Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 123435 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 617(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 411(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123435 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 617(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 411(@300wpm)
“Guess so.” His voice cracks again, and so does a piece of my heart.
“I had a good summer,” I tell him.
“Best summer of my life.”
I smile. His eyes are looking a little misty again. Mine are rapidly following suit. I can barely see him now, my vision is so blurry. We’re both weepy, and I know if I sit here any longer, I’ll break.
“I’m glad I met you, ginger.”
“Glad I met you too, Gate.”
I leave him there on the dock. I don’t know how my legs manage to carry me all the way into the house. But somehow I make it. Even in my bedroom I continue to fight the tears, because what if he’s in his room now and we pass our windows at the same time, so I step into the bathroom and sit on the edge of the tub. And only then do I cry.
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.