I try to match his casual tone. "Actually, you're in luck because today I do not."

His smile grows a fraction, that small curve in his lips sending my stomach into a free fall. This is exactly why I avoid being alone with him. Too many reactions I can't control.

"Well, I have to head down to Sonder for a few hours to help Nick with something. But I'll be back around 4 PM. We should catch the sunset."

Great, a sunset. On a boat. In the middle of the ocean. With the guy I've been in love with since I was eight.

My internal sarcasm does nothing to slow my racing heart. This is exactly the kind of situation I've been carefully avoiding for years—just Nate and me, no buffers, no easy escapes. Nowhere to hide from the questions I see sometimes lingering in his eyes.

I freeze, nerves spiking with a cocktail of excitement and fear. Part of me yearns to understand what's happening with him, to finally talk about the nightmares and everything he's carried for so long. But another part—the smarter, self-preserving part—trembles at the thought of being alone with him, of what truths might surface.

What's the worst that could happen?

Oh, just complete emotional devastation.

Totally fine.

The walls I've built between us have kept me safe. They've kept the fragile peace we've managed to establish.

And here I am, walking right into the fire anyway.

Once I’m freshly showered with hair still dripping, I head downstairs. Lydia is in the kitchen and she looks exhausted, but her eyes brighten when they meet mine.

"Oh, I didn't realize you were home." A smile plays at her lips.

"The boys are all out so I thought I would spend some time writing. Have you seen my computer? I thought I left it down here."

Her smile turns knowing. "It's in the sunroom."

"The sunroom?" Confusion furrows my brow.

"Go and see for yourself." There's something mischievous in her tone.

I hesitate before pushing open the sunroom door.

My breath catches.

Sunlight streams through the windows, casting a warm glow over the spotless room. Fresh flowers grace the desk beside what appears to be new pens, my laptop perfectly positioned.

Next to it sits a framed photo—the same one we have at home of all of us kids with dad on the lake. Tears prickle at my eyes as I notice a gift wrapped in simple brown paper, a note resting on top.

My hands tremble as I recognize Nate's handwriting.

This might be a more inspiring place to write a New York Times Best Seller than the kitchen table.

I swallow hard, carefully unwrapping the gift to reveal a limited-edition copy of The Secret Garden. My fingers trace the cover as memories of bedtime stories with Dad flood back.

It’s the note on the final page that steals my breath.

The end is only a chance for another beginning.