Page 16 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell
I look at her, but she doesn’t meet my gaze. I know exactly what she’s asking. Why did I leave? Why didn’t I say goodbye? Why now?
I clear my throat. “I couldn’t be who you needed me to be. And I couldn’t stay here. Not then.”
Her jaw tightens, and she finally turns to me, eyes flashing with hurt and anger. “Then why are you back, Tate?”
I don’t have a good answer. None of them feels right or enough.
Before I can speak, she takes a step back, her voice sharp and breaking. “You left without saying anything. No calls. Nothing. You could have sent a message in a bottle, Tate.Anything.But you didn’t.”
Her anger hits me square in the chest, but underneath it, I feel the hurt radiating off of her. The crack in her voice nearly shatters me.
I take a step toward her, closing the space between us. She stiffens, but she doesn’t move away. I can feel her breath now, short and fast, see the way her lashes lower when my hand almost reaches for her.
“I know I hurt you,” I say quietly. “I'm sorry. You deserved better than that.”
“Damn right I did,” she snaps, but her voice is softer this time.
The wind picks up, swirling around us, carrying the sharp scents of salt and wood smoke. I want to say more. I want to tell her everything I never said before I left. But all I can do is look at her, the girl I left behind, now very much a woman, beautiful and burning with fury.
Somehow, impossibly, she steps closer. Just enough that her hand brushes against mine, fingers grazing like a spark catching kindling, and for one breathless second, neither of us pulls away. The pull between us is magnetic, inevitable. My heart thunders, and I tilt my head down, just enough to catch her scent, to breathe her in like she’s oxygen after years underwater.
Her gaze flicks up, meets mine, and I swear she sways toward me.
And then she pushes me, a firm hand on my chest, shoving me back a step. “No,” she says, her voice shaking. “I’m not doing this.”
The invisible wall that feels like it's made of steel slams back into place between us. The warmth between us snaps like a rubber band. She turns on her heel and starts walking fast, her boots crunching over gravel, her hair whipping behind her. I watch her go, chest aching in a way that feels familiar and fresh all at once.
But just before she disappears around the bend, she hesitates and stops. Turns her head slightly, as if she might look back and say something.
My breath catches.Then she shakes her head and keeps going, disappearing into the fog.
I stand there for a long moment. The wind cuts colder now, the harbor quiet but for the creak of the boats below.
I sink down onto the bench by the overlook, elbows on my knees, head in my hands. What the hell am I doing?
The fog drifts in thicker now, curling around my legs, heavy and damp. And just as I think I should get up, go home, figure out what the hell to do next, I spot something on the bench beside me.
A single maple leaf, bright red, lying there like a sign. Like a message. I think about what she said about not even sending a message in a bottle.
I pick it up, turning it between my fingers. Yeah. We’re nowhere near done.
I head straight for Dad’s old boat, its weathered hull like a ghost waiting for me. The rust on the railings is worse than I remember, the lines are tangled, and everything needs work. Maybe that’s why I’m drawn here tonight, because fixing this wreck feels easier than fixing myself.
I think about what happened that night. My dad went out with her dad to help and never came back. I think about what if he hadn't gone. What if he were here right now, working on the boat with me like we'd planned?
I roll up my sleeves, grab a brush, and get to work. Salt and rust flake off under my hands, but the ache inside me doesn’t budge. Each stroke brings back memories, like Dad standing right where I am now, barking orders, laughing when I tripped over the lines, his voice gruff but never cruel. He wanted to teach me everything he knew.
I pause, brush my hand over the weathered wood, then step into the tiny cabin where the smell still reminds me of him. Salt, diesel, and old cigarettes. Taped to the wall by the bunk is a sun-faded photo I left there years ago: Dad at the helm, arms crossed, squinting into the sun. He looks larger-than-life and completely unreachable. He loved being out at sea.
I lean my shoulder against the frame and murmur, “I don’t know if I can do this right, Dad, but I’m trying.”
And God, I am trying.
The sound of boots on the dock snaps me out of it. I turn to see old Pete leaning casually, grinning like he’s caught me talking to ghosts.
“You’re doing fine, kid,” he says, tipping his cap back. “That boat always needed a stubborn hand.”
I huff out a laugh. “I don’t know if stubborn’s gonna be enough.”
