Rogue Wave Isabel Jolie (books for 20 year olds .TXT) 📖

I sat down on the floor in the conference center room and held the letter in my hands. Confusion swarmed. He just left?

Numb, I drove over to his cottage. No lights were on, and the door was locked. I followed the moonlight down the narrow path along the side of the house to the back porch and found the screen door locked. I pressed my face against the window. Fog formed on the glass pane as I strained to see inside.

I drove to the ferry terminal. No one waited for the next ferry.

I curled up in bed, holding the letter. It felt surreal. I just couldn’t believe he would leave and not say goodbye. It didn’t make sense. We were happy. Concern for his safety surged. The only logical explanation I could come up with was that he was in danger and left.

Over the next several days, I sent several short texts.

Are you okay? Are you in danger?

Tate, what the hell? You don’t just leave with a letter.

I know you don’t like to text, but this is ridiculous. Where are you?

I’m not going to hunt you down. I promise. I just want to know. Are you safe?

Every day, I drove by his cottage. I don’t know why. But I thought some part of me needed to see he was gone. Because I just couldn’t believe it. My emotions crashed around each other. Concern crashed over anger, then annoyance rose and crashed over sadness. It all leveled out into unexpected grief. I hurt, a deep pain like none than I had ever felt before. This was what it felt like to have someone break up with you. This was what I’d done to Brandon. Maybe this was karma.

I spent my nights on the beach, tears streaming down my face, when no one could see. I spent my days working alongside the scientists, keeping my head up and focusing on my tomorrow. Poppy drank wine with me on a few evenings while we watched mindless television, and she pushed ice cream on me. Alice checked on me daily, bringing me dried herbs to hang in my home and for tea. Every time she left, she told me to have faith.

After a week of silence, I sent Tate one last text.

When I look up at the stars at night, I think of you. I love knowing that somewhere, you too are staring up at the same guiding lights. Those suns guided sailors for centuries. Chance crossed our paths. Did I ever tell you I considered three other internships? If I’d taken one of those, we’d have never met. Even if our paths never cross again, a part of you remains within me. We weren’t yet at the stage where we told each other the deep stuff, but you imprinted on me. You altered my chemical make-up in a fundamental way. That means… I’ll never forget you. Wherever you are, may you be safe. And know you are loved.

The next day, Poppy had me send one more text.

Don’t take my last text to mean I’m not pissed. I’m mad as hell. Who the hell leaves with a letter? FUCK YOU!

“There’s my moon pie.” My dad’s deep voice thundered through the one-story ranch I grew up in. In a flash, he surrounded me, picking me up and twirling me around until—“Jimminy.”

“Dad, are you okay?” He hunched over like an elderly person, his face contorted.

“It’s just my damn back.”

“What are you doing picking me up?” I guided him over to a chair and forced him to sit.

“What good am I if I can’t pick up my little girl?” he moaned.

“I’m not so little anymore. And you’re still recovering, aren’t you?”

I stood back, taking him in. Gone were the broad shoulders and wide biceps, replaced by a narrower frame, thinner hair, and much more gray. He gazed down on the floor, his right hand glued to his side.

“Can I get you something? Advil? A heating pad?”

“Advil. That should do it. Good thinking.”

I brought the Advil bottle and a glass of water to the table. He popped the pills, with no water, as if they were candy. I pulled out a chair and sat down at the table.

“We missed you at Thanksgiving.”

“I missed you guys, too.”

“How’d the boil go?” The low country boil fundraiser had kept me busy straight through November. The island always drew a good crowd of homeowners on Thanksgiving weekend, and the Saturday event had been a hit.

“Good. We raised almost fifty thousand dollars.”

“Nice. I suppose that’s worth missing Thanksgiving.”

“Dad.” He’d already let me know he wasn’t happy I didn’t come home to eat turkey. I suspected Mom had been relieved she didn’t have to create tofu turkey for me. “Where’s Nova?”

“She’s at the diner, helping your Mom.”

“How’re things going there?”

He let out a pained sigh. “Always seems busy to me. Your mom always worries it’s about to go under. My damn back. If I could get back to work, she wouldn’t need to be so stressed.”

“Dad, you’ve worked most of my life and she’s been stressed the entire time.” Stressed was Mom’s standard state of being. Growing up, they’d always been a study in contrasts. Mom worried over every little thing, every dollar spent, and Dad didn’t worry about anything at all. If he felt like the fish might bite, he had no qualms about taking off for the day. He never worried about getting fired or paying bills. He never saved to take the trips Mom dreamed of. As a kid, I thought Dad was the most amazing adult on the planet. Now, as a bill paying strapped grad student, I wondered why Mom hadn’t left him yet.

“One day I’ll win the lottery, and she won’t need to stress.” If he’d saved all that money he’d spent on lottery tickets over the years, by now she probably wouldn’t be stressed. But there was no point in pointing that out. Besides, Dad’s lottery ticket habit replaced his nicotine