Page 159 of The Unfinished Line

I tried to take a deep breath, but my lungs reviled against the bitterness of the salt in the breeze, the sound of the gentle breakers deafening in my nightmare.

Because thatwaswhat this was—a nightmare—nothing more. I was going to wake up. I was going to find I’d simply had too much to drink. I would open my eyes back on the beaches of Tetiaroa.

I stood for what felt like an eternity, knowing none of that was true. Knowing I had to pull myself together.

I finally looked at my phone. It was only 3:33.

I opened favorites and selected the first contact, input playfully asDFS.A photo of her popped up, sunburnt and covered in sand, which I’d told her I found ‘exceptionally hot’ at the time I took it.

The light of the moon dimmed as it slipped behind a newly formed cloud, the call going directly to voicemail.

You’ve reached Sinc. You know what to do. Hang up. Text. Don’t call. Cheers!

I still called nineteen times in a row, swearing each time she’d pick up if I just tried once more. I listened to the voicemail every time, hanging up before the beep. Finally, on the twentieth redial, I left a message.

“Dillon. I know you’re going to get this. As soon as you do, please call me.” I hung up. Then dialed straight back. “P.S. I love you.” My voice wavered, my breathing staggered. “I really, really,reallylove you. Please call me.”

All the warmth had left my hands, and it took a half dozen stabs from my index finger to end the call.

I watched the screen turn black and wanted to chuck it over the balcony.

But I couldn’t.

Shewouldcall. She’d promised. She wouldn’t do this to me.

Overcome with a wave of despair, I slipped down the misted glass of the railing, and sat cross-legged on the cold tile, staring at nothing.

Scene 52: Take 1

The tide was rising.

Dillon pulled herself out of the waist-deep water onto the moss-covered landing. The first step of the steep stone staircase was already submerged beneath the rolling sea swell lapping against the island. Two hundred feet above her, the Mumbles Lighthouse flashed its brilliance, the lantern abrasive against the midday sun.

She didn’t linger. For the first time since stepping onto the train in Leeds, she was confronted with an unsettling clarity. Like the mantle enveloping her for the past few days had finally lifted, revealing the world in the vivid starkness of her new reality.

It was over.

She’d destroyed everything. Everything she’d worked for, everything she’d fought to achieve. Thrown it all away. In one stupid, blinding moment of weakness, she’d shattered her career. Her life. Her dreams.

And now—she was nothing.

Behind her, the advancing tide flooded the foreshore, cutting the two tidal islets off from the headland, leaving no navigable return. She didn’t care. She didn’t look back.

One foot in front of the other, she worked her way up the winding staircase. She didn’t count each weatherworn step asshe’d once done as a child, her dad whistling behind her with an armload of fishing gear and lunch packed for two. Nor did she stop to peek into the long-abandoned keeper’s cottage, or admire the cormorants and razorbills nesting on the cliffside.

Her mind was back in Leeds, in Roundhay Park. Back on the race, which would have been over for hours. Back on the people she’d let down.

Her teammates. Her country. Kyle. Alistair. Her sponsors. Her fans.

Sam. Who’d been through so much worse, yet was still stronger, braver, more deserving than she had ever been.

Seren. Who had begged her to bow out while she could still take the high road. Who had understood her better than she’d understood herself. Who had been right. Who had known.

And Kam. How did she explain it to Kam? The one person who had believed in her when everyone else told her to quit. After all the money she had spent… the boundless encouragement… the unwavering support she had shown her… Dillon owed her so much more. Had failed her so gravely.

Cresting the isolated summit, she allowed her pace to slow as she navigated the eroding pathway paralleling the shadow of the lighthouse. To her left, the Mumbles Pier stretched into the distance, the jetty quiet, save for a pair of silhouettes fishing near the lifeboat station.

How often had she and her dad watched a boat launch down the slipway to save a wayward seafarer or retrieve an unsuspecting tourist stranded at high tide on the island? It wasn’t swimmable, the narrow channel back to the mainland. The current was too strong, and any person fool enough to enter the water at flood tide would be swept out to sea.

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