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I turn away from her door but can’t bring myself to leave entirely. Instead, I sink down against the wall in the hallway right outside her room. The carpet is rough under my still damp swim trunks, and I’m shivering slightly, but I don’t move. Don’t deserve to be warm anyway.

I’ll just stay until I know she’s okay. Until the crying stops.

I brace my elbows on my knees, drop my head into my hands, and let the silence wrap around me like the punishment it is. The kind I used to know. The kind I used to rely on. But this? This isn’t the silence I grew up with. This one feels loud. I’d give anything to hear her rambling about heated floors or resort robes again.

Minutes stretch into what feels like hours. Her quiet sniffles taper off, replaced by the faint sound of movement. The bathroom tap runs. Maybe she’s washing her face, brushing her teeth, trying to scrub off the night.

Still, I stay, because even if I’m the reason she’s hurting, I can’t bring myself to leave her alone with it.

nine

. . .

Whitley

Ilie flat on my back, eyes locked on the ceiling, trying not to blink. If I do, I might cry again. And I’ve already spent the last hour doing that as silently as possible. God forbid I make enough noise that he hears me.

The pillow beneath my head is ridiculously soft. The blankets are luxurious. This room—this entire cottage—is straight out of a rom-com. A setting designed for stolen glances and cozy mornings and coffee on the porch. And instead, I’m in here alone, trying to hold myself together while Beau probably sleeps like a rock in the room across the hall.

He called me weird. Or said I was making it weird. Whatever. Same thing.

What he really meant was too much.

I’ve heard that before, just in different words. Wrapped in smiles and sighs and the quiet click of a door closing behind someone who was tired of dealing with me.

I squeeze my eyes shut, jaw clenched. Those voices don’t belong to Beau, but they might as well. The feeling is the same. That stomach-drop rush of being too loud, too needy, too Whitley for someone to handle.

Tonight, I rambled. I filled the silence the way I always do, because silence feels like rejection.

And Beau, with his quiet and his calm and his impossible-to-read face, didn’t want it.

I turn onto my side, curling into myself, pulling the covers up to my chin. The bed creaks softly beneath me, the only sound in this place.

No more jokes. No more pretending.

Just stillness.

And god, I hate how small I feel in it.

I wake up with a scratchy tightness behind my eyes. For a few minutes, I just lie there before I eventually shove the blankets off and drag myself out of bed. I brush my teeth. Slather on tinted moisturizer. Curl my lashes, slick on lip gloss. My reflection in the mirror looks polished, like a woman with her shit together. Like someone who didn’t cry into her pillow over a boy who thinks silence is a virtue.

I fix my hair. Straighten the straps of my blouse. Tell myself, you are charming. You are helpful. You are the maid of honor, and you have shit to do.

Not, you’re okay. Because I’m not sure I am.

By the time I walk into the kitchen, I’ve wrapped myself tight in the same armor I’ve worn my whole life—smile, sparkle, deflect. Repeat.

Beau’s already up. He has his coffee mug in his hand and leans against the kitchen counter.

I swallow the lump rising in my throat and flash him my best, happy morning voice. “Busy day today, partner. Hope you had your protein.”

He looks at me like he wants to say something.

I don’t let him.

“We have a lot to check off our list,” I continue, moving to pour myself coffee while maintaining a careful distance. “Venue walkthrough first, then meeting with the caterer, and there’s a floral consultation at three.”

I’m talking too fast, words spilling out like they’re being chased.