Page 98 of For the Plot
One of her on our wedding day, standing on the courthouse steps in a cream dress that didn’t fit right, holding a bouquet from the grocery store and smiling like she won the damn lottery. Another one of her and Archer, sprawled out on a blanket at Montrose Beach, sand everywhere, laughing with ice cream smeared on both of their faces.
And then one I almost forgot about. Lauren in the kitchen, holding a wineglass, half smiling at the camera. It was one of the last photos I took of her. The lighting’s shit. Her hair’s a mess. But I remember thinking she looked beautiful. I place the photo face down on the desk and lean back in the chair, staring at the ceiling like it might give me some kind of answer.
I loved her. She was the first person who ever really saw me. Who called me out and pulled me close in the same breath. She was warmth and chaos and all the edges I didn’t know how to soften on my own. When she died, I told myself it would be selfish to want again.
But Skye—Skye is not a replacement. She’s not some ghost I’ve projected a memory onto. She is chaos. Fire. Smart-ass comments and sharp tongue and tender hands. She infuriates me. Excites me. Challenges me. And I feel more alive in her presence than I’ve felt in years.
I close the box gently and push the drawer shut. Then I sit there, still, the hum of the city barely bleeding in through the windows. I was afraid that loving someone new would dishonor the past.
But not loving her? That dishonors everything Lauren ever taught me about showing up. About choosing someone, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.
I don’t know if Skye will ever forgive me. But I know now, I’m done letting fear speak louder than truth. And the truth is simple. I want her. And I have to start acting like it. I have to fight for her.
I checkmy phone for the third time in ten minutes. Still nothing. No text. No call. Just the last read message from two days ago that I sent Archer.
Me:You free Friday afternoon? Boat’s docked at Belmont Harbor. Thought maybe we could talk.
I didn’t expect a yes. But I still showed up just in case.
I’ve had the engine running for twenty minutes, just drifting in the slip. The water’s calm today, early summer sun glinting off the surface in slow, blinding ripples. The kind of quiet day you don’t waste. Unless your son hates your guts.
I glance at the dock. Empty.
My stomach knots tighter than I’d like to admit. I don’t know what I’ll do if he doesn’t show. Probably go out on the water anyway, pretend I enjoy the silence. Maybe drink too much and convince myself I’m better off alone.
I’m halfway through talking myself out of it when I hear footsteps on the wood.
“You always invite people like it’s a business meeting?”
I turn. Archer’s standing at the edge of the boat, arms crossed, sunglasses on, expression unreadable. Relief and tension collide in my chest.
“No tie, if that’s what you’re worried about,” I say.
He doesn’t smile. But he steps on board. It’s the closest thing I’ll get to a peace offering.
We untie and drift out slowly, the marina slipping behind us as we head for open water. Neither of us talks much for the first ten minutes. I let the hum of the engine and the occasional cry of gulls fill the space. Archer kicks his feet up on the siderail like he’s done a thousand times before, but everything about him feels different now. When we’re far enough out that the shoreline’s just a silhouette, I idle the engine and let us drift.
“You really come out here alone?” he finally asks.
“Sometimes.”
He nods once.
“You didn’t have to come,” I say quietly.
He glances over at me. “I almost didn’t.” He watches the water for a moment. “I figured if I didn’t, you’d just keep showing up like nothing happened.”
I shake my head. “No. I wouldn’t.”
“You always get what you want,” he says.
“Not this time.”
There’s a pause. Then he pulls off his sunglasses and looks at me directly.
“Do you love her?”
I hold his gaze. “Yes.” No hesitation. No apology. His jaw tightens. “I didn’t expect to,” I add. “And I didn’t plan it.”
