“I needed you ten minutes ago, you know?” I say to her. “Find him, June. Please!”

June looks like a deer caught in the headlights. She is nodding, even as she backs out of the room.

“What do I say?” she asks me.

I flinch as the needle pierces my skin.

“Remind him about the dream. Tell him our daughter's name was Brandi. Tell him I'm so sorry and that I love him.”

This is something I’ve learned. You can’t run away to find yourself. Yourself is there no matter where you go. The difference is, if you’re running, you’ll be too busy to pick up the sword and face your enemies. Sometimes your enemy will be you; sometimes it will be those with the power to hurt you. Take off your shoes and stop running. Live barefoot and fucking fight. I ran from my feelings—the ones I felt for Kit, the guilt of feeling them. I thought that if I put enough distance between us, my feelings would go away. I should have faced myself back then.

June doesn’t find Kit. No one can. He’s turned off his phone and vanished. Della calls me in hysterics as I’m leaving the hospital a day later, demanding to know what I did to him. To him. Like he couldn’t possibly have chosen me of his own accord. I had to use magic or something.

“I didn’t do anything, Della. I’m not even as pretty as you.” And then I hang up.

“I think it’s time to get over that,” June tells me. “He obviously made a clear choice between the two of you.”

“Shit,” I say. “Should I call back and apologize?”

“Absolutely not,” she says. “She should suffer a little bit.” She looks at me out of the corner of her eye. “She said it again. When he called off the wedding.”

“Of course she did.”

“You know,” June says, “she’s so insecure, it almost makes her ugly. Like, she’s so unsure of herself, you become unsure of her too.”

I make a face. It doesn’t matter. All I care about right now is Kit, not Della’s perfect cheekbones. I don’t know where he is. It’s killing me that he doesn’t know how sorry I am. He can’t hide for long. He won’t stay away from Annie.

“He’s cooling off,” I tell June. “He disappears when he writes, and when he thinks.”

“So how are you going to lure him out?”

“I have to go home,” I say. “I think he’s there.”

When I land in Seattle, I rent a car from the first place I see. All they have is a white Ford Focus with Oregon plates and a fist-sized dent in the bumper. No Range Rover this time. I crawl into the driver’s seat, exhausted, and take a selfie. I call it, Gut Feeling. I didn’t sleep at all on the plane, I read Kit’s manuscript. When I was finished I ordered a vodka straight up. He was speaking to me. And I didn’t have the guts to read it. When I drive onto the ferry I stay in the car, tapping my finger impatiently on my knee. The ferry has always felt like freedom, but right now I couldn’t feel more trapped. I need to find him. That’s all I know. There is nothing to even confirm that he’s in PT. When I called Greer, she hadn’t heard anything. I’m going on a gut feeling. How long has he been in PT ahead of me? Two days? Three?

I have just driven off the ferry into Kingston when my phone rings. It’s Greer.

“You have to turn back,” she says. She sounds out of breath, like she’s been running. “He’s getting on the ferry you just got off.”

“What?” I slam on my brakes, and someone honks at me. “How do you know?”

“His mom. She just got back from the almost-wedding. He spent two days in his condo, now he’s going back to talk to Della and see Annie.”

I swing a U-turn, hopping a curb and almost hit a pedestrian.

“I’m going,” I say. I hang up the phone and lean forward, almost hugging the wheel. Please, God, please let me make it. I’ll never catch him if I miss the ferry.

“You’ll have to wait for the next one,” the lady in the ticket booth tells me. “This one’s full.”

“What about if I walk on?” I ask. She nods. I buy my ticket and park. The last of the cars are being loaded, which means that I will have to run to make it up the ramp before they block it off. I leave everything in my car, clutching my purse to my chest, and run.

The porter is closing the gate just as I reach the top. “Wait, wait, wait!” I yell. He holds it open for me as I dash past.

“I love you forever,” I say.

I’m on. I’m on. I’m not sure where to go. Would he stay in his car? Wander around the decks? I have twenty minutes to figure this out and I don’t work well under pressure.

I quickly walk past the café where most of the passengers are congregated and onto the main deck. There are a few stragglers outside, holding paper cups of coffee as they blink against the chilly wind. I wind around the left side, pulling my thin sweater closer to my body. The loop around the deck takes four minutes, and, by the time I reach my starting point, my nose is running. This isn’t going to work; I don’t have enough time. He could be anywhere.

I go back inside and take a photo of the Coke machine. I don’t know if he’s turned on his phone, but I hit send, and hope for the best. Kingston is disappearing behind us. I walk out the doors and stand watching the water. I feel defeated, I do. And hopeless. And stupid. And my purse is heavy because I’ve been carrying Kit’s manuscript around for the past few months. I take out the envelope and hold it in my hands for a moment before sliding out the thick stack of papers. I had to let this go, right? Just like the wine cork. If he was on his way back to Florida it was probably to make things right with Della. I hold his book above the water, my knuckles so white they blend with the paper. Then I fling them into the air. For a second it looks as if a cloud of white birds has exploded around the ferry, their thin wings vibrating on the wind. My bottom lip quivers and I grab it between my pointer-finger and thumb holding it still. My body betrays me for Kit Isley, it’s not the first time. I walk back inside, my purse lighter, and my heart heavier, and I sit in a chair facing the Coke machine. I cry.