Chapter 10
It was in a small coastal town in Portugal that I met Jonah.
He was sitting at the next table in my regular café, sketching the harbor in a weathered notebook. He had paint under his fingernails and laugh lines around his eyes.
He noticed me watching and smiled. "Want to see? Fair warning — the boats look like potatoes."
I laughed. Actually laughed. It felt strange and wonderful.
We talked for two hours that first day. He was an artist and part-time sailing instructor from New Zealand. He'd been traveling for a year, painting every coast he visited.
He didn't ask about my past. Didn't probe or push. He asked what book I was reading, what I thought of the local pastries, whether I'd ever tried sailing.
"Never," I admitted.
"Unacceptable," he declared with mock seriousness. "Tomorrow. Dawn. I'll teach you."
I should have said no. I wasn't ready. I was still healing, still fragile in ways I didn't always show.
But I said yes.
At dawn, we took his borrowed sailboat into the calm harbor. The wind was gentle, the water silver. Jonah showed me how to read the wind, how to adjust the sails, how to trust the current.
"You're holding on too tight," he told me, watching my white-knuckled grip on the rope. "The sea isn't your enemy. Let it carry you."
Something about those words broke through my walls. I loosened my grip. The sail caught the wind, and the boat surged forward — smooth, swift, alive.
I closed my eyes and felt the spray on my face.
For the first time since Dad died, I felt something close to joy.
Over the following weeks, Jonah became a constant in my life. We sailed in the mornings and explored the town in the afternoons. He painted while I read beside him. We cooked terrible dinners in my rented apartment and laughed at every burnt offering.
He never rushed me. Never demanded more than I could give. When I flinched at unexpected touch, he simply gave me space without making it strange.
One evening, as we watched the sunset from the harbor wall, he turned to me.
"Mia, you don't have to tell me anything you're not ready to share. But I want you to know — whatever happened before, whoever hurt you — I see who you are now. And she's extraordinary."
My eyes burned with tears I didn't shed. "Jonah, my past is heavy."
"I'm strong," he said simply. "And I'm patient."
I believed him.
He was sitting at the next table in my regular café, sketching the harbor in a weathered notebook. He had paint under his fingernails and laugh lines around his eyes.
He noticed me watching and smiled. "Want to see? Fair warning — the boats look like potatoes."
I laughed. Actually laughed. It felt strange and wonderful.
We talked for two hours that first day. He was an artist and part-time sailing instructor from New Zealand. He'd been traveling for a year, painting every coast he visited.
He didn't ask about my past. Didn't probe or push. He asked what book I was reading, what I thought of the local pastries, whether I'd ever tried sailing.
"Never," I admitted.
"Unacceptable," he declared with mock seriousness. "Tomorrow. Dawn. I'll teach you."
I should have said no. I wasn't ready. I was still healing, still fragile in ways I didn't always show.
But I said yes.
At dawn, we took his borrowed sailboat into the calm harbor. The wind was gentle, the water silver. Jonah showed me how to read the wind, how to adjust the sails, how to trust the current.
"You're holding on too tight," he told me, watching my white-knuckled grip on the rope. "The sea isn't your enemy. Let it carry you."
Something about those words broke through my walls. I loosened my grip. The sail caught the wind, and the boat surged forward — smooth, swift, alive.
I closed my eyes and felt the spray on my face.
For the first time since Dad died, I felt something close to joy.
Over the following weeks, Jonah became a constant in my life. We sailed in the mornings and explored the town in the afternoons. He painted while I read beside him. We cooked terrible dinners in my rented apartment and laughed at every burnt offering.
He never rushed me. Never demanded more than I could give. When I flinched at unexpected touch, he simply gave me space without making it strange.
One evening, as we watched the sunset from the harbor wall, he turned to me.
"Mia, you don't have to tell me anything you're not ready to share. But I want you to know — whatever happened before, whoever hurt you — I see who you are now. And she's extraordinary."
My eyes burned with tears I didn't shed. "Jonah, my past is heavy."
"I'm strong," he said simply. "And I'm patient."
I believed him.