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Chapter Thirteen

Annabel

“You’re insufferable,” I snap, slamming the cupboard door harder than necessary. The sound ricochets through the airy kitchen, breaking the serene quiet of the late afternoon.

Jonathan leans against the counter, his arms crossed, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “And yet, you can’t seem to stay away.”

Jonathan’s parents are away, leaving us to turn their pristine Nantucket cottage into our own little sanctuary—or battlefield, depending on the day. Right now, it feels like the latter.

“Because we’re stuck here,” I retort, turning to face him. “If I had a choice, believe me, I’d be anywhere else.”

His smirk falters, but only for a second. “Anywhere else? Really? Tucked under Calum’s arm like a prized possession?”

My stomach twists, his words hitting a nerve I hadn’t realized was exposed. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you, Jonathan.”

“Jealousy?” He laughs, the sound sharp and humorless. “Don’t flatter yourself, Annabel.”

“You’re the one who can’t stop picking fights,” I say, stepping closer. “If you’re not jealous, then what is it? Boredom? Resentment?”

His jaw tightens, his smirk replaced by something darker, more dangerous. “Maybe I’m tired of watching you play the same game over and over.”

“And what game would that be?”

“The one where you act like you’re above it all,” he snaps, his voice rising. “Like you don’t care about the mess you leave behind, the people you hurt.”

He closes the distance between us, one hand wrapping around my neck as he holds me in place, his lips connecting with mine in a kiss that demands my submission. I give in, only for a moment, before I push him off. My breath catches, but I refuse to let him see the crack in my armor.

“You should by kissed by someone that knows how–and often. Not by boys, but by someone who knows what you need.”

“Don’t pretend you know me, Jonathan.”

“Oh, I know you, Annabel,” he says, his gaze locking onto mine. “Better than Calum ever will. You’ve known him a year and me a lifetime.”

The silence that follows is suffocating, thick with unspoken words and emotions too tangled to unravel. I open my mouth to respond, but before I can, the door swings open, letting in a gust of salty air and the sound of Calum’s familiar whistle.

He steps into the kitchen, a canvas tote slung over his shoulder and a smile lighting up his face.

“I found the paints,” he announces, his tone cheerful and oblivious to the tension simmering in the room.

“Perfect,” I say quickly, my voice too bright. I cross the room to meet him, letting his presence wrap around me like a shield.

He drops the bag on the counter and pulls me into his side, his arm draping over my shoulders.

The warmth of his touch is both comforting and stifling, a reminder of everything I’m trying to hold together.

He presses a kiss to the top of my head, and I force myself to relax, leaning into him as if nothing is wrong.

“Am I interrupting something?” Calum asks, his eyes flicking between me and Jonathan.

Jonathan, who’s been silent since Calum walked in, pushes off the counter and straightens. “Not at all,” he says, his tone flat. “Just a spirited discussion.”

Calum chuckles, clearly buying the lie. “Well, don’t let me stop you.”

Jonathan doesn’t respond. He just stares at us, his expression unreadable, before turning on his heel and walking out. The door slams behind him, the sound echoing through the house.

“Is he okay?” Calum asks, frowning slightly.

“He’s fine,” I say quickly, brushing it off. “You know Jonathan—always brooding about something.”

“Sounds like he was pretty upset,” Calum’s features remain calm but I feel the tension in his words. I don’t reply because I’m not sure he even wants me to. Silence hangs between us before he finally fills it. “He’s mad you chose me.”

My eyebrows lift with surprise. Calum isn’t usually so direct, I often feel his unease before he’ll ever mention it. “He’s just… having a bad day.”

“Is that all?” Calum sets his brush on the easel tray and tilts his head at me. “Maybe it’s time you stop seeing him.”

My heart aches at the thought. “Calum–” I place an open palm on his arm, “you don’t have to worry–”

“I’m not,” Calum interrupts.

I narrow my eyes at his defensive tone. “Calum, I swear to you. It would degrade me to marry him. He has no drive, no motivation. He’ll slip into the abyss of history without leaving a mark,” I curl myself against Calum’s form and say the words that I know he’ll feel the most, “not like you. You have so much to say, so much to give to the world. You will leave a mark Calum Vey.”

The tension eases from his muscles then. I know all of Calum’s soft spots. His weaknesses are two singular things: me and his art.

Calum seems satisfied with that answer, his attention already shifting back to the paints. He begins unpacking them, chatting about the colors he found and how he can’t wait to get started on his next piece. I nod along, my responses automatic, but my mind is elsewhere, replaying Jonathan’s words.

I know you better than Calum ever will.

Jonathan’s words loop in my head, taunting me with its weight. Jonathan doesn’t say things like that lightly. He knows exactly how to strike where it hurts, how to peel back the layers I’ve carefully constructed. But why now? Why here, in this house that’s supposed to be our escape?

“Annabel?” Calum’s voice pulls me back to the present.

“Hmm?” I blink, focusing on him.

He’s holding up a tube of paint, his smile soft and boyish. “I said, should I use this for the background? Or the deep blue?”

I force a smile, nodding toward the blue. “That one. Definitely.”

He grins, leaning in to kiss me again, and I let him, hoping he doesn’t notice the tension still coiled in my body. He doesn’t. Calum sees what he wants to see, and most days, I’m grateful for it. But today, it feels like a weight, a responsibility I’m not sure I can carry.

Hours later I’m sitting in the living room, still stewing. Calum is in his studio, lost in his art, while I sit curled on the couch, a glass of wine in my hand. The house is quiet, save for the faint sound of the waves outside and the occasional creak of the old floorboards.

Jonathan hasn’t come back.

I tell myself I don’t care, that it’s better this way. But the truth is, his absence is a void I can’t ignore. He’s always been the storm to Calum’s calm, the fire to his steady flame. And as much as I hate to admit it, I need both.

The wine tastes bitter, or maybe it’s just me. I set the glass down and stand, pacing the room like a caged animal. I think about going to the studio to join Calum, but the thought of his easy smile, his unshakable devotion, feels suffocating right now.

Instead, I grab a sweater and step outside, the cool night air washing over me like a balm. The cliffs are dark, the moon hidden behind a thick layer of clouds. I walk without direction, letting my feet carry me toward the edge, where the world feels both infinite and impossibly small.

“Annabel.”

The voice stops me in my tracks. I turn, and there he is, standing just a few feet away. Jonathan. His face is shadowed, but I can see the tension in his posture, the storm brewing behind his eyes.

“What are you doing out here?” I ask, my voice sharper than I intend.

“I could ask you the same thing,” he replies, stepping closer.

I fold my arms, trying to create some kind of barrier between us. “I needed air.”

He chuckles, a low, bitter sound. “And here I thought you had everything you needed inside.”

“What do you want, Jonathan?” I snap, tired of the games.

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he closes the distance between us, his gaze locking onto mine. “I want to know why. ”

“Why what?”

“Why you chose him,” he says, his voice low and raw. “Why it’s always him.”

The question catches me off guard, the vulnerability in his tone cutting through my defenses. “Jonathan, I…”

“Don’t,” he interrupts, his jaw tightening. “Don’t lie to me. Not tonight.”

I take a deep breath, the weight of the moment pressing down on me. “It’s not about choosing, Jonathan. It’s not that simple.”

“Isn’t it?” he challenges, his eyes blazing. “The only thing I know for sure is that we are the same, Annabel. Our souls are haunted with the same darkness, the same need for more.”

“That’s… that’s not true,” but my words come out pathetic, soft, weak. I don’t believe them and neither will he.

“Bullshit. You love him. Fine. But don’t pretend you don’t feel something for me too.”

I open my mouth to argue, to deny it, but the words won’t come. Because he’s right. I do feel something for him. I always have.

“You’re different,” I say finally, my voice barely above a whisper. “You and Calum… you’re like night and day. I need both, but I can’t have that, can I?”

“No,” he says firmly, stepping even closer. “You can’t.”

The air between us crackles with tension, the unspoken truths and years of history bubbling to the surface. I should walk away. I should go back to the house, to Calum, to the safety of what I’ve chosen. But I don’t move.

Jonathan reaches out, his hand brushing against mine, and for a moment, I let him. His touch is warm, grounding, and it reminds me of that night in the hydrangeas, when everything felt so much simpler.

But it’s not simple anymore. And it never will be.

“I can’t,” I say, pulling away. “I can’t do this. ”

He watches me for a moment, his expression unreadable, before stepping back. “Then go,” he says quietly. “But don’t expect me to be here when you come back.”

The words slice through me, sharp and final, but I don’t look back. I turn and walk toward the house, each step heavier than the last.

Inside, Calum is still painting, his world untouched by the storm brewing just outside. I pause in the doorway, watching him, and for a moment, I envy his oblivion. But then he looks up, his face lighting up at the sight of me, and I remember why I chose him.

Even if it means losing everything else.