I get up before dawn, before the world's noise reaches my bedroom window. The city is quiet, and the sky is a dark gray. I lie in bed and look at the ceiling, going over the emotional tempest from last night. Isla's confession and Clarissa's pain keep playing in my head like a bad song I can't stop. I get out of bed and walk to the window. The rain has started again. At first it was light, but now it's stronger and hitting the glass.
I opened the window a little bit to allow in some of the cool morning air. It has a scent that is nearly like lavender and cedar, but gentler and harder to pin down. My chest feels tight. I close my eyes and try to figure out where the smell is coming from. Lavender? No. What about sandalwood? Isla's lingering perfume and the smell of new rain make something about her. My heart beats fast. She's close.
I think of her as I close the window: how her hair stuck to her face in the storm yesterday and how her eyes gleamed with anguish and determination. My helper Amanda sticks her head in. "Mr. Hart, your ten o'clock is waiting, and your father is calling.
I nod, but I can't seem to be entirely in my body. My dad's voice will be sharp because he won't understand why I'm hesitating. I put on a jacket and shoes. I stop in front of the mirror beside the door and look at myself: heavy circles under my eyes, a tie that is askew, and everything else that has been taken out of me. I straighten my shoulders. I have to work. I have to take care of my life. Duty is what keeps me grounded.
The fluorescent lights in the hallway flicker behind me as I walk outside. I step into the elevator. The doors close on my reflection, and I see a guy I barely recognize: a suit pressed to perfection but a neck twisted by the awareness of every mistake he's done. The doors open to the lobby's bustle. As I push through the rotating doors and out onto the pavement, a burst of wind blows rain into my face. I smell something sweet and strong in the air—Isla's perfume. It's short-lived but exciting. My heart rate goes through the roof, and I almost trip.
"Mr. Hart? "Through my headset, I can hear my assistant's voice crackling. "Your ten o'clock is ready."
I jerk my head up. She lives nine floors above me. I've been standing on the curb, soaked, and breathing too hard. I make myself move, weaving between umbrellas that are bobbing and weaving. A cab drives by and soaks my jacket. Clarissa's face flashes behind my eyelids. I can see her pale coat and hear her voice shake when she said, "I'm waiting for you at the café." The cold rain tastes like regret.
I open an expensive black umbrella and keep going. The streets in the city center are a jumble around me: neon signs, closed stores, and people getting up early to get coffee. I jog to work and slip into the lobby without looking at the doorman. Before I can let out a breath, the door to the elevator closes behind me.
My phone buzzes in my pocket as I'm on the way up. I pull it out, and my heart skips a beat. A message from a number I don't know says, "I'll be at the bridge tonight." Come if you want answers. Attached is a picture of a route lined with maple trees that turns orange in the fall.
I swallow. That's the old Lovers' Bridge, where I took Isla nine years ago and told her I liked her under the flickering street lights. As soon as I saw her face, so youthful and innocent, I wanted to take back everything I said. But I could never.
I text back, "I'll be there." Before I can think about it. The elevator dings, and I go inside the meeting room. Amanda waits with her arms folded. I can sense both pity and impatience in her eyes.
"Do you have a lot on your mind?" "She asks. She speaks softly yet firmly. I shake my head, but my stomach is churning.
"Bring me up to speed," I say. She goes over the day's events: a meeting with Clearwater Ventures at 10, a board lunch at 12:30, and a dinner extravaganza evening. Every appointment is another link in the chain of promises I made to myself that I would never violate.
"Any messages?" "Please," I say. Amanda is unsure. "Rowan, um, there's one: an email from a J. Green, asking you to confirm that you will be at the gala. I can take care of that later.
I nod. "Make sure you do."
She stops, as if she wants to say more, but instead she picks up the reports on her clipboard and leaves. I sit back in the leather chair, my chest tense. The room feels cool and clean. I can almost smell Isla's scent again, even though the air is stale. I close my eyes for a bit and think of her notebook from yesterday. The pages are blank now, waiting for further admissions.
Mr. Bennett knocks and comes in. He is my father, towering, in charge, and dressed like a queen in a navy suit. I can't read his face, but the way his mouth is set in a tight line tells me he's not happy. He shuts the door and puts a folder on the table.
"Your meeting with Clearwater is in thirty minutes," he says without preamble. "I'll need you at the office by nine-thirty to go over the deck."
I get up from my chair. "Of course."
He looks at me and asks, "Did you sleep well last night?" "
I swallow. "I did."
He squints his eyes. "Your fiancée says you looked... distracted." Oh my. Clarissa even knows what's going on. I square my shoulders. "It was just a call from a client late at night."
He seems to be okay with that. He nods, turns around, and walks out. I let out a breath and stared at the glass door that was split in two. I thought of the woman on the bridge who was waiting for answers. The weight of my responsibilities is heavy. I can't just disappear for the night. But Isla's call, her vulnerability, makes me feel something I haven't felt in years.
I look at the time. 9:07 in the morning There are twenty-three minutes till the first meeting. I have enough time to get my jaw ready, go over what I want to say, and act like I'm the unflappable heir of Hart & Sons. Time to take in the weight of my regrets and wear my chain like a badge.
I leave the meeting room. The bright lights in the hallway hurt my eyes. A parade of colleagues files past. I nod nicely. They nod back, oblivious to the turmoil in my chest. I stop for a moment outside a window and glance down at the busy traffic. The city is alive, but the pain and promises that are in the air above them are not.
I walk into my workplace. Everything is perfectly arranged in the glass-walled sanctuary that looks out over the street below. There is a mahogany desk, a leather chair, and family portraits in silver frames. Clarissa is standing at the window with a bridal magazine open in her hand. When she sees me, her smile is tight, and I can't tell if she's happy or not.
"Good morning," she says in a soft voice. "I thought we could go over the list of guests for the gala?" "
My throat tightens. I walk over to her and put my hand on her shoulder. Sorry. I have a meeting soon." I try to sound polite, even enthusiastic.
She shuts the magazine. "Remember, we need to decide on centerpieces by Friday."
I nod, but the words keep going around in my head: "Don't decide." "I can't, Clarissa."
She looks down at the coffee stain on my jacket lapel. "I'm worried about you."
I swallow. In the previous forty-eight hours, how many times has she mentioned that? I clench my jaw. "I'm okay."
She looks at me like she's never seen me before. "You kissed me the night we got engaged." You stated you would never see me as a stranger.
I shut my eyes. Did you kiss her? I remember kissing her cheek because I had to, just like I kissed Isla under cherry blossoms. I close my eyes and try to remember the exact shape of Clarissa's lips, but all I can see is Isla's face, which is soft and vulnerable.
I look around. "Clarissa, I—" I can't finish. The truth would break her.
She blinks, not sure. "Okay," she says. "Please just call me tonight when you can." I'll be there.
She walks away, leaving me by myself. The only sound for a minute is the bustle of the city outside. I put my hands on the cool wood of the desk. My reflection in the mirror shows a man who is stuck between two realities.
I take the folder from my dad. It has graphs of market share and merger projections. I open it and blink at the numbers. They signify nothing. I close the folder and set it aside. I push back my chair and move for the exit.
I say to Amanda as I walk by, "To the boardroom." She raises an eyebrow but doesn't say anything.
The morning sun shines through the high windows and casts striped shadows on the carpet as I lean against the cool wall in the hall. I take a big breath and taste the coffee. I look down at my phone, which is still on Isla's message screen. My thumb is over "Delete Contact," and my chest tightens. I can't. Not yet.
I put my phone in my pocket and walk to the boardroom. When I walk in, the executives nod. I put on a smile and start the presentation: "As you can see, our proposed merger with Clearwater Ventures will give us a twenty-seven percent bigger market share..."
I make myself pay attention to the slides—graphs, pie charts, and forecasts—but I can't help but think of Isla's face on the porch. Her hair was stuck to her cheeks, and her eyes were begging. I despise every second of it because it feels like I'm lying to the world every time I speak.
I finish at 10 thirty and answer a few polite queries regarding expected development. I answer each one with studied assurance. I see Mr. Bennett nodding in the corner of my eye, which means he's happy. I nod back, but he can't see the trouble behind my grin.
I leave the room, say hi to a few coworkers, and go back to my office. I sit down in the leather chair and run my fingers through my hair. It's 10:45 in the morning. At noon, I have lunch with the board. I have two hours to determine if I want to chase a ghost or keep doing my duty.
When I turn on my computer, my inbox is full of unread messages. I see one subject line that stands out: "Re: Last night." It's from Amanda and says, "Mr. Hart, I've sent the messages from your phone to your secure inbox." I click on "open." Isla's letter, with her words copied up just as I left them. A message below it says, "Don't delete; we'll talk."
My chest hurts so much that my ribs hurt. The delivery person for tonight's gala stops by to make sure I'm going. I nod without thinking. He goes.
I shut my eyes. I remember Isla's eyes, Clarissa's fight, and the note that was thrown on the sidewalk last night at the café. How Clara said, "He's not worth this," and what I said back: "So did I."
I rise and pace the office. The predictions for the merger are still on the desk. I think about my choices. I can throw myself into work and act like the storm in my heart is simply a passing storm. Or I could beg to be excused from the banquet tonight and drive to that bridge.
Time goes by quickly. I finally close the laptop and send my dad a quick email that says, "I'm sorry, but I won't be able to go to the gala tonight." "I have a personal matter that needs my attention." Then I pause, my fingers hovering over "Send." I can't lie to him again. If I say "maximize shareholder value," he won't have a clue. But that's not the case. This is personal—fractured, raw, uncharted.
I type: "Emergency at home." I'm sorry. I submit it. "I'll be in the office tomorrow morning." I feel my heart race as I hear the email go out. I look at the screen, not sure what to do, excited, and scared.
It's 11:58 in the morning. I get up, grab my phone, umbrella, and car keys, and leave without looking back. There are sheets of rain falling outside. I step onto the sidewalk and wave down a cab. I tell the driver to go to Lovers' Bridge.
He looks in the rearview mirror with his eyebrows lifted. "Mr. Hart, it's a strange time to visit the old bridge."
I nod, too lost in my own thoughts to explain. The cab pulls away from the curb, and the tires make a hissing sound on the wet pavement. As we navigate downtown, my phone buzzes with another message from Isla's unknown number: Seven hours. Don't be late.
I swallow. There are seven hours until midnight. The bridge is miles distant, but it feels like a heartbeat in my thoughts. A bridge that bears all the echoes of my youth: the laughing, the secrets, and the betrayal. I despise myself for consenting. For letting Isla lure me into this mess.
We turn onto a quieter street with trees on both sides. The rain makes the streetlights shine amber. I look out, almost expecting to find Isla standing under the branches, hair wet from the rain, waiting.
The cab drives through the city and over a tiny river on a bridge made of steel and wood. Downriver, the lights dance across the water's surface. The sound of that old area, where mother showed me how to see the sunlight through maple leaves, makes my throat feel tight.
The driver taps his watch. "We're there."
I look up. The road terminates at a gravel path that goes through a group of maples, whose branches make a half-tunnel. Beyond, there are faint lights—lanterns hung by a visitor before, maybe Isla herself.
I step onto the wet ground, give the driver some money, and tell him to leave. Every step I take makes a splash in the mud. The rain hits my umbrella. I hold on to the trunk of a maple tree and let the roughness of the bark ground me. The air smells like damp leaves and dirt—real and rooted.
I follow the route, where lamps are bouncing. I see shadows moving across my eyesight. I turn a corner and see Isla standing there. Her auburn hair is stuck to her cheeks, and her arms are curled about herself. Her coat is a rich navy color and it puddles at her ankles. She doesn't have shoes on.
My heart beats fast. I start to talk but stop myself. She glances up, her eyes gleaming in the light of the lantern, and her cheeks are pale. The old wooden bridge under her feet has paint peeling off of it and boards that are slick from the rain. The river ripples in the blackness farther below.
I say, "Isla," my voice heavy.
She steps back and raises her hands in defense. I put my umbrella down. "Why are you here?" "My words shake.
She looks me in the eye. "I needed you to see this place." To keep in mind.
"Remember what?" "
She lifts one foot, and you can see a long, faint scar across her ankle. I move closer. "What happened?" "
She takes a deep breath and wipes her mouth with the sleeve of her skirt. "Nine years ago that night, my brother chased me off the bridge. He tried to keep me from seeing you. I broke my ankle on a rock. "I still have the limp," she says, straightening up and blinking away tears. "You never knew."
My heart hurts. I recall running after her that night, but I never saw her fall. I was too sad to care. "I'm sorry."
She shakes her head. "I didn't tell you because I didn't want you to feel bad." "I thought I could fix it somehow." She stands in the middle of the bridge, with the water swirling below. "I thought that if you told me you loved me, I wouldn't be the broken girl."
I swallow. "Isla—"
She cuts me off. "Can you see me now? Or am I only a recollection that comes to mind as the wind blows? "
Her remarks shock me. I move closer till I'm only a few inches away from her. "You're not a memory." You are the reason I never let anyone in.
She looks me in the eye, a mix of defiance and hurt. "Why did you marry her?" "
My throat tightens. I have been waiting nine years to say something. Now that I can hear her voice on this bridge, I'm concerned my justifications will sound like excuses. I say, "Duty," with a harsh voice. "Family." I wanted a future I could trust.
She laughs, and it's bitter and biting. "A future you never wanted."
I swallow hard. "I thought I did. For a while, I told myself it was enough.
She steps back and squints her eyes. "Do you still love me?" "
I can't breathe. I want to tell the truth. I want to tell her that I've never stopped. But fear builds up in my chest—fear of losing her again and fear of breaking her heart. I close my eyes and try to find the words.
"So much," I murmur, my voice shaking.
She puts her arms across her chest. "How do we fix this now?" "
I look for the emptiness surrounding us: lights swinging, rain falling, and the river running below. I take a bite. "I don't know," I say, "but I want to try."
The silence gets deeper. The only noise is the wind moving the maples overhead. I move closer, and she doesn't move away.
I reach out and move her hair behind her ear. Her eyes shine. I put my forehead to hers. "I love you," I say softly.
She shuts her eyes. "Then don't go again."
I close my eyes too and remember the moment: her warmth in the rain, the bridge's wood slick with wet, and the promise of tomorrow hanging between us.
A lamp swings more furiously behind me, making our shadows lengthy on the boards. The rain eases into a steady drizzle. I hear someone calling my name, faintly and urgently.
I pull back and close my eyes. Clarissa is standing at the beginning of the bridge, soaked and holding her coat in her hands. Her eyes are wide open with pain and confusion.
My heart skips a beat. Isla turns, her face blank. "Rowan?" Clarissa says, her voice shaking. "I came looking for you," she says, but then she sees Isla and freezes. Her shoulders droop. "I didn't know you would be here."
Isla and I are on the bridge, Clarissa is on the path, and all three of us are drowning in rain and secrets.
The wind picks up and blows drops of water across our faces. I walk toward Clarissa and then back to Isla. I feel guilty, hopeful, and scared all at the same time.
Clarissa's eyes dart back and forth between us. "What is this?" "Her voice is a soft whisper of betrayal." "Isla, what are you doing here? Rowan, what made you bring her? "
My lips open, but words stay. I know that this moment is bigger than both of us. If we make one mistake, everything will fall apart.
Isla's eyes narrow. Clarissa's face crumples.
I take a breath and feel the wind blowing around me. I know that what I say next will shape all of us.