Chapter 15: Madeline
I don’t realize I’m walking faster until the wind catches the edge of my sleeve like it’s trying to pull me back.
Too late. I’m already halfway to the house, boots hitting the gravel with sharp, irritated crunches. The sun is out now, streaking gold over the harbor and trying to warm the sea-stained air, but it does nothing to take the chill out of me.
Or maybe that’s just him.
Reid.
I spent the last thirty minutes with that condescending, impossible man, and now I can’t stop replaying every word like I’m chewing glass.
I should feel excited. I should be glowing.
The research is everything I hoped for.
Out on the water, they track temperature, collect samples, assess salinity, monitor food availability for migratory whales. They analyze patterns, look for anomalies, watch behavior when they manage to find a pod. They spend hours just watching—taking notes, snapping photos, identifying individuals, building a profile on the very creatures I’ve dreamed of studying since I knew what a marine biologist even was.
It’s everything I’ve ever wanted. The kind of job I thought I’d have to fight another decade to get. The kind of work people line up for and never get a callback.
And I got it.
Only now there’s a caveat.
A walking, scowling, six-foot-something caveat with a sharp jaw and a voice like dry ice.
Reid.
God, even his name annoys me.
He sat there across from me like he was already over it. Every word he said was dipped in some smug undertone like he was just waiting for me to slip up.
“Top of your class,” he said.
“Impressive thesis,” he said.
“But we’ll see if it means anything out here.”
If I last. If I hold up. If I’m not just another wide-eyed student who can’t handle windburn and long days and ocean-soaked boots.
Every half-compliment came with a blade tucked inside it.
And the worst part?
He wasn’t wrong.
This is harder than anything I’ve done before. But that doesn’t mean I needed it thrown in my face like I’m on trial.
I round the bend of the harbor path, passing the bait shop, the dock supplies shed, and the boarded-up storefront with faded signage that just says SOON. I want to throw a rock at it.
My braid gets caught in the collar of my jacket and I tug it free with more force than necessary.
Why did he have to ruin it?
He didn't even look at me—not really. Just scanned the papers like I was another item on a list. And I kept waiting, stupidly, for even a flicker of recognition. Some echo of the man who leaned out his car window two nights ago and teased me about standing at the only red light in town.
That man had smirked. That man had been warm, teasing, human.
This Reid?
This Reid looked at me like I was a mistake someone else made and he was the one who’d have to clean it up.
And the part that really pisses me off?
I let myself get flustered.
He sat down, all stormy and unreadable, and I just… lost every coherent thought in my body. My name got stuck in my throat. My hands shook. My notebook got a smear of ink across the corner because I was gripping the pen so hard it slipped.
What is wrong with me?
He’s not even nice.
And I don’t mean soft. No one here is soft. But he’s mean. Cold, even when he’s right. Especially when he’s right. Every sentence was a test I didn’t ask to take.
And maybe I passed.
But I didn’t like how it felt to be graded like that.
I cross the last stretch of road before the house comes into view. The path curves through the trees, still damp from yesterday’s rain. A squirrel darts across it and I step aside, boots kicking up loose gravel, heart still pacing like it hasn’t realized the confrontation is over.
I pause just before the house.
My fingers are still curled tight around the strap of my bag. My mind still tangled up in that booth, that tone, that voice. That smirk when I snapped at him.
"I’m here, aren’t I?"
The words had left my mouth before I could check them.
He liked it. I saw it. For a second, it cracked something in him. But then it was gone, and he was back to flipping papers and acting like I was a problem to manage.
I’m so stupid.
For thinking the guy at the light was anything like the man behind that clipboard.
Whatever that moment was?
It wasn’t real.
And whatever this summer becomes… I’ll survive it.
Even if Reid Anderson makes me want to throw him into the sea.
I should go in. I should decompress. Peel off my boots, take a breath, try to shake off the storm Reid stirred into me like it was nothing.
But instead, I turn around.
My boots crunch back over the gravel, retracing my steps as the breeze catches at the ends of my braid and brushes my collar. The harbor slips behind me again, replaced by a winding trail toward town.
The grocery store.
The boys had said today was a short one. Just a test run. Nothing long. Nothing serious. If I’m the only one not working, then I may as well make myself useful.
And maybe, if I focus on something small and manageable—like picking the right pasta or remembering how to tell the good tomatoes from the watery ones—I can pretend, for a little while, that I don’t still feel Reid Anderson’s voice in my bones like a bruise.
The town is quiet again, though the sun has burned off most of the chill. The sky’s still stubbornly pale, clouds like smudges of chalk across it. The same old woman from yesterday walks past with her little dog again, and she gives me a nod like we’re already familiar.
I smile back.
Everything smells faintly of brine and damp earth. There’s moss on the fences and cracked cement on the sidewalks. The wind’s tugging at the “Open” sign on the taffy shop. But the grocery store is open, warm and humming softly inside, and for a second, I’m back in something I understand.
I grab a cart.
No one’s in a rush here. The aisles are narrow and the shelves aren’t fully stocked, but it feels almost comforting. Like stepping into a different pace.
Dinner.
Something hearty. Comforting. Food always helps, even when it doesn’t fix anything.
I start with pasta. Then grab some garlic. Onions. A tin of crushed tomatoes. I eye the bread next—thick loaves that look like they were baked too early and set out too fast, but I’ll take it.
I’m halfway through planning a vague pasta bake when I remember that I have no idea how many people will actually be there.
Five? Six?
Do I count Reid?
I almost drop the can in my hand at the thought. Absolutely not.
Although... would he even show up for dinner? Would he sit at the same table as the people he works with, or does he go home to some isolated part of the woods to glower at spreadsheets in peace?
I shake the thought away and toss the can into the basket. If he shows, he shows. He’ll probably insult the garlic.
Still, I buy more of it.
By the time I’m heading to the register, I’ve picked up a few extra things: a pack of cookies that remind me of childhood road trips, a second block of cheese because Finn said they always run out of it, and a few herbs that are already slightly wilted, but I’ll make them work.
The cashier is sweet, calls me “hon,” and gives me a paper bag when the reusable ones are out. I tuck everything in carefully, shoulders relaxing for the first time all morning.
It’s not much, but it feels like something. A way to belong. A way to say, Hey, I may not be able to handle your storm of a team lead, but I can feed people. I can be useful. I can take up space.
I head back through town, the weight of the groceries grounding me, the rhythm of my steps syncing to the crash of waves in the distance.
It’s not a perfect fix.
But it’s something.
And right now, something is enough.