Page 30 of Since the Day We Left

Dad would never go for that.

Miles’s apartment in Atlanta still had his name on the lease. His life was there—or what remained of it, anyway. But last night, the way Wendi had looked at him, so close, so real—it made him question everything.

Could he even give her what she needed?

The station house he’d called home for twenty years, where the rush of adrenaline and the sense of purpose had once been enough to keep him going. Now? He was just a guy with no real direction, doing odd jobs around town and trying to keep his dad’s days in order.

Could a man who had lost himself be the person she deserved?

Maybe?

He wasn’t sure of anything anymore. But something about Wendi felt ... right. He couldn’t explain it. It just did, and maybe that was the only answer that mattered.

“You got that look again.” Arthur’s voice cut through his thoughts.

“What look?”

“Same look your mom used to get when she was overthinking something.” Arthur turned to watch the storefronts blur past. “Some things don’t need all that analysis, son.”

Mom.

Even the mention of her, almost four decades later, stirred something inside him he’d rather not revisit. But the salt air seeping through the truck window brought with it the memory of her perfume—something light, oceanic, that she’d always worn. She would’ve loved this drive. Over the years, he’d learned that the hardest part of holding on was knowing when to let go. And the hardest part of letting go was wondering if he ever really could.

Miles kept his eyes on the road. Some things were better left unsaid.

When The Painted Shell came into view, Miles spotted Wendi on the phone. As they opened the door, Max shot out from behind the counter, weaving between displays before charging straight for Arthur.

“Hey, little fella.” Arthur crouched, and Max jumped up, pawing at his chest, his tongue darting to lick his chin.

Wendi ended the call with a swift goodbye, slipping the phone into her pocket as she did. “Hey, you two. I just need to grab my stuff.”

Miles leaned against the counter. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” She kneeled, clipping Max’s leash to his vest.

Definitely not fine.

He kept the thought to himself, hesitating before he decided against grabbing her tote. He wasn’t sure if she wanted help or space.

Arthur straightened up. “Time to go, kids.”

“We know, Dad.”

The coastal road narrowed, the pavement giving way to gravel and sand. Miles pulled into a small clearing where the road dead-ended at the dunes.

Wendi climbed out with Max, taking in the surroundings. “Wait, I came here as a kid. We basically drove in a circle.” She chuckled and pointed. “Look, my store’s right there.”

Arthur followed her hand, then shrugged. “Miles knows I’m bad with directions.”

Miles grabbed the supplies from the truck bed, biting back a laugh.

The cove unfolded before them—a perfect crescent of sand nestled between rocky outcroppings. Waves rolled in, leaving delicate traces of foam that vanished before they reached the shore. Seagulls cawed overhead, wings cutting graceful arcs through the sky. The air carried the salty scent of the sea, mingling with the faint, earthy aroma of beach grass growing in tufts along the sand. It was quiet—peaceful, as if the world had forgotten this corner of it existed.

Arthur pointed toward a flat stretch where the dunes met the beach. “Right there. That’s the spot.”

Miles set up the easel, peering over at Wendi. She spread a blanket on the sand, Max trotting over to claim a corner. Pulling out her sketchbook, she began drawing, glancing occasionally at Arthur with something like admiration shining in her eyes.

For a while, Miles just watched them. Wendi’s gaze had drifted from the paper back to the water, then back again, while Arthur painted with complete absorption. Life rarely gave Miles the answers he sought, but sometimes it offered perfect moments like this instead—ones that reminded him of who his dad had been and maybe who he still could be.

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