Page 52 of American Beauty

Tui doesn’t speak often, but when he does, his words are wise. “The manumea is still out there. Searching. Singing. Even alone, it doesn’t stop. Not because it’s desperate—but because it remembers the sound of being found.”

She reaches over and brushes a strand of hair from my forehead, like I’m still five years old. “Pain tells you what mattered. And if it mattered this much, it’s not finished yet.”

That undoes me a little. I allow their words to settle into all the places still raw and open.

“I don’t know how to move forward without her.”

“You don’t have to know right now,” Nana says. “You just have to move. The rest will come.”

We sit together for a while longer in a silence that feels full rather than empty. A breeze rolls off the sea and kisses the wound beneath the cloth. It stings, but I welcome it.

Because pain that has meaning hurts less than pain that has none.

Sydney feels colderwhen I return. Not the weather, but the air inside this house. The silence I used to drown in doesn’t sting as much—it just hums low, like a sound I’m learning to live with.

I drop my bag inside the door. Kick off my shoes. The house looks the same. but I’m not sure I do.

It takes a while to move. To shower. To eat. But eventually, I step into the one room I’ve avoided the longest.

The gym.

It still smells like chalk and steel. Like discipline.

I stand in the doorway for a beat, heart thudding for reasons that have nothing to do with cardio. Then I cross the threshold, my feet finding familiar grooves in the mat.

The speakers come on with a slow beat—something low and pulsing. I stretch, stiff and unsteady, but I move. I lift. Slowly at first. Then heavier. Harder.

And when I catch my reflection in the mirror—sweat beading at my brow, muscles straining under weight—I see the edge of the tattoo peeking through the neck of my T-shirt.

A reminder of a love that still lives under my skin. Of a woman who cracked me open… and the man I’m trying to become because of it.

My grip tightens on the bar. And just like that, her voice finds me. Not real—just words written in her journal about us. About me.

I thought I’d be ready to go home after this trip. But all of a sudden, nothing about leaving feels right. I’m not ready to go. I’m not ready to leave him. I don’t think I ever will be.

I lift again. And again. Until the ache in my body drowns out the one in my chest.

It’s not redemption. It’s not closure. But it’s something other than dying a slow death.

She may not be mine anymore…

But I’m still here. And I’m not done with me yet.

Chapter 17

Magnolia Steel

A soft beamof morning light filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows of my new office, casting a warm glow over the space I’ve worked to create. The scent of fresh flowers from the small arrangement on my desk mingles with the rich aroma of my caramel latte, marking my new beginning.

My own design firm wasn’t part of the plan. Then again, neither was being fired from Soul Sync in the middle of what should’ve been the peak of my career. But here I am, standing on my two feet. The exhaustion that clings to me is the good kind that comes from long nights poring over business plans.

Today, it all becomes real. My first official client meeting.

I straighten my blouse for the third time, a nervous energy humming beneath my skin. There’s something thrilling about the unknown—about diving headfirst into a future I’m still figuring out.

The chime of the office doorbell pulls me from my thoughts. I straighten, plastering on the practiced smile I’ve been perfecting for weeks. “Here we go, Magnolia Steel,” I say under my breath, adjusting a stack of fabric swatches on my desk for the hundredth time.

When I look up, my breath catches for a split second.

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