Chapter 202: Madeline
The tour makes me feel like I’ve stepped into a science museum built by people with taste—glass corridors, green courtyards, labs that hum instead of buzz, a library with a domed skylight I’m going to dream about. By the time we sign our visitor passes back and thank the intern three separate times, I’m vibrating.
I keep my face arranged as we cross the plaza because there are still scientists at tables, coffees in hand, and I promised myself I’d act like I belong. Reid drives us off the lot, left turn, then right. Two minutes later he noses the car onto a gravel pullout and throws it in park.
“What are you doing?” I ask, clutching my tote like a life raft.
He doesn’t look at me. “Out.”
Jake chuckles and pops his door. “You heard him.”
For a heartbeat I wonder if I did something wrong in there. I follow them out anyway, sneakers crunching stone, ocean wind in my hair.
Reid rounds the front of the car, smirking, eyes soft. “Let it out.”
“What?”
Jake jerks his chin at me. “We know you’re dying to scream or jump or whatever is bottling itself up in that tiny body. Let it out.”
I don’t even try to play coy. It breaks out of me like a wave. I jump—actually jump—like a kid who just saw snow for the first time.
“Oh my God,” I gasp, hands flailing. “Did you see them? How excited they were? It went well, right? I think it went well—oh my God, I don’t remember half of what I said—did you see how many plants they had? We need plants in Northhaven. A ridiculous number. A jungle. Also the library? The ceiling? And Dr. Sahni smiled at me—at me—and the interns didn’t blink for twenty minutes and Jake your cable management was heroic and Reid you sounded like money when you talked about the MOU and—I can’t feel my face—I’m so happy—”
I’m pacing and throwing my arms and probably terrifying seagulls. The wind lifts my words and shreds them and I keep going until the jumpiness finally drains out.
When I turn back, they’re both leaning against the car like a magazine ad—hands in pockets, ankles crossed, grins that could light a small village. The look in their eyes is the one I wanted to see more than anything.
“You were brilliant,” Jake says.
“Perfect,” Reid adds, like he’s stating the weather.
“It went great,” they say in tandem, and the laugh that yanks out of me is pure relief, pure joy. I tuck myself between them, their shoulders warm at my cheeks, and let the wind take the last of the nerves while the road ahead feels like it’s finally pointing exactly where it should.
Back on the road, they ask if I’m hungry and my stomach answers for me—loud. They both chuckle.
“That’s answer enough,” Jake says.
“I know a place,” Reid adds, turning us through a few tight streets toward the harbor. He stops at a little counter spot with a chalkboard menu and window boxes that smell like basil and salt.
“They do great lobster rolls,” he says, already pulling his wallet. “All local. Sustainably fished.”
That earns him my biggest smile. “Sold.”
They won’t let me pay. A minute later I’m holding a warm paper boat that’s heavy with promise. First bite: the bun is buttery and toasted, the lobster sweet and abundant, barely dressed—just a whisper of mayo and a bright squeeze of lemon. I moan without shame.
“Best I’ve ever had,” I manage, going in for another bite. “I could actually cry.”
“Wait until the lobster festival in Northhaven,” Jake says, eyes lit with mischief. “End of the season. Even better.”
“Charlie said the same,” I say, licking lemon from my knuckle. “Also said the entire town gets drunk.”
They both laugh.
“It gets chaotic,” Reid admits, fond.
“But it’s the happiest Northhaven gets,” Jake says. “You’ll like it.”
“I already do,” I tell them, and take another bite while the boats bob, gulls heckle, and the whole world tastes like butter, salt, and a future I’m walking into with them.
They ask if I want to see anything else—walk the docks, hunt a bookstore, drive out to the lighthouse—and I shake my head.
“As much as you two look indestructible,” I say, smiling up at them, “I’m the one who always falls asleep first and wakes up last. And you drove half the coast today.” Reid’s mouth tips like he won’t admit it, but I can see the tired at the corners of his eyes; Jake rolls his shoulder like it’s reminding him he owns it.
“If it’s okay,” I add, softer, “I just want to go back to the hotel and… rest.”
“No argument,” Reid says, already unlocking the car.
“Zero,” Jake echoes, opening my door like it’s a ritual.
The town slips by in bands of light—harbor flash, clapboard houses, a gull strafing the windshield with a look. In a few minutes we’re under the motel’s sea-green siding again, the VACANCY sign humming pink. We climb the exterior stairs in that companionable quiet that says enough for now.
The red key fob clicks; the door swings open on cool air and afternoon sun spilling past the curtains. The room smells like clean cotton and citrus. Shoes off at the mat—my white sneakers lined up between two pairs of boots—tote on the little table, red key fob beside it. Reid drops our badges next to my laptop; Jake flicks the wall switch and thinks better of it, leaving the daylight to do the work.
“Home base,” Jake says, low.
“For now,” Reid adds, setting my water on the nightstand.
I exhale like I’ve been holding my breath since the lobby. The beds are made too neatly, the AC hum is sleepy, the navy runners look like lanes I could fall down and not mind. I press my palms to the edge of the nearest mattress, feel the give, and let the quiet wrap around us.
“That okay?” I ask, even though they were the ones who didn’t argue.
“It’s perfect,” Reid says.
“Rest,” Jake agrees, a small smile drawing at his mouth.
I nod, throat warm with a gratitude I don’t try to hide, and let the door click shut behind us on the bright afternoon.