The old Piper might have been lacking in direction, but she’d been happy, right? When people judged the old Piper, it was from the other side of an iPhone screen, not to her face. She didn’t have to try and fail, because she’d never tried in the first place, and God, it had been easy. Just then, she wanted to slip back into that identity and drop out, so she wouldn’t have to feel this uncomfortable disappointment in herself. Wouldn’t have to acknowledge the proof that she wasn’t tough. Wasn’t capable. Didn’t belong.

Her phone buzzed on the bar. Another message from Kirby.

Piper opened the text and sighed over the Tom Ford peep-toe pumps on her screen. White with gold chains to serve as the ankle strap. Kirby was playing hardball now. Putting on those shoes and a killer dress and walking into a sea of photo-snapping strangers would be like taking a painkiller right now. She wouldn’t have to feel a thing.

“Go home, Pipes.”

She looked up sharply. “What?”

Hannah seemed to be wrestling with something. “You know I think your LA friends are phonies and you’re way too good for them, right?” She sighed. “But maybe you need to go to Kirby’s party. I can see you want to.”

Piper set down her phone firmly. “No. After all this work? No.”

“You can always come back.”

Would she, though? Once she walked back into that fog of dancing and selfies and sleeping until noon, was it realistic that she would return to Westport and face her shortcomings? Especially if she made enough money on endorsements tomorrow night to get her out of Daniel’s pocket? “I can’t. I can’t just . . .”

But why couldn’t she?

Look around. What was stopping her?

“Well . . .” A tremble of excitement coursed up her fingertips. “You’ll come with me, right, Hanns? If I’m not here, you don’t have to be either.”

Her sister shook her head. “Shauna has me opening the record shop tomorrow and Wednesday. I can ask her to find a replacement, but until then, I have to stick around.” Hannah reached out and took the sides of Piper’s face in her hands. “I’ll only be a couple of days behind you. Go. It’s like you’ve flatlined and I hate it.”

“Go right now? But . . .” She gestured weakly. “The bar. We did this for Henry.”

Hannah shrugged. “Henry Cross belongs to this place. Maybe turning it back over to them is what he would have wanted. It was the spirit behind it that counted, Piper. I’m proud of us no matter what.” She surveyed the line of empty stools. “And I think I can handle the rest of this shift alone. Text Kirby. Tell her you’re coming.”

“Hannah, are you sure? I really don’t like leaving you here.”

Her sister snorted. “Stop it. I’m fine. I’ll go crash at Shauna’s if it makes you feel better.”

Piper’s breath started to come faster. “Am I really doing this?”

“Go,” Hannah ordered, pointing at the staircase. “I’ll get you an Uber.”

Oh wow, this was really happening. She was leaving Westport.

Returning to something she could do and do well.

Easy. Just easy.

Avoid this despair and disappointment. Just sink back in and never look back. Forget about this place that didn’t want her and the man who didn’t trust her.

Ignoring Brendan’s clear, beloved image in her head, his deep voice telling her to stay, Piper ran up the stairs and started shoving her belongings into suitcases.

Chapter Thirty

Brendan stood on the deck of the Della Ray, staring off in the direction of Westport. The direction they were headed now. He saw none of the seemingly endless water in front of him. Saw none of the men pulling lines and fixing lures around him, the low blare of Black Sabbath coming from the wheelhouse speakers. He’d been locked in a sedated state since Saturday morning when they’d left the harbor.

She didn’t show up.

He’d given Piper time to think, and she’d realized that being with him required too much sacrifice, and she’d made her decision. He’d known it was too good to be real. That she would give up everything, her whole life, just for him. His jugular ached from supporting his heart. That’s where it sat now, every minute of the day; having Piper in his life had been so painfully sweet. So much better than he knew life could be.

It just hadn’t gone both ways.

Over a decade as a fisherman and he’d never once been seasick, but his stomach roiled now ominously. He’d been able to distract himself from the devastating blow, the memory of the empty dock, for the last two days, pushing the men and himself hard, poring over digital maps, and even working in the engine room while Fox manned the wheelhouse. If he stopped moving or thinking, there she was, and Jesus, he’d fucking lost her.

No. He’d never earned the right to her in the first place.

That was the problem.

It was Monday afternoon. Labor Day. Piper would be getting ready to open the bar. Did she still expect him there? Or would she assume he’d stay away now that she’d decided to move on? To leverage the new bar into a trip home. If he showed up at Cross and Daughters, he might be in her way. She may not want him there.

Brendan dug the knuckles of his index fingers into both eyes, images of Piper slaughtering him. Mussed-up, grumpy morning Piper. Confused in the grocery store Piper. Holding a flaming frying pan, crying over him in the hospital, moaning into his pillow Piper. Each and every incarnation of her was a stab to the chest, until he swore going overboard and sinking to the bottom of the icy fucking ocean sounded preferable to living with the memories . . . and not having the actual woman.

But she’d done the right thing for herself. Hadn’t she?

Didn’t he have to respect that?

Respect that this woman he wanted for his wife was leaving?

Jesus Christ. He might never hold her again.

A drizzle started, but he made no move to go inside to grab his slicker. Getting soaked and dying from pneumonia sounded like a pretty good plan at present. A moment later, though, Sanders passed by and handed the rain jacket to Brendan. Simply to have something to do with his hands, he put it on and slid both hands into the pockets.

Something glossy slipped between his fingers.

He drew it out—and there was Piper smiling back at him.

A picture of them. One he hadn’t been aware of her taking.

She’d taken a selfie behind his back while he held her in the recharging station. And her eyes were sex-drowsed and blissful. Happy. In love.

With an ax splitting his jugular in half, Brendan turned over the picture and saw she’d written a loopy, feminine message.

For your bunk, Captain.

Come back to me safely.

I love you so much, Piper.

The wind had been knocked out of him.

A wave rocked the boat, and he could barely make his legs compensate. All functioning power had deserted his body, because his heart required all of it to pound so furiously. He closed his eyes and clutched the picture to his chest, his mind picking through a million memories of Piper to find the one of her standing in his doorway. The last time he’d seen her.

Please . . . don’t doubt me, Brendan. Not you. Have faith in me. Okay?