CHAPTER 35
CASSIE
November
“We did it!” Tate’s flushed face fills my laptop screen. He rakes a hand through his wind-kissed golden hair, beaming from ear to ear. Relief jolts through me. I’ve been in a constant state of worry since he set sail, and every time I see him, safe and sound, I want to weep with joy. “I mean, it was touch and go a couple times. Definitely almost pissed myself during that squall last month—”
I shiver. That was a bad one. I saw the video he shot of the deck after the squall and it still haunts my dreams.
“—and I’m never going to stop apologizing for subjecting you to my a cappella version of ‘Poker Face’ the night I killed that bottle of Jack.”
I giggle.
“—but the voyage has officially come to an end. Sort of. I’m going to stick around here till my girlfriend’s parents steal her back from me.” He lovingly sweeps those blue eyes over the Surely Perfect’s topsail. “Spend the next month sailing around Australia. See what the fuss is all about. So, stay tuned, folks. Journey’s not over yet. Talk soon. Cheers.”
The video ends.
I start to cry.
It’s a weekly routine now. Every Monday, when Tate posts his travel vlog, I sit on my bed, open the laptop, and subject myself to thirty or forty minutes of Tate recapping his week. I’m not sure what editing software he’s using, but his videos are excellent. Photo overlays, date cards to show when certain footage is from. Some footage is fixed, when Tate sets the camera somewhere and just lets it film. My heart always soars when I watch those capable hands hoisting a sail, tying a rope. But my favorite part of his videos is this—when it’s just him, sitting on the deck, or at the table in the galley, talking to me. Well, to everyone. But I like to think he’s talking to me.
Peyton says I’m torturing myself. Joy has threatened to fly in from Manhattan and stage an intervention. They think I need to move on. I’m sure they’re right. There’s nothing helpful about this, nothing to be gained from staring at Tate’s handsome face week after week for three months straight. All it did was make me miss him more.
This semester has dragged. I can’t concentrate on school. Can’t be bothered to see friends or attend any parties. I haven’t gone full recluse yet—I still shower. Still wash my hair and eat food. I clean my dorm room and text people. I even respond to emails from my new literary agent Danna Hargrove, who sold the Kit ’n McKenna series for us in a five-book deal. It was a modest advance, but Danna’s excited for the potential. She thinks the series will take off. She’s already talking about TV adaptations and merch.
I, as always, am tempering my expectations. But I’m hopeful. Robb’s on board as illustrator, and the first book, the one I gave to my sisters, releases next fall. The deadline for the second book is in the new year, so luckily I don’t need to force myself to be creative right now.
I’m not feeling creative. Not feeling anything, really, least of all happiness. But now it’s Thanksgiving, and my spirits are slightly elevated. I’m looking forward to seeing my family. Since the night I showed up at Dad’s house and cried in Nia’s arms, things have been really good. Dad’s been making an effort to check in about how I’m feeling, and Nia and I even started texting.
With my mother, it’s the opposite. I haven’t spoken to her since that night. I have no interest. She’s texted several times, calls frequently, and though I can’t bring myself to block her, I don’t take her calls. According to Grandma, it’s driving my mother crazy. I’m discovering that narcissists don’t like the no-contact method. Every now and then I worry she’ll show up on campus and try to wrest a reconciliation out of my stubborn hands, but so far, she’s kept her distance. Who knows how long that will last.
I shut my laptop, leaving it on the bed as I head downstairs to rejoin my family. Nia’s prepping dinner, while Dad pretends to watch football in the den when everyone knows he can’t name even one player on any of the teams playing today. In the living room, my sisters are sitting in front of Pierre’s tank, showing him the drawings they made of him.
I walk over to them and peer at the glass. Pierre’s chilling on his cypress tree. I give him a wave. “Hey, little dude.” I look at Mo. “Any fart attacks lately?”
“No,” she complains, and Roxy heaves a disappointed sigh.
Snickering, I wander into the kitchen where I find Nia at the counter glaring at her cutting board.
“Um. Everything okay?” I eye the pile of diced onions she’s amassed, trying to figure out what the problem is.
“I ran out of onions,” she grumbles.
“You, Nia Soul, ran out of an ingredient? Didn’t you just give me a whole braggy speech when I was here at midterms? The one about your fancy sixth sense that allows you to always purchase the exact amount of potatoes required?”
“Yes. Potatoes.” She’s gritting her teeth. “These are onions.” Nia curses under her breath, a mixture of English and French expletives that make me grin. “Merde. I don’t have time to go look for a store that’s open right now. I have too much to do—”
“I’ll go,” I offer. “I’m pretty sure Franny’s Market is open till four today. They’re always open on holidays.”
Relief loosens her shoulders. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”
“Yeah, it’s no problem at all.” I grab Dad’s keys off the counter. “I’ll go now. How many do you need?”
“Two. So get four.”
I snicker. “Four it is.”
“Thanks, Cassandra.”
I leave the house and get into Dad’s truck. It’s so strange not to be driving Grandma’s Rover. Or staying at her house. But Grandma doesn’t live in the Bay anymore. She’s in Boston now, residing in the same building as Aunt Jacqueline and Uncle Charlie and loving her quality time with the grandkids. Our house in Avalon Bay belongs to another family now. Some venture capitalist, his much younger wife, and their three children. Grandma says they seemed like a nice family. I hope they enjoy the house. It holds a lot of good memories for me.
At the market, I bypass the carts and march toward the produce aisles. I pick out four large onions, managing to stack two in each hand, then turn around—and slam right into Tate’s mother.
“Gemma,” I squeak. “Hi.”
“Cassie.” She’s equally startled. “Hello.”
Then silence falls.
Oh boy. This is awkward.
I stand there, trying to figure out what to say. I haven’t seen her since that awful night at the Beacon. Do I bring it up? Ask how she’s doing? Apologize on behalf of my mother?
Now we’re both fidgeting with whatever’s in our hands. In my case, unfortunately, it’s onions. And then I forget that it’s onions, and stupidly raise one hand to rub the bridge of my nose. My fingers, now covered in the onion curse, trigger a reflexive rush of tears. Shit.
Gemma takes one look at my face and bursts into tears too.
“Oh, no, no,” I assure her, trying to wipe my eyes with my elbow. “I’m not crying. It’s the onions.”
“Well, I’m crying,” she blubbers. “And it’s not because of onions.”
“Oh.”
Our gazes lock.
Sniffling, she rubs her eyes with her sleeve, then gives me a sad smile. “Do you have a minute to talk? I know it’s Thanksgiving, but…”
“Sure. Let me just pay for these. I’ll meet you outside.”
A few minutes later, we reconvene in the small parking lot. The market is the only store open in the plaza, but the café at the end of the row has an outdoor patio. I gesture toward it.
“Let’s sit,” I suggest.
She nods. We walk to the patio, where I flip over two of the chairs and set them on the ground.
We sit across from each other. I watch her, sorrow tightening my belly. “How are you doing?” I finally ask. “We haven’t spoken since the night … you know, the night.”
“The night,” she echoes wryly.
“Just so you know—I had no idea what my mother was going to do. She took me by surprise, same as she did everyone else.”
Gemma’s eyes widen. “Oh. No. I never for a moment thought you were involved.”
“Ah, okay. Good.”
Another silence falls.
“I’ve been watching all of Tate’s videos,” I say. “That was some voyage, huh?”
“Took ten years off my life.” She shudders. “He could have died in that squall. Lord! And then when his GPS broke!” She’s now swallowing repeatedly, appearing nauseous. “Never have kids, Cassie. You’re constantly living in fear they might die.”
“Nah, when the GPS broke, that’s when I was the least concerned about him.”
“Really? Because I was picturing my boy lost in the middle of the Indian Ocean.”
I shake my head. “Tate will never get lost, not as long as the stars are still in the sky.”
My heart suddenly swells with emotion. I miss him so much. I think about him all the time. Sometimes I dream that I’m on the Surely Perfect with him. We’re lying on a blanket on the gleaming teak deck and gazing up at the stars. He points out all the different constellations and tells me where the fuck we are.
Gemma must see the raw pain in my eyes because hers fill with tears again. “Can you ever forgive me?” she blurts out.
I blink in surprise. “What?”
Rather than clarify, she seems to change the subject. Her face takes on a faraway look. “His videos, Cassie … he’s happy, yes. He’s always happy when he’s sailing. But I know my son. He’s not at peace. His eyes are troubled.”
I never saw any indication of that, but she’s his mother. She knows him better. She’s probably catalogued every last expression on Tate’s face. Every flicker of emotion.
“We’ve spoken three times,” she tells me. “Once a month. He calls from the satellite phone. It’s expensive, so he keeps the calls short. But I hear it in his voice. He’s sad.”
A sob rises in my throat. I hastily swallow it down. I’m sad too, I want to say. But I don’t. Because I understand the reason we broke up—she’s sitting right in front of me. And I don’t blame her for it, not one bit.
“I asked him to break up with you,” Gemma confesses. “I told him I couldn’t stand to have you around.”
“I know. I get it. Honestly, I do.”
“I was wrong.”
I frown at her. “What?”
“I was wrong,” she repeats with a firm shake of the head. “Gavin cheated on me, but I took him back. That’s all that matters.”
“But my mother…” I furrow my brow.
“I don’t care about your mother. The affair was never about your mother. It was about my husband. It was about his own insecurities, his perceived inadequacies. And he’s worked so hard on himself over the years. I’m proud of him. And I’m ashamed of myself for putting my own needs ahead of my child’s.”
“Gemma, come on. You’re being too hard on yourself.”
“No.” She shakes her head. “Tate comes first. Always. Forever.”
I gulp down another lump of emotion at the proof that they exist—good mothers. The proof is in Nia, and how fiercely she loves her girls. In Gemma, and how fiercely she loves her son. I might not have that, but it makes me happy to know others do.
“He loves you. You’re the first girl he’s ever felt that way about. I’ve watched him over the years.” She sighs. “I know my boy. He was always a player—that’s what we say these days, right? A player?”
Mmm. Not quite. I believe the term is fuckboy. But I keep that to myself. Besides, that’s not what Tate is. It’s not who he is. He’s the best man I’ve ever known. Wise beyond his years. More sensitive than he lets on.
And, fine, he’s great in bed.
“Then this summer, he met you and fell in love, and his own mother took that away from him. I’m ashamed.”
“Gemma. Stop.”
“So, please, can you ever forgive me?”
“There’s nothing to forgive.”
I reach over and take her hand. She clasps it with both of hers.
“I miss him,” I confess.
“I know. So do I.” She smiles. “I put together a care package for him last night. I need to send it to Auckland before he sets sail for his Australian adventure. Do you know how much it costs to ship something to New Zealand? Gavin almost choked on his tongue.”
I laugh. “Well, I mean, it’s literally at the bottom of the world. It’s bound to be expensive.” Then I bite my lip, as something nags at the back of my mind. It starts as a tiny seed, then grows into a full-fledged idea that has me squeezing Gemma’s hand. “But if you need a delivery person…”