"For what you did with the sunroom. You really didn't have to."

I shrug, aiming for casual even as my heart races. Her eyes soften, and for a second, I see something in them I can't quite place—something that makes my breath catch.

"It was really thoughtful and meant a lot."

I shake my head, swallowing past the tightness in my throat.

"I'm happy you like it. And you're welcome." It was a small gesture, but more than anything, I wanted her to know that I'd always be in her corner, making sure she followed through with her dream. Even after everything, the guy she once knew was still here for her.

We fall into a comfortable silence as we sail toward the open sea. The sun hangs lower now, painting the water in shades of gold and amber.

Eventually, Nora speaks again, her voice quieter this time.

"The last time I was out on the water was with Dad... all of us, together." Her voice wavers as she looks down at the bracelet that's been on her wrist ever since the carnival. She runs her thumb over it, a ritual I've seen her perform countless times. "I can't believe it's already been a year."

Her eyes are sad and it physically causes me pain seeing so much hurt in them. One year since they laid David to rest, and I wasn't there. I wasn't standing beside her in that cemetery. I wasn't there to hold her hand or offer my shoulder when she needed it most. The guilt of that absence has been the wall between us that I've never known how to tear down.

It wasn't lost on me, the significance of today. How could it be? The date has been etched into my conscience like a scar. It was one of the reasons I wanted to get her out on the water—away from everything that would remind her of that day, the day I failed her in the worst possible way. Maybe somewhere deep down, I thought bringing her here, to a place that held good memories of her father, might begin to make up for my absence when it mattered most. But nothing could erase that failure, the first of many ways I've kept her at arm's length because I don't deserve to be any closer.

I glance at her, my heart squeezing. Her voice cracks just a little, the weight of the memory pressing down on her. But she doesn't cry. Nora's strong like that. She carries her grief differently—quiet, private. I want to reach over and hold her, tell her I'm sorry again, but the words stick in my throat like sand.