind you. Their love for me, but also their love for one another. When I hear how happy they are in this new life they’ve built, it fills me with hope. Hope that love really is enough to make a relationship work.
Despite the obstacles.
Despite the whole world stacked against you.
Despite setbacks and hardships and struggles.
Love is enough.
You can watch the ground give way to darkness and defeat…. You can stand in the rubble of your old life… and you can survive it. So long as you have someone standing there beside you, picking a path forward through the ruins.
I clear the final stretch of woods and step off the path. Gull Cottage sits quietly in the clearing, its windows shuttered tight against the night, its screen porch latched closed. The sight of it hits me like a punch to the stomach. There are so many memories here. The air feels thick with them. Ghostly visions dance at the corners of my vision — Jax, Jo, and me as little kids, sprinting across the grass with bare feet, a race to the cove.
Last one in the water is a rotten egg!
Three bikes toppled over in the dirt. Three sets of muddy sneakers, left to dry on the front steps. Three colorful popsicles, half-melted in the sun.
I wish I could go back. Take those three innocent kids by the hand and steer them down a different path. One with an easier ending.
But if I’ve learned anything this past year…
You can’t go back.
You can’t change the past.
And you can’t let who you used to be dictate who you’re destined to become.
THIRTY-FIVE
josephine
I can’t sleep.
I pace my bedroom, a ping-pong ball of energy flying frantically from one side to the other. There’s nothing left to do. My suitcases are packed, stuffed with some clothes, my sketchbook, my laptop, and enough toiletries to get by for the next week or so. A printed copy of my reservation sits on the bed, beside my wallet — a short-term apartment rental in Rhode Island, not far from the Brown campus. Nothing fancy, but it’ll suffice until I can find something more permanent. Or, until the Student Housing office decides to answer my emails.
Tomorrow afternoon, I’ll take a train down to Providence — a jolting, three hour journey on the Commuter Rail. Not quite the same experience as cruising the backroads in the Porsche Cabriolet. My father’s hunter green convertible — a car I’ve come to think of as my own, after so many hours spent driving it — is the only thing I’ll miss, around here.
Or…
Almost the only thing.
My feet carry me from my bedroom almost on auto-pilot. I walk through the empty house — the furniture eerily draped with white sheets, like a haunted mansion in a ghost story — tugged by an instinct I do not question.
Outside, the night is cooler than expected. I shiver and wrap my sweater tighter around my pajamas as I make my way down to the boathouse. Moonlight bathes the grass, turning the world to silver. I follow the sound of waves crashing in the cove, a rhythm embedded deeply in my heart.
With each step, I try to memorize the sound. Sleeping without the metronomic crashing of the ocean will take some getting used to. When I first arrived in Geneva last summer, it took weeks before my ears acclimated to the quiet.
Rhode Island is on the Atlantic, I remind myself. Brown is just a short drive from the ocean. And there’s a university sailing team you can join, when you’re ready to take up the tiller again.
Since I lost Cupid in the storm on July 4th, I haven’t stepped foot on a sailboat. The wounds from that day are still fresh. But I know I’ll sail again, someday. Me and the ocean — we are a lifelong love affair. One pesky little near-drowning incident isn’t enough to change that.
The empty docks are a sad sight. I turn my back to them and head for the boathouse instead. This is what I came for — this is the last farewell I need to say before I leave this place for good.
Our spot.
If I can’t say goodbye to Archer in person, I’ll say goodbye to the place that most reminds me of him. I’ll sit on the rafters where we watched so many sunsets, trace the initials carved into the wood wall, and whisper all the things I wish I’d had a chance to tell him.