We Don't Talk Anymore (The Don't Duet #1) - Julie Johnson Page 0,24

perfectly trimmed, catching the wind as we fly away from the dock, out toward open water.

The secluded cove in front of Cormorant House is calm as a lake, shielded from the swells by a natural breakwater of rock and sand. With the exception of a brutal Nor’Easter that hit when I was nine, sweeping away our private dock and ripping all the shingles off the boathouse, we’ve luckily been spared the worst of the Atlantic’s hair-trigger temper.

Clear of the cove, the water’s chop intensifies — as does the wind. My sailboat, Cupid, starts to heel, cutting through the side of each swell like a blade. She’s agile. Aerodynamic. Built for speed, no matter what conditions are thrown at her.

I always laugh when people describe the ocean as peaceful; when they set a picture of it as the background on their computer screen, like some aspirational point of reference for serenity and calm. Anyone who spends time on the ocean knows there’s nothing peaceful about it. It is a chaotic monster, clutching with greedy hands. Do not ever mistake its still surface for serenity; it could swallow you up without so much as a ripple.

Rounding the tip of Crow Island, I set my course for the spit of land that marks mouth of Manchester Harbor in the distance. There’s no need to consult a chart; I’ve been exploring these waters since I was old enough to hold a tiller. I know what areas to avoid, where lethal rocks lie in wait, ready to scupper an unsuspecting vessel.

Leaving a wide berth around the shoals, I meander southward, keeping the white sands of the infamous Singing Beach to my starboard side. It’s still too cold for the sunbathers who crowd there in the summer months, clutching beach chairs and coolers, laughing as the dunes squeak musically under their steps. By late June, tourists will arrive in droves, forking over $40 to park for a single afternoon at the shore.

Lobster bouys of every shade and pattern imaginable bob in the shallows, each marking the location of a trap on the sandy bottom below. They grow fewer and farther between as I head into deeper waters. So do the other boats — not that there are many out today, anyway. Besides a handful of commercial fishing rigs on the horizon, I have the whole stretch of coast to myself.

I shiver as the wind picks up, spraying the cockpit with icy foam. I’m glad I layered a long-sleeved shirt beneath my sweater; by nightfall, it’ll be freezing out here. May can be cruel in New England — a tease of summer tempered by sheer unpredictability. One day, it’s eighty degrees and sunny; the next, you’re hunkered down in monsoon rains, hoping your lines hold.

I clutch the tiller more firmly as the water wrestles with my rudder, trying to drag me off course. This far out, the swells are capped with white, cresting at the tops as they slam relentlessly into Cupid’s red sides. The wind has risen to a steady howl, whipping the hair around my face, stinging at my eyes.

I should probably turn back.

Head home.

Retreat to calmer waters.

Instead, I yank my sails in tighter, chasing the salty tang of exhilaration across the expanse of blue. The most myself I ever feel is out here, away from the world — reduced to no more than a distant red speck a stranger squints to see clearly from the safety of the shore.

Sometimes, I wonder what would happen if I kept sailing, straight on through the night, across the Atlantic, not stopping until I either hit England or sank to the depths of Davy Jones’ Locker.

How long would it take someone to notice I was gone?

Would anyone care if I never came back?

Sudden loneliness surges through my veins, panging deep in the chambers of my heart. I find myself wishing Archer was with me after all; that I wasn’t so alone amidst the vastness.

For so long, he has been my most vital tether to the shore. He has kept me grounded, reeled me in whenever my sails began to overpower me. With that assured grin, those steady eyes, those strong hands… his hold on me was a lifeline I never knew I needed.

Until I thought I might lose it.

Even Flora can sense it. He’s pulling away from me. I’ve felt it for weeks now — long before he got tangled up with Sienna at that stupid party. Something is simply… off. I know it in my bones. But