Chapter 6

Back in Savannah, life resumed as before.

Work. Subway home. Cook dinner. Sleep.

Sometimes I'd video chat with Mom. She told me Margaret had shown up at their door twice, crying, saying she wanted Derek and me to reconcile.

Mom told her: My daughter is doing just fine. Stop coming here.

Margaret had cursed her out — called me cold, heartless, said I'd be punished for terminating the pregnancy.

Mom had picked up a broom and chased her off.

I heard this and laughed, just once.

One night I worked late. When I stepped out of the building, it was raining. I stood in the doorway, looking at the rain.

Someone held an umbrella out to me.

I turned. A young man — glasses, plaid shirt, quiet-looking.

"You're the new admin coordinator, right? I'm with the company next door, same floor."

"Oh. Hi."

He pressed the umbrella into my hand.

"Take it. I'm parked in the garage — I won't get wet." And he jogged off into the rain before I could say a word.

I stood there holding his umbrella, slightly stunned.

The next day, I went to return it. His office was at the end of the hall. The sign on the door read: Ashford Tech Solutions.

I knocked.

"Come in."

He was at his computer. When he saw me, his expression opened into mild surprise, then a smile. "Returning the umbrella?"

"Yes. Thank you."

He took it back, set it aside. "Did you get soaked?"

"No, thanks to you."

He scratched his head, a little awkward. "Don't mention it."

I smiled politely and turned to go.

"Hey—" He stopped me. "What's your name?"

I looked back. "Nina Hartley."

"I'm Ethan Ashford." He hesitated. "So — where do you usually eat lunch?"

"The cafeteria."

"The cafeteria food is terrible. There's a good noodle place nearby. If you want to—" He left it open.

I looked at him. Clear eyes. Nothing calculating, nothing angling for something.

"Okay," I said.

We went that day. The noodles were good — real broth, tender meat. He talked a lot — work, movies, games. I listened, answered occasionally.

He paid at the end. I said next time was on me. He said fine.

There was a next time. And another. And another.

Slowly, we became friends.

He knew I'd come from up north alone, that I was divorced, that I was living on my own. He didn't press for details. He just said sometimes, once: Being on your own is good. You're free.

I knew he was from here, that his parents were in a nearby city, that he was building something on his own in Savannah.

Sometimes we ate together. Sometimes movies. Sometimes we'd sit in the coffee shop downstairs and both be on our own phones without saying a word.

One afternoon I asked him: "You've never asked me why I got divorced."

He thought about it. "You'll tell me when you want to."

I didn't say anything. Neither did he.

That night, back home, I lay in bed and thought for a long time.

It had been almost six months since the divorce.

Six months, and not one day of regret.

One day, Ethan asked: "Do you have plans this weekend?"

"Not really."

"Want to go to the beach? I'll drive."

I hadn't been to the beach since moving here.

"Sure."

He picked me up Saturday morning. The drive took nearly two hours. When we got there — sand, surf, a sky so blue it looked painted.

I took my shoes off and walked on the warm sand.

He walked beside me.

We walked a long time without talking.

Eventually he sat down on a flat rock and patted the space next to him. I sat.

He gazed out at the water. Then he said: "Nina, do you know why I keep wanting to spend time with you?"

I turned to look at him. The afternoon light was on his face, softening everything.

"Because being with you feels easy. You don't ask a lot of questions. You don't pry. You don't make me feel like I have to perform. It's just… comfortable."

He paused, then looked at me. "Can I ask you something?"

"Go ahead."

"Do you plan on being alone forever?"

I went still.

Before I could answer, he added quickly: "I don't mean — that's not a loaded question. I just meant, what are your plans going forward? Long-term?"

I looked out at the water. The waves came in, pulled back, came in again.

"I don't know. Just… live, I guess."

He smiled. "That's a good plan. Living is the whole thing."

We stayed until the sun touched the horizon.

On the drive back, I leaned against the window and fell asleep. When I woke up, his jacket was draped over me. He was focused on the road, unaware I'd woken.

I watched his profile for a moment.

A memory came to me — something I'd read once. A reporter asked an old woman: When were you happiest? And the woman said: When I was sixty. My husband peeled an orange for me. And the reporter asked: What about when you were young? And the old woman said: You don't notice it when you're young. It's only later you realize — those plain, ordinary days were the happiest ones.

I didn't know what Ethan and I would become, or whether I'd ever want to try again.

But in that moment, someone had put a jacket over me, and I'd slept all the way home.

That was enough.

Two months later, the appeal ruling came through: the original judgment was upheld.

Derek owed me the renovation costs and my share of the mortgage and down payment repayments — a total of $320,000.

The day the money cleared, I transferred $90,000 to my parents. Mom called immediately: don't, keep it for yourself. I told her: take it, buy Dad some good whiskey and get something nice for yourself.

She started crying. So did I.

After we hung up, I sat in my apartment for a long time.

$320,000. Every tile I'd picked out. Every month's mortgage payment transferred before spending a cent on anything else.

I thought that place was our home. Turned out it was just his house.

While I'd worked through the cramps to keep paying the mortgage, what had he been thinking? He'd been planning to sell it to cover a debt that had nothing to do with me.

Some things, once they're gone, don't come back.

That evening, Ethan asked me to dinner. I went.

Partway through the meal, he reached into his jacket pocket and set a small box on the table.

I stared at it.

"Open it."

I lifted the lid.

A bracelet — a slim silver chain with a tiny starfish charm dangling from it.

He watched me, a little nervous. "It's not a proposal, don't panic. I just wanted to give you something. That starfish — I picked it up off the beach when we were there. I had someone turn it into a pendant. I just thought… it'd be a nice way to remember that day."

I stared at the little starfish.

"If you don't like it, you don't have to—"

"I love it," I said.

His face broke into a full smile. "Really?"

"Really."

That night I put the bracelet on when I got home. The silver caught the lamplight, flashing faintly. I stared at it for a long time.

Then I sent Mom a text: Mom, I'm doing well.

She replied immediately: Good. That's what matters.

I smiled, turned off the light, and went to sleep.

Outside, moonlight filtered through the oak leaves and scattered across my floor — fragments of silver, like scattered sand.

I closed my eyes.

Tomorrow was a new day.