Emilia did not mention Morgan. Instead, she told Shanti about the doubts that still shadowed her every step and the ache in her chest where her father’s love had lived, and Shanti nodded, sympathetic, no doubt assessing her for risk.

“I don’t want to die anymore,” she said at the end of their session.

“Good. What changed?”

Everything. Nothing.

“Honestly? I think it was the meds.”

It wasn’t a lie. It also wasn’t the entire truth. It was Seal Cove and her new friends and the water and Morgan, too much Morgan, and people were fragile things to pin a life on.

Shanti studied her but did not interrogate her answer.

I’m here, she wanted to say. I’m here, seeing you, instead of throwing myself at Morgan’s feet. Doesn’t that count for something?

Why then could she not bring herself to tell Shanti about Morgan? She met her therapist’s gentle brown eyes and wondered when the shadow of the irrevocable mistake she’d nearly made would dissipate. Would it ever? Or would the people who cared about her always carry worry with them behind their smiles?

“You seem brighter,” said Shanti as she stood up to leave. “I am proud of you.”

“For what?”

Shanti held the door open, her dark curls catching the soft light of her office, A few strands of gray gleamed.

“Every day is a choice. I am glad you keep making it.”

She nodded, mute, and ducked out before tears overwhelmed her.

Every day is a choice.

One day at a time.

And at the end of each day, she wanted Morgan. She’d have to reckon with that eventually, but for now, at least, she could weep without unraveling.

It was a start.

•   •   •

The buzz of her phone kept her company as she began to sort through the remaining bureaucratic matters of her father’s estate. She’d had no idea death was so complicated. Bank accounts needed to be closed, as did all the varying insurances, debts, and contracts she hadn’t known her father was involved with. To make things even worse, they all wanted proof of death. Repeating the words began to strip them of their meaning.

“I am Emilia Russo, executor of Ray Russo’s estate, calling to inform you of his death.”

Perhaps none of this was real. Perhaps the urn in her bedroom contained someone else’s ashes, and her father was merely far away, instead of gone—impossibly—forever.

She stopped by Stormy’s every day just to get out of the house. The temptation to invite Morgan over when she texted late after an emergency at three in the morning beat in her throat so fiercely at times that she could barely swallow, but that in itself was enough to stay her hand. She could not afford to need Morgan. Not right now when so much was unsettled.