Chapter 7

After that, Ethan and I drifted forward — not quite a couple, but something more than friends.

We never named it. We still ate together, watched movies, wandered on weekends. He'd never said anything definitive; I'd never pushed. Somehow that felt right — no declarations, no promises, no tying our futures to each other before we were ready.

Sometimes I thought: this is fine. I don't have to think too hard. I don't have to give anyone anything I don't have to give.

Other times I thought: something isn't right. And it wasn't about liking or not liking. It was that I'd realized I was afraid. Afraid of handing trust to someone again and having it dropped.

One evening after dinner, we were walking along the riverfront. The water smell came off the Savannah River in cool gusts. He stopped and leaned on the railing, looking at me.

"Nina, I have to tell you something."

"What?"

"I might be transferred to New York. The company needs someone there. My manager asked if I'd consider it."

I went very still.

"When?"

"Next month."

I nodded. "That's a good opportunity. New York has a lot going for it."

He didn't respond right away. He just kept looking at me. After a long moment: "Is that all you have to say?"

I looked back at him. I didn't know how to answer.

What was I supposed to say? Don't go? We weren't anything official — I had no standing to say that. Good luck, then? Too hollow; I didn't believe it myself.

I looked down at the river lights rippling on the water and was quiet for a long time.

"Ethan."

"Yeah."

"You asked me once why I got divorced. I never told you. Not because I didn't want to — I didn't know where to start."

He waited.

I took a breath.

"My ex sold our home. $480,000. $180,000 for his brother's gambling debt, $300,000 to set him up in business. The down payment had come from his family, but the renovation was mine and the mortgage was ours together. I was pregnant and having cramps and wanted to take time off for a checkup. He said it wasn't worth the lost pay. He told me to push through it and keep working. And then he sold the house without telling me."

I paused. "I terminated the pregnancy. Then I filed for divorce."

The river wind lifted my hair into my face. I pushed it back.

"So now you know. I wasn't trying to hide it — these things are just hard to say out loud. Sometimes I feel embarrassed. I married someone like that, stayed for three years, and came out with nothing."

Ethan was quiet for a long time.

Then he said: "You said you were pregnant and cramping and he told you to push through it and keep working?"

"Yeah."

"To make the mortgage payments?"

"Yeah."

"And then he sold the house to cover his brother's gambling debt."

"Yeah."

Another silence.

Then: "Nina, that's not on you. You have nothing to be embarrassed about."

My throat went tight.

He kept going. "What's there to be embarrassed about? That you endured too much? That you were too considerate, too careful? That's not something to be ashamed of. The shame is his."

He looked at me steadily, the streetlight catching his eyes.

"Your ex. And Ryan. They're the ones who should be embarrassed. One who enabled a gambling addict, one who was the gambling addict. You paid for the renovations, you made half the mortgage payments, and then he sold the house and handed the money to his brother to open a shop. What do you call that? You call that shameless."

I'd never heard Ethan speak with that kind of heat. He was always measured, always careful with his words. But now he was standing on the riverfront with a slight flush on his face — anger, or the wind, I couldn't tell.

"And Margaret — Ryan gambles and she doesn't address it, Derek sells the house and she supports it, and then she calls you a curse on the family? What kind of logic is that?"

He stopped himself. Looked at me.

"Sorry. Was that too much?"

I shook my head.

He exhaled. "I just — hearing it made me angry."

I didn't say anything.

He straightened. Looked at me directly.

"Nina, about New York — I haven't given my manager an answer yet. I've been thinking about it."

"Why?"

"Because…"

He paused.

"Because you're here."

The river wind moved past us. My eyes stung slightly.

"Ethan, you don't need to—"

"I know I don't." He cut me off, but gently. "I know I don't have to. But I want to. And it's not pity, and it's not because of what you just told me. It's just — when I'm around you, I feel settled. Do you know what I mean? Like I don't have to be anything other than what I am. I can say what I think. Or not say anything. And it's not awkward either way."

He looked at me.

"You said earlier: just live. I think that's right. But who you live alongside — that matters too."

Something soft shifted in my chest.

"Go to New York," I said.

He blinked.

"Go. Build something there. I'm just getting stable here — I'm not ready to move again. Let's both get ourselves sorted. Whatever comes after, we figure out then."

He looked at me for a long moment. Then he smiled.

"Okay. I'll go."

"Good."

"But I'll come back every week."

"That's too much."

"Two hours on the train. It's nothing."

I didn't answer.

He reached out and touched the starfish charm on my wrist. "Still wearing it?"

"Always."

He smiled — the kind that reached his eyes.

That night, lying in bed and staring at the ceiling, I thought about something: Derek had never once noticed what I was wearing on my wrist. He'd probably never registered whether I wore jewelry at all.

Three years. He never really saw me.

And Ethan — not even a year — noticed a starfish I'd picked up on the beach.

I didn't know if what I felt was love. But I knew it was at least being seen.

Being seen felt good.