I flip that photo behind the other of Li—my mom. I can pretend it’s easier calling her by her name, but it never has been. That loss plagues me. And although I may never get answers, I believe in my heart that she left me because she had to, not choosing to. That’s the difference between her and Harbor. He left because he wanted to.

“She’s pretty,” I say, glancing at Delta.

Leaning over and looking at the photo over my shoulder, she smiles. “She is.”

“Do you know why she left? Do you remember by chance?”

“I don’t. She wasn’t around back then. I remember her visit being brief, but I never saw her again. She never called, and I had two boys at the time, and I was pregnant with Noah. I was tired—”

“It’s okay. I understand. I appreciate the photos.”

“My pleasure. I made a copy of both, but I wanted you to have the originals.”

“Thank you.” I look back at my dad in the truck and then at Delta and Marina again. “If this is the last time I see—”

“It won’t be,” Delta says so assuredly with a smile.

“Well, I guess I’ll see you then.” I turn around and head to the truck. It’s tempting to hug them to tell them goodbye, but she’s right. I can feel it deep down. We’ll see each other again someday.

When I’m tucked in the truck again, I look at my dad. “I’m ready.”

“Then let’s go.”

Unlike when we drove away from the house, I don’t look back at the apartment or the town of Beacon. From now on, I’m only looking forward.

Two Years Later.

40

Harbor

There wasn’t a shred of my life that Lark Summerlin hadn’t embedded. Not a second, a minute, or an hour. Not a day, a week, or a month. Not even a year. And I’m going on two without her.

The clothes I’ve washed too many times to still bear her scent, still do. Maybe it’s my imagination. Maybe it’s that we ended too soon. I know we ended too soon.

We ended by my own doing.

Do I regret forcing my parents’ hand?

No.

It worked out for her exactly as planned. Though I can admit there were unforeseen flaws in that period of desperation. The main one being that I’m not her boyfriend anymore.

I chuckle, which is rare these days. Boyfriend and girlfriend will never encapsulate what we are . . . were together.

Being Lark’s boyfriend was in another lifetime. I wonder if I’d be her fiancé or even husband if I’d been allowed to stay. Husband. No way would I have not locked that relationship down if I had the chance. And she’d be my wife. My wife.

I fucking love the sound of that.

I drape my arm across my forehead, knowing I should get some sleep, but this night wasn’t unique. This is how most of my nights into early mornings play out . . . my days as well. A perfectly executed agenda, covering the same topics in the same order every time. But still hoping I’ll come to a better solution—one that puts Lark and me back together.