Page 43 of Every Beautiful Mile

We made it. I made it. We had gotten in a vehicle and driven across the country to another ocean without Travis.

The gray sky and rolling waves in front of me seem to perfectly capture the mood. In the distance, Haystack Rock shoots up out of the Pacific like a symbol of survival.

Marin’s eyes meet mine. “Mom?”

I don’t try to hide it—I let tears fall and make lines like the roads on the maps we’ve been following down my face.

“I don’t know if I thought we would make it. If I could make it. But here we are, without your dad, an entire country-length away from home. It kind of feels like… I don’t know… an open wound that’s starting to heal.”

I zip my ring along the chain as I stare at the ocean.

Marin squeezes my arm. “He would have been so proud of you,” she says, leaning on me. “Especially of the fact you didn’t wreck once.”

My laugh is damp but true.

“Mom! Mar! Over here!” Finn calls from the rocks at the water, holding up a starfish.

Marin doesn’t hesitate. She squeals and takes off, running toward him while I slowly walk behind.

Watching their joy bubble over like fountains as they wade in a tidepool, a brand-new truth crystalizes before me: even without Travis, I’m still here. Living, breathing, and able to watch my kids do incredible things if I let myself look.

After hours at the beach with our hands in the cold saltwater and Marin taking way too many pictures, I walk back to the campsite alone. I start a pot of chili over the fire, and when there’s nothing else to do, I open the American Restaurant magazine we’d been featured in. The first time since I stumbled on Travis’ map all those months ago.

But it’s not us I’m looking for in the glossy pages this time—it’s Ethan.

We’ve been emailing for months, but the one I got last night is different.

Flirtatious almost.

It’s a ridiculous thought. He doesn’t know anything about me, but still, I can’t shake it.

When I land on his page, I see it differently than I did before.

He’s leaning against his restaurant with the sleeves of his flannel shirt rolled up, arms crossed over his chest, and a slight scruff sloping across his jaw. It suits him.

Fine, really suits him. He’s an attractive man.

I read the caption.

Ethan Mills prides himself on using both seasonal and local ingredients at his flagship restaurant in Bethel, Maine, Mainely Local. “I wouldn’t be where I am without the farmers here and the people that keep eating the fresh food we serve. It’s an honor, and I’m happy to be feeding people in a way that makes a difference.” Between the menu that changes with the seasons and the cozy atmosphere, Mainely Local feels a little bit like home to anyone who visits.

Maybe it’s because he’s in the same business or maybe it’s because he doesn’t talk to me like I’m the woman who lost her husband, but something about our short emails makes me… curious.

It’s as if I know him. Ultimately, I know it’s just my grief—the quiet loneliness that makes me desperate for connection.

My cheeks heat with the pitiful realization of it.

I close the magazine and pick up my phone, rereading the last line of his latest email.

You know, if you ever find yourself in the White Mountains of Maine, I’d love to show you around, and I’d be happy to tell you all my secrets.

In the kitchen, of course.

I know he’s just being nice, I know that, but I can’t stop reading it.

It’s been so long since I’ve interacted with a man that this is where I’m at—stumbling because of an email.

I groan, humiliated.

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