Shards of Memory [English - Under Revision]

Chapter 31: Tides don't for permission

Skylane

We spent the afternoon combing the resort like inspectors with snacks. We sampled specialty bites from the mini-restaurants, jotted prices, checked seating, timing, and crowd flow. We tried a few activities too—ziplines over palms, paddleboards skimming buttery water—so I could rank them by safety and difficulty. I took notes; Ryder took photos on my phone (his was charging upstairs). By sunset we agreed to finish the rest tomorrow. The sky went violet; the sea turned to glass. Good enough place to pause.

We'd just settled into a seaside restaurant—grilled fish, lemon rice, mango slaw—when my phone rang. Harice.

"Oh—hey, I was about to—"

"Can you give it to Ryder, please?" His voice was breathless, flustered.

I passed the phone across. Ryder frowned, answered—and stilled. The color slid from his face. I reached over and wrapped my fingers around his, grounding him.

"Please calm down, Ryder," I heard Harice say through the tiny speaker. Behind him, someone was crying.

"What's going on?" I whispered.

Ryder's jaw flexed. He listened, eyes narrowed, then nodded once, like a soldier taking orders. "Okay. I'm on the line. You're with Tita? Good. Don't worry about me. Call after your dad's operation."

He hung up, staring past me like the table wasn't there anymore. I signaled the waiter, paid, and tugged Ryder gently to his feet.

Back in the suite, he sank onto the couch, elbows on knees, hands laced at the back of his neck. Silent. Far away.

"I'm going into your room for a sec," I said softly.

He only nodded.

I shut his door, dialed our pilot. "Captain, I'm sorry for the late notice. Can you ready the jet? Ryder needs to fly back to Manila. It's an emergency." His quick yes loosened something in my chest.

I packed in a blur—his backpack, charger, toiletries, jacket. Passport from the drawer. A second sweep of the room, then the bath. Done.

When I stepped into the living room, he was pacing, agitated fingers raking his hair back, then forward, then back again.

"Ryder." He stopped mid-stride. His gaze snagged on the backpack, the passport, the jacket in my hands. "Go. I can handle the rest here."

"No. I promised your parents I'd stay with you."

"Don't be stubborn," I said, firm but kind. "Your mom needs you. And you want to go. It's okay. I'll be fine." I nudged him toward the door, opened it, and eased him into the hallway before either of us could argue with ourselves. I pressed the things into his arms. "Airport."

He bit his bottom lip, then took everything, eyes bright in a way that hurt to see. He pulled me into a tight hug. "Thank you, Sky." He started for the elevators, then pivoted back a step. "I'm only leaving," he said, a little wry, "because I know he'll be here."

I blinked. He? But the doors slid open and swallowed him whole.

Alone again, I poured a glass of water and let a quiet prayer expand under my ribs: Please let everything go well.

The night air called, soft and salted. I slipped outside and padded down to the beach, sandals in hand. A breeze rose; my hat flew clean off my head, skittering along the sand like a stubborn crab.

I chased it—and a hand beat me to it. The stranger straightened, turned, and held my hat out.

I froze. "Blaise?"