Page 9 of Love Takes A Tumble (Midlife Meet Cute #3)

Chapter Nine

The garden outside the Magnolia Suite's window offered little comfort as Audrey stared through the glass. She'd barely slept, the echoes of yesterday's confrontation with Harrison haunting the night hours. His words had burrowed deep, finding the truth she'd been avoiding.

This is about me finding the first person in years who made me want to stay.

She pressed her forehead against the cool window pane. The morning light revealed an empty parking space where Harrison's truck had been. He'd gone, like he said he would. Like she'd told him to.

Her teacup sat untouched on the side table, the herbal blend gone cold hours ago. She'd attempted to eat the toast Elise had kindly brought up, but each bite had tasted like cardboard. How could something as simple as breakfast suddenly feel so impossible?

Her ankle barely hurt anymore, the sprain almost completely healed. Soon she wouldn't even have that reminder of how they'd met. Harrison carrying her across the beach. His unexpected kindness. The beginning of something she'd been too afraid to name.

Her laptop sat open on the desk, the cursor blinking on the same paragraph she'd been staring at for hours. Her lighthouse keeper stood at his station, vigilant but alone, his isolation both shield and prison. The metaphor wasn't lost on her.

She'd come to Palmar Island to write, to find herself after decades of caregiving.

Three months of solitude and creativity.

That had been the plan. Not meeting someone who made her question everything she thought she knew about herself.

Not feeling this hollow ache at the thought of never seeing him again.

"Ridiculous," she muttered, pushing away from the window and limping to the desk. "You've known him for what—two weeks? Less? This isn't some romance novel."

Yet the pain in her chest felt undeniably real. As real as the words Harrison had flung at her yesterday: You're so afraid of stepping into your new life that you'd rather sabotage anything good before it has a chance to become something you might lose.

A soft knock at the door pulled her from her thoughts.

"Not hungry," she called, assuming it was Elise with a second attempt at breakfast.

"Then it's a good thing I didn't bring food," Miss Doris's voice replied.

Audrey sighed, crossing to open the door. The older woman stood in the hallway, arms crossed, silver eyebrows raised in an expression that brooked no argument.

"May I come in?" she asked, already stepping inside. "My, it's stuffy in here. When was the last time you opened a window?" She moved to the window and unlatched it, letting in a fresh breeze that carried the scent of jasmine and sea salt.

"I'm not in the mood for company," Audrey said, returning to her desk chair.

"I'm not company. I'm an intervention." Miss Doris settled onto the armchair by the window, smoothing her floral skirt with practiced hands. "He left, you know. Checked out at dawn. Jacob said he barely said goodbye, just handed over his key and drove away with the sunrise."

"I know." Audrey's fingers found a loose thread on her sleeve, worrying it. "It's better this way."

"Is it?" Miss Doris's tone was gentle but probing. "You've been glowing since you met that man. Now you look like someone dimmed all the lights."

"It was a brief connection. Nothing more." The words sounded hollow even to her own ears.

"My dear girl." Miss Doris leaned forward, her pale blue eyes surprisingly fierce. "That man didn't help you because of some hero complex or duty. He helped you because from the moment he carried you off that beach, he was falling in love with you."

The words hit Audrey like a physical blow. "He couldn't have been. We barely know each other."

"Sometimes knowing comes quicker than we expect. Sometimes it takes one look, one conversation, one moment when everything suddenly makes sense." Miss Doris's voice softened. "And sometimes it takes a lifetime of looking before we recognize what's right in front of us."

"Even if that were true," Audrey began, her throat tightening, "he was leaving anyway. That's what he does."

"Was he? Or was he waiting for a reason to stay?" Miss Doris stood, moving to Audrey's desk where the manuscript pages lay scattered. "You know, I read once that we write what we need to learn. That stories are how we work through the truths we're not quite ready to face."

Audrey's gaze fell to her novel, to the lighthouse keeper searching the horizon for ships that might never come. Guiding others to safety while remaining apart. Just as she'd accused Harrison of doing. As she'd been doing herself.

She remembered the night on the beach after the bonfire, the way Harrison had spoken about his career ending, about losing his sense of purpose. She'd recognized herself in his words. The struggle to redefine yourself when everything that had shaped your identity was suddenly gone.

And then there was the boat tour, the moment when he'd brushed that strand of hair from her face, his touch so gentle it had nearly brought tears to her eyes. She'd pulled away not because she didn't want his touch, but because she wanted it too much.

"I'm afraid," she whispered, the admission finally breaking free. "I've spent my whole adult life being needed by someone who could never truly see me. What if I'm confusing kindness for something deeper? What if I'm clinging to the first person who's paid attention to me in years?"

"Is that what you truly believe?" Miss Doris asked. "That his feelings—and yours—are that shallow?"

Audrey remembered the look in Harrison's eyes when he'd confronted her yesterday. The hurt, yes, but also the certainty. The rawness of his admission.

"No," she admitted. "But I'm still afraid."

"Of course you are." Miss Doris's hand came to rest on her shoulder. "Love is terrifying at any age. Especially when we've spent years building walls to protect ourselves."

"What if it doesn't work? What if he does leave eventually?"

"What if he doesn't?" Miss Doris countered. "What if this is the beginning of something wonderful? Are you really willing to sacrifice that possibility because you're afraid of the pain that might come with it?"

Audrey looked up at the older woman, at the wisdom in her eyes that spoke of experiences both bitter and sweet. "He's already gone."

"Charleston isn't the moon, dear. It's a two-hour drive." Miss Doris moved toward the door. "The question is, what are you going to do about it?"

After she left, Audrey sat motionless, Miss Doris's words echoing in her mind.

The walls she'd built around her heart hadn't protected her from pain.

They'd only kept her from experiencing anything fully, good or bad.

She'd come to Palmar Island to find herself, but perhaps finding herself meant discovering she didn't want to be alone anymore.

Her gaze fell on a piece of driftwood she'd brought back from the beach, now sitting on her windowsill. The thing that had caused her fall. The thing that had brought Harrison into her life.

Slowly, she turned back to her laptop, to the scene she'd been struggling with for days. The moment when her lighthouse keeper had to decide whether to remain in his solitary tower or risk venturing back into the world he'd left behind.

Her fingers began to move across the keys, words flowing as the scene unfolded. Not the ending she'd originally planned, but the one she now realized was inevitable.

Daniel stood at the railing, watching the ship approach.

For years, he'd been content to guide others from a distance, to be the light that showed the way without ever joining the journey.

But as he watched her ship draw nearer, he realized with sudden clarity that some journeys couldn't be made alone.

That sometimes, the bravest thing wasn't staying at your post, but daring to leave it behind for something uncertain but infinitely more real.

She continued typing, scene unfolding into scene as her lighthouse keeper left his tower, choosing connection over isolation, possibility over fear. When she finally typed the last sentence, she sat back, a strange sense of lightness filling her chest.

The realization came with perfect clarity. She'd been so focused on finding herself after a lifetime of caring for others that she'd forgotten one essential truth. Finding yourself sometimes meant finding your way to someone else.

Her lighthouse keeper had found his courage. It was time she found hers.

With sudden determination, she reached for her phone, scrolling through her brief list of contacts until she found Harrison's number. Her thumb hovered over it for a moment, then moved to text instead. Some things were better said in person.

Where are you staying in Charleston? she typed, then backspaced. Too demanding.

I need to talk to you. She deleted that too. Too vague.

Finally, she settled on the truth:

I was wrong. I'm scared, but I don't want you to go. Can we talk?

She pressed send before she could change her mind, her heart pounding as she watched the message delivered. One minute passed. Two. No response.

Maybe he'd turned off his phone. Maybe he didn't want to hear from her. Maybe it was already too late.