Tidal Sparks (Sequel to The Velvet Anchor)

Tidal Sparks

On a crisp October evening in 2035, Connor, as Amanda, steps onto a Seattle stage, his sapphire dress catching the sunset’s glow, as he reads poetry that bares his hidden self to a crowd by the Puget Sound. A bookseller named Elise, her hazel eyes steady with understanding, sees the tide of his longing—a man and a poet, intertwined—and feels a spark she’s been searching for too. Over crisp harbor mornings and cardamom-scented nights, they wade through shadows, seeking a love that holds every part of who they are.

Prologue: Tides of Loss, Tides of Change

The spring of 2032 in Concord, New Hampshire, brought a shadow that settled over Connor and Melody’s clapboard house at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac, its garden still dormant under late frost. In March, the diagnosis came at Concord Hospital, a sterile room with pale green walls, the doctor’s voice clinical—pancreatic cancer, stage IV, six months, maybe less. Melody sat in a knit cap, her dark hair thinning beneath it, her librarian’s hands trembling in Connor’s grip, her hazel eyes wide with a fear she couldn’t voice. Connor, 52, felt his 5’7” frame shrink under the weight of the words, his brown eyes locked on hers—I can’t lose you, not yet. Amanda stirred in his chest, a quiet ache he pushed down, locked in the safe at home—I can’t let her out, not now. Sophie, 19, home from Dartmouth for spring break, sat in the waiting room, a copy of Pride and Prejudice forgotten in her lap, her sharp eyes—Melody’s eyes—red-rimmed, her hands clenched—I’ll fight for you, Mom. Liam, 16, stood by the hospital window, his broad frame hunched, kicking at the baseboard, his blond hair falling into his eyes—I don’t get it, why her?

The months that followed were a blur of hospital visits, chemo sessions, and quiet moments in their home, the oxygen machine’s hum a constant undercurrent in Connor and Melody’s bedroom. Connor took leave from his consulting job, his payout from the bank merger a lifeline, allowing him to be there—brewing chamomile tea, adjusting her pillows, pretending they had more time. Melody, ever the librarian, planned her days despite her weakening body—reading The Hobbit to Liam, her voice a rasp as she did Bilbo’s grumbly tone, making him smile through his worry—I’m making you proud, right, Mom? She helped Sophie with lit essays via video calls, her mind sharp even as her frame grew frail, her suggestions on Austen’s irony a tether to who she’d been—I’m still here, Soph. By July, she was bedbound, her body a shadow under the quilt she’d made for Sophie’s 10th birthday, its patches faded but warm, dahlia patterns a reminder of the garden she could no longer tend. Connor sat beside her, reading The Velveteen Rabbit, her favorite, his voice cracking on the lines about being real—I’m not real, not with you, not yet. Amanda remained locked in the safe, the sapphire dress and lilac scarf untouched since the night in 2025—I can’t let her out, not when Melody needs me. Melody caught him staring at the safe one night, her hazel eyes soft, knowing. “You’re carrying something, Connor,” she whispered, her voice a rasp. “You always have. I wish… I wish you’d let it out.” He squeezed her hand, his throat tight—I can’t, not now, not when you’re slipping away.

On a humid July night, the air thick with the scent of rain and blooming dahlias outside their cul-de-sac home, Melody called them in, her voice a whisper, her hands cold in theirs. The oxygen machine hummed softly, its rhythm a fading heartbeat. “I love you,” she said, her hazel eyes moving from Connor to Sophie to Liam, a librarian’s love in every glance. “Be whole, for each other. Don’t… don’t hide what makes you, you.” Connor’s chest ached, Amanda stirring—I’m hiding, and she knows. Sophie gripped her mother’s hand, her voice a broken whisper—“I love you, Mom, I’ll keep your stories alive.” Liam, his soccer jersey crumpled, squeezed her other hand, his voice cracking—“I’ll make you proud, Mom, I promise.” Melody’s breath slowed, then stopped, the oxygen machine falling silent, the house a hollow shell. Connor held her hand long after, his tears falling onto the quilt—I love you, I’ll love you forever. I’m so sorry, Melody, for what I couldn’t share.

The funeral came in early August at Blossom Hill Cemetery, the sky a heavy gray, the air thick with rain and the scent of cut grass. Melody’s dahlias adorned her casket, their petals vibrant against the polished wood. Sophie spoke, her voice trembling, reading a poem she’d written—“You were our story, Mom, our pages, our spine”—her lit-student heart bared, her grief fierce as she vowed to plant dahlias in her mother’s honor. Liam stood silent, his soccer jersey under his jacket, his hands clenched, his blond hair falling into his eyes—I can’t say goodbye, not yet. Connor delivered the eulogy, his drawl raw, his eyes on the dahlias. “Melody was our anchor,” he said, his voice breaking. “She loved us, fought for us, even when I… even when I couldn’t give her all of me.” He didn’t mention Amanda, but her weight was there, in the safe back home, in the lilac scarf he’d clutched that morning—I failed you, Melody, but I’ll try to be whole.

The months that followed were a fog of grief. Connor moved through the rooms of their house like a ghost, the safe a constant reminder of his duality—I’m Connor, but Amanda’s here, and I don’t know how to be both. Sophie planted dahlias in the garden before returning to Dartmouth in September, her grief fierce as she dug into the soil—I’ll keep this alive for you, Mom. Her calls were weekly, her voice analytical but heavy—“I miss her, Dad, but I’m okay.” Liam, still in Concord for his senior year, threw himself into soccer, his practices a refuge from the silence—no more library trips with Mom, no more her cheering “Nice goal, Liam!” from the sidelines. But her absence carved a hollow space in him. One crisp October evening in 2032, he kicked a soccer ball against the garage until his foot bled, angry at her for leaving, angry at himself for not saying more—I should’ve told her I loved her more, should’ve been there. At 16, he didn’t know how to name his grief, but it settled into a quiet resolve—I’ll keep us together, for Mom, for Dad. He took on odd jobs—mowing lawns, shoveling snow—wanting to make her proud, even if she wasn’t there. He’d find Connor in the garden, staring at the wilted dahlias, and sit beside him, silent, his broad frame a steady presence—I’m here, Dad. By spring 2033, Liam had channeled his anger into responsibility, his practical nature emerging as he prepared for graduation—I’ll be strong, for her.

Liam graduated in June 2033, the ceremony at Concord High School a bittersweet milestone. The bleachers were filled with families, but Melody’s absence was a gaping wound—her seat empty, her cheer silent. Liam walked across the stage, his diploma in hand, his blond hair neat for once, his broad frame steady, but his eyes searched the crowd for a face he’d never see again—I did it, Mom, I made you proud. Sophie, 20, sat beside Connor, her hand squeezing his, her voice soft—“She’d be so happy, Dad.” Connor nodded, his throat tight, his brown eyes misty—I wish you were here, Melody. After the ceremony, Connor knew he couldn’t stay—the house was Melody, her laughter, her books, her dahlias. He sold it later that summer, packing the safe last, Amanda’s sapphire dress a whisper of what could be—I’ll let you out, soon. In late summer 2033, he moved to Portland, Maine, to a clapboard house on Munjoy Hill, the harbor’s rhythm a new tide, a place to heal, to write, to become whole. Sophie returned to Dartmouth for her junior year, while Liam moved to Boston to start an electrician apprenticeship, his practical nature guiding him—I’ll build something, for Mom, for us.

In Portland, Connor settled into a solitary rhythm—part-time consulting gigs, weekly calls with Sophie and Liam, and poetry in stolen moments. Sophie shared stories of her lit seminars, her voice brighter—“I’m finding my way, Dad.” Liam talked about his apprenticeship, his tone steady—“I fixed a circuit today, Dad, felt good.” But Connor felt the weight of Melody’s words—“Be whole, don’t hide”—and the echo of The Velvet Anchor’s quiet release. He’d self-published it under the pseudonym A. Tide in late 2032, after Melody’s death, a confession of Amanda’s voice on every page, shared only with a small online queer literature forum. By summer 2033, it had sold fifty copies, a few reviews calling it “raw, a lifeline,” a spark of validation that stirred him—I’m not alone.

That summer, Connor joined a poetry group at the Portland Public Library, a small circle of writers who met in a cozy room overlooking the harbor, the scent of old books and sea air mingling in the air. At first, he attended as Connor, his frame hunched in a folding chair, his flannel shirt a shield, his nerdy drawl shaky as he read poems about the Merrimack River, the Concord house, the dahlias that no longer bloomed. The group was a mix of voices—Sarah, a trans poet with a sharp laugh; Mark, a nonbinary writer with a gentle smile; Lila, a queer elder who’d lived through the AIDS crisis; and Tom, a straight, cisgender carpenter in his 40s, his flannel sleeves rolled up, his wife a librarian who’d encouraged him to write poetry about his woodworking. They listened, their nods a quiet encouragement. “There’s more to you,” Sarah said after his first reading, her eyes kind but piercing. “Bring it next time.” Tom nodded, his voice gruff but warm—“Yeah, I felt the river, but I wanna hear what’s beneath it.” Connor’s throat tightened—I want to, but I’m scared.

Over the fall of 2033, he returned weekly, each session a small step. He started with subtle hints of Amanda—reading a poem about the boardwalk at 10, his voice softening into her dreamer lilt, the group leaning in, sensing the shift. By November, he brought the lilac scarf, a relic of Amanda’s quiet existence since his childhood in Beaufort, draping it over his shoulders as he introduced himself: “I’m… I’m Amanda, sometimes.” His voice trembled, but he read a poem about the quarry at 42, the ledge where he’d nearly broken, the words raw—“I stood, barefoot, / the stone cold, / a flame flickering where I thought I’d drown.” The room was silent, then Sarah clapped, her laugh sharp but warm—“That’s you, Amanda. That’s the truth.” Mark smiled, their voice soft—“You’re safe here.” Lila, her eyes misty, shared a story of her own—coming out in the ‘80s, losing friends to AIDS, finding poetry as a lifeline. “You’re carrying a legacy, Amanda,” she said, her hand on his. Tom, his brow furrowed, spoke up, his tone earnest—“I don’t know much about what you’re carrying, but that poem… it made me feel the weight. You’re brave, Amanda.” Connor’s eyes stung—I’m seen, I’m whole.

By December 2033, Connor felt a growing trust in the group, their acceptance a steady tide lifting him. One snowy evening, after reading a poem about Melody’s dahlias—“She planted light, / and I hid in shadow, / but her blooms call me still”—he hesitated, then spoke, his voice low. “I… I wrote a book, under a pseudonym, A. Tide. It’s called The Velvet Anchor. It’s… it’s Amanda’s story, my story. I’ve never shared it with anyone I know, not like this.” The group leaned in, their curiosity palpable. Sarah grinned—“Well, don’t just sit there, bring it next time!” Tom nodded—“I wanna read it. Sounds like it’s got heart.”

The next week, Connor brought copies of The Velvet Anchor, its deep blue cover embossed with a silver anchor, and handed them out, his hands trembling—I’m showing them all of me. Over the next month, the group read it, their feedback a lifeline. Sarah, her eyes bright, spoke first—“Amanda, this is… it’s raw, it’s real. The alley at 16, the way you describe the shame, the hope—I felt it. You’re a poet, through and through.” Mark, their voice soft, added—“The quarry chapter broke me. I saw myself in your struggle, the way Amanda saved you. It’s a gift, this book.” Lila, her hands clasped, said, “It’s a legacy, like I said. You’re writing for all of us who hid, who survived. I wish I’d had this in the ‘80s.” Tom, his copy dog-eared, spoke last, his voice steady—“I’ll be honest, I didn’t know what to expect. But this… it’s about love, isn’t it? You and your wife, your kids, Amanda—it’s all love. My wife cried reading it. Said it reminded her of why she became a librarian, to hold stories like yours.” Connor’s throat tightened, tears pricking his eyes—they see me, all of me. The book had sold a hundred copies online by then, a trans reader commenting, “Your words saved me,” but hearing it from this group, face-to-face, was a flame catching—I can do this, I can be both.

By spring 2034, Connor attended as Amanda more often, his confidence growing. He wore the pearl choker one evening, its weight a quiet anchor, and later the sapphire dress, its fabric catching the library’s dim light, his voice steady as Amanda’s dreamer lilt took over—I’m here, I’m real. The group became his harbor—Sarah’s sharp humor cutting through his nerves, Mark’s gentle questions pushing him deeper, Lila’s stories grounding him in a shared history, Tom’s earnest support a reminder that acceptance could come from unexpected places. He’d read at a small library event that spring, Amanda fully present, the applause a steady wave—I’m ready for more.

In early 2035, the Queer Lit Fest invitation arrived in Connor’s inbox—a chance to read on a bluff in Seattle, a city he’d never seen but felt called to, a tide pulling west. He’d hesitated, fear creeping in—what if they don’t accept me?—but Sarah’s words echoed: “Bring more of you.” The group cheered when he shared the news, Lila squeezing his hand—“You’re ready, Amanda.” Tom clapped him on the shoulder—“Go show ‘em what you showed us.” Amanda had grown into a bigger part of his life—not full-time, because Connor was just as real, but present in stolen weekends, in the poetry he wrote, in the open mics where he’d begun to share her voice. He booked the ticket, packed the sapphire dress, the lilac scarf, the blonde wig, and The Velvet Anchor, its pages tabbed with new poems—Tidal Sparks, a collection about longing for a connection he’d never found, a soulmate who’d see both Connor and Amanda without hesitation. Amanda was no longer a secret, not to him—I’m ready, Melody, to be whole.

On the plane to Seattle in October 2035, Connor sat by the window, the sky a deep indigo beyond the glass, the hum of the engines a steady pulse. At 55, his brown eyes traced the clouds, his frame nestled into the seat, a flannel shirt and jeans grounding him, the lilac scarf tucked into his carry-on—a piece of Amanda, always with him. He held The Velvet Anchor, its deep blue cover worn from readings, and flipped to the epilogue—“The Tides Thread,” the poem he’d given Melody a decade ago. “I’ll seek my light, to shine for you, someday,” he’d written, and now, heading to a bluff where he’d stand as Amanda, he felt he was keeping that promise. The plane descended, the Puget Sound shimmering below, a new tide beginning—for Melody, for Amanda, for himself—a stage where he’d bare his hidden self, a crowd by the water waiting to see him, whole.

Chapter 1: Tides by the Bluff, October 2035, Seattle, Washington

It was a crisp early October evening in 2035, and Connor stood on a bluff overlooking the Puget Sound in Seattle, attending the Queer Lit Fest, a weekend event in a waterfront park. At 55, his life had shifted in ways he hadn’t foreseen. Melody had passed away three years prior, a sudden illness that left him hollow but grateful for the years they’d shared—raising Sophie and Liam, now 22 and 19, both out of high school and forging their own paths. Sophie was at Dartmouth, studying literature, her debate medals still on her wall; Liam was at a trade school in Boston, apprenticing as an electrician, his soccer cleats swapped for work boots. Connor remained deeply connected to them, calling weekly, visiting for holidays, but they were building their own lives, and he had been left to navigate his.

He had sold the Concord house after Melody’s passing, the cedar-shingled walls too full of her laughter to bear, and moved to a smaller place in Portland, Maine—a coastal town where the salt air reminded him of Beaufort. The bank payout—$8.3 million, stock cashed out years ago—had given him financial freedom, but he had kept working part-time as a financial consultant, grounding himself in spreadsheets and strategy. Amanda, though, had grown into a bigger part of his life, just as he had admitted. She wasn’t full-time—she never would be, because Connor was just as real—but she was there in stolen weekends, in the sapphire dress he wore to queer open mics, in the poetry he had been writing under a pseudonym. The Velvet Anchor, his first novel, had been published quietly the previous year, a cathartic release of his journey, and it had earned him a small following in literary circles.

He was in Seattle for the festival, a rare trip to share Amanda with the world. The park buzzed with booths of indie presses, poets reciting under string lights, the air thick with cedar, salt, and the tang of food truck fryers—fish tacos, maple-drizzled fry bread, a hint of cardamom from a chai cart. He was dressed as Amanda that night, the sapphire dress catching the sunset’s glow, its velvet hem brushing his calves, the pearl choker a familiar weight at his throat, the blonde wig pinned tight, its strands tickling his neck in the breeze. Connor was still there, in the way he adjusted his posture, the analytical eye he cast over the crowd, but Amanda’s presence felt like a release, a part of him that was finally breathing freely after years of hiding. In his hands was a moleskin notebook, its pages filled with new poems—Tidal Sparks, a collection about longing for a connection he had never found, a soulmate who would see both Connor and Amanda without hesitation, as he had imagined.

The bluff’s stage was a wooden platform draped in fairy lights, the Sound’s dark expanse glinting beyond, ferries cutting slow paths under a sky streaked with amber and violet. A crowd of fifty gathered—writers in flannel, artists with dyed hair, a few teens clutching zines, their pronouns pinned to their jackets. The host, a nonbinary poet named Riley, adjusted the mic, their voice warm over the crackle of speakers: “Next up, Amanda, reading from Tidal Sparks.” Connor’s heels clicked on the planks, the dress rustling, his heart pounding—I’m here, I’m seen—but the fear was softer now, tempered by years of small steps, like wearing the scarf in the park back in Concord. He opened his notebook, his voice steady, Southern drawl curling around the words, a mix of Connor’s nerdy cadence and Amanda’s softer lilt:

“The tide pulls sparks from shadow, / a shimmer I can’t hold, / but I wade, barefoot, / searching for the flame that knows my name.”

The crowd listened, a few heads nodding, a teen in a beanie whispering to their friend, “That’s the Velvet Anchor writer.” Connor’s eyes scanned the faces, landing on a woman at the edge of the crowd, her silhouette sharp against the sunset. She was mid-40s, 5’5”, with auburn hair swept into a loose bun, a navy coat draped over her shoulders, her hands tucked into the pockets of olive-green trousers. Her hazel eyes—bright, searching—met his, and the air shifted, a spark catching in his chest—she sees me, both of me. Her gaze held no judgment, only a quiet curiosity, a warmth he hadn’t felt since he last imagined a soulmate who’d understand.

He finished his poem, the crowd’s applause a soft wave, and stepped off the stage, his heels sinking into the grass. The woman approached, her stride easy, a canvas tote slung over her shoulder—Emerald City Books, its logo faded, a pen tucked into her bun. “That was beautiful,” she said, her voice low, with a faint Pacific Northwest lilt. “I’m Elise. I read The Velvet Anchor. It felt like you were writing my own shadows.” Her smile was small, hesitant, but her eyes were steady, a mirror to his own longing—I’ve been searching too.

Connor’s throat tightened, his fingers brushing the notebook’s spine—she knows me, through my words. “I’m Amanda,” he said, his drawl trembling, then added, softer, “and Connor, sometimes. It’s… complicated.” His mind raced, a tangle of hope and fear—she’s real, but what if I’m too much?—echoing the hesitation he had carried. Elise stepped closer, the salt breeze stirring her hair, her tote brushing his arm. “I’ve got shadows too,” she said, her voice raw. “I’m a bookseller—Emerald City, Capitol Hill. Widowed two years ago. Always hid the messy parts of me—poetry, late-night rants, the way I love too hard. Your book… it made me want to stop hiding.” Her eyes flickered to his dress, his choker, then back to his face—I see you, all of you. His chest ached, the spark flaring brighter—she’s like me, she’s been lost too.

They walked to a bench overlooking the Sound, the festival’s hum fading behind them, the water’s ripple a steady heartbeat. Elise pulled a thermos from her tote—chai, steaming, spiced with cardamom—and poured them each a cup, the warmth seeping through the paper. “Tell me about the tide,” she said, her voice a quiet invitation, her hazel eyes steady, holding his gaze like a tether. Connor sipped, the chai burning his tongue, and let the words spill, raw and unfiltered, as he never could with Melody. “It’s me—Connor and Amanda,” he said, his drawl cracking. “I’ve been wading for years—hiding Amanda, hating myself for loving her, for needing her. Connor’s the dad, the consultant, the one who held my family together. But Amanda… she’s the poet, the dreamer, the part I buried ‘til I couldn’t anymore. I thought I’d find someone who’d see us both. Never did, ‘til maybe now.” His voice trembled, the weight of his dual identity spilling out—I’m both, always both.

Elise listened, her hand resting near his on the bench, not touching, but close enough to feel the warmth. “I see you,” she said, soft, her voice a promise. “Connor, Amanda—all of it. I’ve been wading too—hiding my words, my heart. My husband… he didn’t get it. But you—I think I get you.” Her fingers brushed his, a tentative spark, and Connor didn’t pull away, his heart pounding—she’s real, she’s here. The festival lights twinkled behind them, the Sound’s tide pulling in the distance, and he felt a tide of his own shifting, a spark catching flame, a soulmate who saw both Connor and Amanda—fully, finally.

Chapter 2: Echoes Across the Tide

The festival spilled into a night market along the waterfront, booths draped in burlap and string lights, the air thick with grilled salmon skewers, lavender lemonade, and the smoky tang of cedar incense. Connor and Elise wandered, their steps slow, the chai cups empty but still clutched in their hands, a tether to the bench’s intimacy. Elise bought a zine from a teen poet—Moonlit Pronouns, its cover hand-stitched—and Connor picked up a vial of rosewater from a herbalist, its scent a reminder of the safe he had once kept in Concord, now long emptied. They shared a maple fry bread, tearing it with their fingers, the sweetness sticky on their lips, a quiet laugh escaping as Elise swiped a crumb from his cheek—her touch gentle, unguarded, a contrast to the walls he had always had.

They stopped at a booth of vintage records, the vendor—a grizzled man in a knit cap—spinning Billie Holiday’s Stormy Weather on a portable turntable, her voice a velvet ache over the market’s hum. Elise pulled out a record—Joni Mitchell’s Blue, its sleeve worn—and held it up, her eyes bright. “This was my tide,” she said, her voice low. “Listened to it after my husband died, every night, trying to find myself again. What’s yours?” Connor hesitated, then pointed to his dress, his choker. “This,” he said, raw. “Amanda’s my tide—but Connor’s my anchor. I’ll never leave him behind, just like I’ll never leave my kids, even now that they’re grown. I… I lost my wife three years ago. Had to keep going, for them, for me.” His voice broke, the weight of his journey spilling out—I’m here, I’m real—and Elise nodded, her hand finding his, squeezing gently. “You’re still here,” she said, her voice steady, a soulmate’s promise—I see you, and I’m not running.

They sat on a driftwood log, the record tucked into Elise’s tote, the Sound lapping at the shore below, its rhythm a mirror to their breathing. Elise shared more—her bookstore, her poetry, the way she had always loved too hard, too fast, a trait that had scared her husband but felt safe with Connor. He shared his past—the boardwalk at 10, the alley at 16, the quarry at 42—his voice trembling but steady, the shame fading as Elise listened, her hazel eyes never wavering. “I’ve always wanted someone who’d see me like this,” he whispered, his drawl soft, “Connor and Amanda, the whole tide.” Elise smiled, her hand still in his, the spark now a steady flame. “I see the whole tide,” she said, her voice a vow, “and I’m here to wade with you.”

The market closed, the lights dimming, the crowd thinning, but they stayed, the log their anchor, the Sound their witness. Connor felt a tide shift within him, a spark that had found its flame, a soulmate who saw both Connor and Amanda—fully, finally—and he knew this was just the beginning, a future he was ready to explore without leaving himself behind.

Chapter 3: Tides of the Nook

The Seattle dawn broke over the Puget Sound, a pale gold light spilling across the water, its surface rippling like molten glass under a sky streaked with rose and lavender. Connor stood on the balcony of his Airbnb, a modest loft in Capitol Hill he’d rented for the Queer Lit Fest weekend, the city waking slowly below—streetcars humming, a barista hauling espresso beans into a corner café, the faint clang of a ferry horn echoing in the distance. He wore a flannel shirt and jeans, the sapphire dress and pearl choker folded carefully on the loft’s dresser, the blonde wig resting on a stand, its strands glinting in the morning light. Amanda was still there, a quiet pulse in his chest, but Connor felt more present now, grounding himself in the familiar—his 5’7” frame, wiry from years of stress-fueled jogs and cycling rides, his brown eyes scanning the horizon, his hands gripping a chipped mug of black coffee, its bitter warmth steadying him.

Last night at the festival had shifted something in him. Elise—her hazel eyes, her steady voice, the way she’d said, “I see the whole tide”—had cracked open a door he’d kept locked since Melody’s passing three years ago. At 55, with Sophie and Liam grown, Connor had thought he’d settled into a solitary rhythm: consulting gigs in Portland, Maine, poetry as Amanda in stolen moments, weekly calls with his kids to hear about Sophie’s lit seminars and Liam’s electrician apprenticeship. But Elise had seen him—both Connor and Amanda—without hesitation, her touch on the driftwood log a spark that still burned in his memory. He’d given her his number before they parted at the night market, her smile soft as she’d said, “I’ll call you tomorrow, if that’s okay.” His heart had stuttered—hope, fear, a tide he couldn’t name.

His phone buzzed on the balcony railing, a text from Elise: Morning—coffee at Emerald City Books? I’d love to show you my shop. 10 am? Connor’s fingers hovered over the screen, his chest tight—she wants to see me again, but what if I can’t be enough?—echoing the hesitation he’d carried for years. He typed back, I’d like that. See you then, and exhaled, the tide shifting again.

Emerald City Books sat on a tree-lined street in Capitol Hill, its storefront a weathered green with gold lettering, a rainbow flag fluttering above the door, its windows stacked with books—Woolf, Baldwin, a display of trans poetry anthologies for the festival. Inside, the air was warm with the scent of paper, ink, and roasted coffee, a small café counter tucked in the back where a barista steamed oat milk, the hiss mingling with the soft strum of a folk playlist—Joni Mitchell’s “A Case of You,” her voice a haunting thread. Shelves stretched to the ceiling, their wood creaking under the weight of novels, zines, and dog-eared classics, a ladder propped against a section labeled Queer Voices. A few patrons browsed—a student in a beanie, a couple sharing a poetry chapbook, their whispers fading into the shop’s hum.

Elise stood behind the counter, her auburn hair loose now, framing her face in soft waves, her navy sweater rolled at the cuffs, her olive-green trousers swapped for jeans. She looked up as Connor entered, her hazel eyes brightening, a smile tugging at her lips—she sees me, even like this. “You made it,” she said, her voice warm, stepping around the counter with two mugs of coffee—black for him, a latte for her, its foam dusted with cinnamon. “Thought you might like the place. It’s… my tide, I guess.” She gestured to the shop, her movements easy, a bookseller’s pride in the tilt of her chin.

Connor took the mug, his fingers brushing hers, the spark from last night flaring again. “It’s beautiful,” he said, his drawl soft, nerdy, a mix of Connor’s analytical cadence and Amanda’s dreamer lilt. “Reminds me of the library where my wife worked—Melody. She’d have loved this.” His voice caught, the ache of her loss still sharp, but softer now, a wound he’d learned to carry. Elise nodded, her gaze steady—not pity, but understanding. “I’m sorry you lost her,” she said, leading him to a corner nook with two armchairs, their cushions worn from years of readers. “My husband, Ben, died two years ago—heart attack, out of nowhere. This shop… it’s what kept me going.” She sat, crossing her legs, her mug cradled in her hands, her eyes distant but warm—I’ve been lost too.

They sipped in silence for a moment, the coffee grounding them, Joni Mitchell’s voice weaving through the air—“I could drink a case of you, darling, and I would still be on my feet.” Connor set his mug on a side table, his hands fidgeting, the weight of last night pressing in—I told her about Amanda, but what if she doesn’t get it today? “I meant what I said last night,” he began, his voice low, raw. “About being Connor and Amanda. I… I don’t ever stop being Connor. He’s the dad, the one who raised my kids, the one who kept things together when Melody got sick. But Amanda—she’s the part of me that feels… alive, I guess. The poet, the dreamer. I need them both, but I’ve never known how to let someone see that.” His throat tightened, the fear spilling out—what if she runs now?

Elise leaned forward, her hand resting on the arm of his chair, close but not touching, her hazel eyes steady. “I see you, Connor,” she said, her voice a quiet vow. “And Amanda—I saw her last night, in that dress, in your words. I don’t need you to be one or the other. I… I want to know you, all of you.” Her fingers brushed his sleeve, a tentative warmth, and Connor’s breath hitched—she means it, she’s not running. He nodded, his eyes stinging, the tide in his chest swelling—she’s the flame I’ve been searching for.

She stood, pulling a book from a nearby shelf—a worn copy of The Hobbit, its spine cracked, the same edition he’d devoured as a kid in Beaufort. “This was Ben’s,” she said, her voice soft. “He’d read it to me when I couldn’t sleep, doing Bilbo’s voice all grumbly. It’s… it’s how I hold onto him.” She handed it to him, her fingers lingering on the cover, a shared vulnerability—I’m showing you my tide too.

Elise watched Connor trace the spine of The Hobbit, his hands trembling, and felt a pang in her chest—Ben’s hands had held that book, steady and sure, but Connor’s held a different kind of strength, a tide she recognized. After Ben’s sudden heart attack in 2033, she’d spent countless nights in the bookstore’s backroom, the shelves her only company, scribbling poems about loss—verses of empty chairs, of coffee gone cold, of a laugh she’d never hear again. She’d thought love was done with her, her heart too bruised to open again, until Amanda’s voice on that bluff—raw, alive, a sapphire dress catching the sunset—had stirred something. She’d felt a spark, unexpected, a pull she couldn’t name. Seeing Connor now, the next morning, his drawl soft, his brown eyes carrying both Amanda’s dreamer spark and a father’s grief, she understood: this was a tide she could wade, a flame worth chasing. Ben had been her anchor, steady and sure, a cisgender man who’d loved her in a simpler way, but Connor was different—his duality, his vulnerability, mirrored her own brokenness. She’d rebuilt herself through this shop, through poetry, through nights of Joni Mitchell and chai, and now, with Connor, she felt ready to love again, to embrace the whole tide—Connor and Amanda, a soulmate who understood loss, who was whole in a way she’d never known she needed. Her heart raced—I’m ready, I think, to love again.

Connor took the book, his hands trembling, memories of Sophie and Liam flashing—reading The Hobbit on their couch in Concord, doing Gollum’s hiss to make Liam giggle. “I used to read this to my kids,” he said, his drawl cracking. “Sophie loved the riddles, Liam wanted the dragons. It… it kept us together, after Melody.” His voice broke, the ache of his family mingling with the spark of Elise—she gets it, she knows loss too.

They spent the morning in the nook, sharing stories—Connor’s boardwalk at 10, his quarry at 42, the moments Amanda had saved him; Elise’s late-night rants after Ben’s death, her poetry scribbled in the shop’s backroom, the way she’d rebuilt herself through books. The shop’s hum wrapped around them—patrons browsing, the barista’s steamer hissing, Joni Mitchell’s voice fading into a new song, “Both Sides Now.” Elise’s hand found his on the armchair, her touch steady, a soulmate’s promise—I’m here. Connor squeezed back, his heart pounding, the tide shifting—a flame catching, a future unfolding, one where he didn’t have to choose between Connor and Amanda, one where he could be seen, fully, finally.

Chapter 4: The Tide’s New Rhythm

A week had passed since the Queer Lit Fest, and Connor had remained in Seattle. He found himself on a ferry crossing the Puget Sound, the Seattle skyline shrinking behind him as the boat churned toward Bainbridge Island. The late October air was sharp with salt and diesel, the deck vibrating under his boots, seagulls wheeling overhead, their cries cutting through the hum of the engine. He wore a gray wool coat over a flannel shirt, jeans scuffed at the knees, his frame leaning against the railing, brown eyes tracing the horizon where the Olympic Mountains loomed, their peaks dusted with early snow. Amanda wasn’t physically present—no sapphire dress, no pearl choker—but her presence thrummed in his chest, a quiet pulse that had grown steadier since meeting Elise. In his messenger bag, tucked beside his moleskin notebook of Tidal Sparks poems, was a silk scarf—lilac, the same one he’d slipped into at 10 in Beaufort, a relic of Amanda he’d brought along, a talisman for the day.

Elise had invited him to spend the day on the island, a quiet escape from the city’s hum, a chance to “see the Sound from the other side,” as she’d put it over the phone, her voice warm with a Pacific Northwest lilt that still made his heart stutter. They’d spent the week texting—small, tentative messages at first, like her sharing a photo of a new poetry anthology at Emerald City Books, him replying with a line from The Hobbit that Liam had quoted during their last call. But the messages had grown longer, more open—Connor sharing a memory of Sophie’s first debate win, Elise describing a late-night rant she’d scribbled after a tough day at the shop. Each exchange felt like a thread, weaving a connection that saw both Connor and Amanda, a soulmate’s understanding he’d only ever imagined.

The ferry docked with a low groan, and Connor spotted Elise waiting on the pier, her auburn hair loose, catching the sunlight, a navy scarf wrapped around her neck, her olive-green trousers swapped for a long skirt that swayed in the breeze. She waved, her hazel eyes bright, and he felt Amanda stir—let me out, let her see me—a pull he hadn’t felt this strongly in years. “You look like you belong on the water,” Elise said as he stepped off, her smile teasing but warm, her tote bag slung over her shoulder, a thermos peeking out. “Thought we’d hike to a cove I know—there’s a spot with a view, perfect for talking.” Connor nodded, his throat tight—she wants to know me, all of me—and followed her along a trail that wound through cedar groves, the air thick with moss and pine, the Sound’s rhythmic lap echoing below.

They reached the cove after a half-hour hike, a crescent of pebbled shore framed by driftwood logs, the water a deep slate gray, reflecting the mountains like a mirror. Elise spread a blanket on the pebbles, unpacking her thermos—chai again, its cardamom scent mingling with the salt air—and a small picnic of smoked salmon, crackers, and blackberries she’d picked up at a Bainbridge market. They sat, the pebbles shifting under them, the Sound’s tide a steady heartbeat, and Connor felt Amanda press closer—I’m here, I want to be here. He pulled the lilac scarf from his bag, his fingers trembling, and draped it over his shoulders, the silk cool against his skin, a quiet declaration—I’m both, always both. Elise’s eyes softened, her hand brushing his arm. “Amanda’s here today,” she said, not a question but a recognition, her voice steady—I see you.

Connor nodded, his drawl trembling, a mix of his nerdy cadence and Amanda’s softer lilt. “She’s… she’s more here than she’s ever been,” he said, raw. “Meeting you—it’s like she knows it’s safe to come out, more than she ever did before. I used to hide her, lock her in a safe in my garage back in Concord, ‘cause I thought I had to be just Connor for Melody, for the kids. But now… I want her to be part of this, part of us.” His voice cracked, the weight of Amanda’s evolution spilling out—she’s growing, because of Elise. Elise squeezed his arm, her touch grounding, her hazel eyes steady. “I want her here,” she said, soft, a soulmate’s promise. “I want you—Connor, Amanda, all of it. You don’t have to hide anymore.” Her words were a tide, pulling Amanda closer to the surface, a part of him that felt bolder, more alive, than ever before.

The conversation turned to Melody, a topic Connor had skirted but knew he needed to face. He picked at a blackberry, its tartness sharp on his tongue, and exhaled, the Sound’s rhythm steadying him. “I’ve been thinking about Melody a lot lately,” he said, his voice low, raw. “She was… she was my best friend, in a way. We built a life—Sophie, Liam, the house in Concord, all of it. But Amanda… she was always there, even when I tried to bury her. I think Melody knew, deep down, but we never talked about it. I’d lock the safe, hide the dress, but there were nights I’d come home late, smelling like rosewater—like the night I stayed out writing poetry after Sophie’s first debate win, when Melody had stayed up organizing the celebration party, her hands covered in glitter from the banner she’d made. She looked at me—hurt, but quiet—and I’d just shut down, too ashamed to explain.” His throat tightened, the ache of his marriage spilling out—I loved her, but I couldn’t give her all of me.

Elise listened, her hand resting on his, her thermos forgotten on the blanket. “That sounds heavy,” she said, her voice gentle but unflinching. “You were carrying two people, Connor—trying to be the husband, the dad, but also Amanda, who needed to breathe. I think… I think Melody felt that distance, even if she didn’t know why. But she loved you anyway—glitter on her hands, staying up for Sophie, she was fighting for you, even when you couldn’t fight for yourself.” Her eyes held his, a quiet understanding—I see the whole tide. Connor nodded, his eyes stinging, the lilac scarf a soft weight on his shoulders. “She did,” he whispered. “She’d fight for us—fundraisers, late nights with the kids’ projects, even when I was too buried in work, in Amanda, to see it. Amanda… she made me resent Melody sometimes, ‘cause I thought Melody had it easy, but really, I was resenting myself for not being honest. I see that now—writing The Velvet Anchor, letting Amanda out, it’s helped me forgive myself for what I couldn’t give her.” His voice softened, the truth he’d uncovered echoing here—she wasn’t my cage, I was.

Elise squeezed his hand, her touch steady, her voice soft. “You’re being honest now,” she said. “With me, with yourself. Amanda’s not a cage anymore—she’s part of you, and she’s beautiful. I think Melody would be glad you’re letting her breathe, even if it’s after her time.” Her words were a balm, soothing the ache of his past, and Connor felt Amanda shift—not a shadow, but a light, a part of him that Elise embraced fully. He pulled the scarf tighter, Amanda’s presence stronger, more confident—I’m here, and I’m not hiding. “I want to keep her here,” he said, his drawl steady now, a mix of Connor’s grit and Amanda’s dreamer lilt. “With you, I feel like I can—write as her, be her, without losing Connor. I… I want to see where this goes, Elise.” His heart pounded, the tide swelling—a flame catching, a future unfolding.

Elise smiled, her hazel eyes glinting with the Sound’s reflection, her hand still in his. “I want that too,” she said, her voice a vow. “Let’s wade together—Connor, Amanda, all of you.” She leaned closer, her forehead brushing his, the chai’s cardamom scent mingling with the salt air, the cove’s quiet wrapping around them. Then, softly, she tilted her head, her lips finding his—a kiss, tentative at first, then deepening, her hand cupping his cheek, the lilac scarf brushing her fingers. Connor’s breath caught, his heart a tidal wave, Amanda and Connor merging in the moment—seen, loved, whole. The kiss was a spark turned flame, the beginning of their romantic relationship, a promise of a future where he could be both, fully, with her. They pulled back, foreheads resting together, the Sound’s tide rolling in, a rhythm that matched their shared heartbeat, a new chapter unfolding in the cove’s tender embrace.

Chapter 5: The Tide Reaches Home

Connor stepped off the plane in Portland, Maine, the mid October chill biting through his gray wool coat as he crossed the tarmac, the salt air of Casco Bay sharp in his lungs. His frame moved with a quiet purpose, brown eyes scanning the horizon where the city’s skyline met the Atlantic, a lighthouse blinking faintly in the dusk. The week in Seattle—meeting Elise, the kiss in the Bainbridge cove, Amanda’s evolution into a bolder part of him—had left him changed, a spark turned flame in his chest. But now, back in his small clapboard house on Munjoy Hill, he felt the weight of distance. Elise was 2,500 miles away in Seattle, their new relationship a long-distance thread woven through daily texts and late-night calls—her sharing a photo of a new book at Emerald City Books, him sending a line from a poem he’d written as Amanda, their voices a lifeline across the miles.

The house was a modest two-bedroom, its shingles weathered by sea winds, a widow’s walk on the roof where Connor sometimes sat with a coffee, watching the lobster boats bob in the harbor. Inside, the walls were lined with bookshelves—Melody’s old library science texts, Sophie’s childhood copies of The Hobbit, Liam’s soccer trophies glinting in the lamplight. A small desk in the corner held his laptop, open to a consulting spreadsheet, grounding him as Connor, but a drawer beneath hid Amanda’s sapphire dress, pearl choker, and blonde wig, a quiet reminder of the part of him that Elise had seen fully. He unpacked his messenger bag, the lilac scarf from the cove brushing his fingers, and smiled—Amanda’s here, and she’s not hiding anymore. That night, he and Elise talked on the phone, her voice warm with a Pacific Northwest lilt, planning her visit to Portland in two weeks. “I can’t wait to see your world,” she said, and Connor’s heart stuttered—I want her to see all of me, with my kids.

Two weeks later, on a crisp late October afternoon, Elise arrived at Portland International Jetport, her auburn hair loose, a navy scarf wrapped around her neck, her tote bag slung over her shoulder. Connor met her at the gate, his flannel shirt rumpled from a morning of pacing, his brown eyes bright with nerves and hope. They embraced, her cardamom scent mingling with the airport’s sterile air, and he felt Amanda stir—I’m here, let her see us. Sophie and Liam were visiting for the weekend—Sophie on a break from Dartmouth, Liam taking a few days off from his electrician apprenticeship in Boston. Connor had told them about Elise over the phone, keeping it light—“She’s a bookseller, loves poetry, makes a mean chai”—but he hadn’t mentioned Amanda, not yet. The thought of revealing her to his kids made his throat tighten—what if they run?—but Elise’s hand in his steadied him—she sees me, they can too.

They drove to the house, the kids already there, sprawled on the living room couch with a pizza box open on the coffee table, the TV playing a muted soccer game. Sophie, 22, had Melody’s sharp eyes, her dark hair pulled into a messy bun, a Dartmouth hoodie loose on her frame, a copy of Mrs. Dalloway on the armrest. Liam, 19, was broader, his soccer days evident in his build, his blond hair buzzed short, a flannel shirt untucked over jeans, a pretzel bag crinkling in his lap. They looked up as Connor and Elise walked in, their smiles curious but warm. “Guys, this is Elise,” Connor said, his drawl soft, nerdy, a mix of his analytical cadence and Amanda’s dreamer lilt. Sophie stood, offering a handshake, her librarian-sharp gaze assessing. “Nice to meet you—heard you’ve got a bookstore. Any Woolf first editions?” Liam grinned, waving a pretzel. “Hope you like soccer—Dad’s terrible at it.” Elise laughed, her hazel eyes glinting, and Connor felt a wave of relief—they like her, they’re here.

They spent the afternoon catching up, the house filled with the hum of family—Sophie debating the merits of Woolf versus Austen, Liam recounting a wiring mishap at trade school, Elise sharing a story about a teen poet at the Queer Lit Fest who’d sold out of zines. But as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the harbor in a golden glow, Connor felt the moment coming—I have to tell them, they need to know me. He excused himself to the kitchen, Elise following, her hand brushing his arm. “You okay?” she asked, her voice low, steady. He nodded, pulling the lilac scarf from a drawer, draping it over his shoulders, Amanda’s presence a quiet pulse—I’m here, I’m ready. “I need to tell them about Amanda,” he said, his voice trembling. “I… I want them to know all of me.” Elise squeezed his hand, her eyes a soulmate’s promise—I’m here, you’re enough.

Back in the living room, Connor sat on the couch, the scarf a soft weight, Sophie and Liam across from him, their chatter fading as they sensed his shift. Elise sat beside him, her presence grounding, a thermos of chai on the coffee table, its cardamom scent mingling with the pizza’s grease. “I’ve been keeping something from you both,” Connor started, his drawl low, raw, his hands fidgeting with the scarf’s edge. “Not ‘cause I didn’t trust you, but ‘cause I was scared—of losing you, of you seeing me different. You know me as Dad, the guy who’s been there for you, but there’s a part of me I’ve kept hidden, ‘cause I thought I had to.” His throat tightened, his eyes meeting theirs—I’m here, I’m me. “Her name’s Amanda. She’s… she’s a part of me, has been since I was a kid.”

Sophie’s eyes widened, her book slipping to the couch, her expression a mix of curiosity and something sharper—confusion, maybe hurt. “Amanda… like, you dress as her? Since when?” she asked, her voice soft but edged, her librarian-sharp mind turning. “I mean… all those years in Concord, when Mom was alive, you were… doing this? Hiding this?” Her tone wasn’t accusatory, but there was a flicker of unease, a crack in her usual composure—she’s thinking of Mom, of what this means. Liam’s pretzel paused mid-air, his brow furrowing, his practical side grappling for footing. “Wait, so… you’ve got this whole other side? Like, with the scarf and stuff?” He glanced at the lilac silk, then back at Connor, his blue eyes narrowing slightly. “I don’t get it, Dad. You were always just… Dad—fixing my bike, cheering at my games. Where does this Amanda fit in with all that?” His voice held a hint of frustration, a boy trying to reconcile the father he knew with this new piece—I thought I knew you.

Connor nodded, his fingers brushing the lilac silk, Amanda’s presence stronger now—I’m here, they see me. “Since I was 10,” he said, raw. “I’d sneak my mom’s scarf, feel like I could breathe, but I buried it—guilt, shame, all of it. I kept her locked in a safe in Concord for years, ‘cause I thought I had to be just Dad for you and Mom. I was scared if I let Amanda out, I’d lose what we had—your mom, you two, the family we built.” His voice cracked, the weight of his secrecy spilling out—I hid her, but I’m here now. “In Seattle, at the Lit Fest, I was Amanda—I wore a sapphire dress, read poetry on a stage by the Sound, felt alive in a way I hadn’t in years. That’s where Elise met me, as Amanda, with my blonde wig and my drawl, reading lines about tides and sparks.” His voice softened, a small smile tugging at his lips—she saw me first, as her.

Elise nodded, her hand resting on his, her hazel eyes steady. “I saw your dad on that stage,” she said to Sophie and Liam, her voice warm. “In that dress, with the pearl choker, reading poetry that broke my heart open. I met Amanda first, but I fell for Connor too—the dad, the poet, the whole tide. I love all of him.” Sophie’s gaze flickered between them, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her mind visibly racing—Mom loved him, but did she know this? Liam shifted, his jaw tight, then nodded slowly, processing, his practical side kicking in. “Okay, but… it’s weird, Dad,” he said, his tone blunt but not unkind. “Like, I’m trying to picture you as… her, back then, and I can’t. I need to think about this.” He set his pretzels down, his gaze softening slightly—I’m not running, but I’m not there yet.

Connor reached into his bag, pulling out a slim paperback, its cover a deep blue with a silver anchor embossed—The Velvet Anchor, his novel, Amanda’s voice. He handed it to Sophie, his hands trembling. “This is for you, Soph,” he said, his voice cracking. “It’s… it’s Amanda’s story, my story. I wrote it under a pseudonym, but it’s me—every word. I want you to know her, know me, through this.” Sophie took the book, her fingers tracing the anchor, her eyes misty but guarded. “I’ll read it, Dad,” she said, her voice quiet, a mix of resolve and hesitation. “I want to understand… but I need to think about Mom, about what this means for how I remember her, us.” Liam leaned forward, his grin lopsided but tentative. “I’ll take a copy too, I guess,” he said, softer now. “I’m not saying I get it yet, but… you’re still Dad, right?” Connor’s heart swelled, a tear slipping down his cheek—they’re not running, they’re trying.

They talked late into the night, the harbor’s lights twinkling through the window, the TV long forgotten, the pizza cold on the table. Sophie held The Velvet Anchor close, her questions lingering but her curiosity piqued—“I need to know her, Dad, but I need time.” Liam asked practical things—had Amanda ever been to a soccer game?—his tone lighter but still searching. Connor shared more—the boardwalk at 10, the quarry at 42, the way Amanda had saved him when he felt most lost. Elise listened, her hand in his, her presence a steady tide—I’m here, you’re whole. For the first time, Connor felt Amanda and Connor merge in his kids’ eyes, a father they loved, a poet they were learning to know, a tide they’d wade with, together, even if the waters were murky at first.

Chapter 6: Tides of Understanding

The late October night deepened in Portland, Maine, the harbor’s lights a faint shimmer through the frost-etched windows of Connor’s clapboard house on Munjoy Hill. Inside, the living room was quiet, the pizza box cleared away, the TV off, the only sound the soft creak of the couch as Sophie curled up with The Velvet Anchor in her hands. The book’s deep blue cover, embossed with a silver anchor, caught the lamplight, her fingers tracing the title as she read, her Dartmouth hoodie bunched at her elbows, her dark hair falling loose from its bun. Liam had gone to bed, his door cracked open, a faint snore drifting out, while Elise and Connor had retreated to the kitchen, their voices a low murmur over cups of chamomile tea, the cardamom chai thermos empty on the counter.

Sophie stayed up, page after page, her sharp eyes—Melody’s eyes—devouring Amanda’s story, Connor’s story. The boardwalk at 10, the alley at 16, the quarry at 42—each chapter peeled back layers of her father, revealing a tide of guilt, shame, and quiet hope she’d never known. But as she read Chapter 5, where Amanda made Connor distant from Melody, Sophie’s chest tightened, memories of her mother flashing—Mom baking cookies for my debate team, her laugh in the Concord kitchen, but Dad so often quiet, absent even when he was there. Was this why? Did Amanda take him from her, from us? She paused, her fingers trembling, the book heavy in her lap—I thought I knew them, their marriage. By the time dawn crept over the harbor, painting the sky a soft pink, Sophie had finished, her eyes red-rimmed but brighter, a mix of understanding and lingering questions—I know you now, but what about Mom?

The next morning, Connor woke early, the house still, the scent of salt air mingling with the faint chamomile from last night. He wore a flannel shirt and jeans, his frame moving quietly to the kitchen, where he brewed coffee, the drip a steady rhythm against the harbor’s distant gulls. Sophie emerged, The Velvet Anchor in hand, her hoodie swapped for a sweater, her expression a mix of awe and vulnerability. “Morning, Dad,” she said, her voice soft, sitting at the kitchen table, the book between them like a bridge. Connor poured her a mug, his brown eyes meeting hers, nerves flickering—what did she see in Amanda, in me? “You read it?” he asked, his drawl low, a mix of his nerdy cadence and Amanda’s dreamer lilt.

Sophie nodded, her fingers brushing the cover. “I stayed up all night,” she said, her tone raw, lit-student analytical but heavy. “I… I couldn’t stop. Dad, it’s beautiful—and heavy. The quarry, the way Amanda felt like she was drowning—I felt that. I felt you.” She paused, her eyes searching his, a flicker of hurt surfacing. “But Chapter 5… you wrote about being distant with Mom because of Amanda. I keep thinking about her—Mom—how she’d wait for you at home, planning our birthdays, while you were… somewhere else, with Amanda. I feel like I’m losing her all over again, like I didn’t really know either of you.” Her voice cracked, her hands clenching the book—I loved her, I thought I knew our family.

Sophie’s gaze sharpened, her lit-student mind cutting through the haze of grief, her voice steadying into something harder, more direct. “Dad,” she said, point-blank, her eyes locking onto his, “why didn’t you tell Mom about Amanda? I mean, the quarry—you were 42, I was 7, Liam was 4. That was 2020, before you even wrote The Velvet Anchor. You stood on that ledge, and you wrote about how Amanda saved you, how you felt alive for the first time in years. That was huge. And you’d already given Mom that poem in the epilogu, ‘The Tides Thread,’ back in 2025, where you said you longed to be whole. She knew you were holding something back—she even told you to let it out before she died. So why didn’t you tell her, even after all that?” Her voice trembled at the edges, not with anger, but with a desperate need to understand—I thought they loved each other fully, but there was this secret.

Connor’s breath caught, his mug pausing halfway to his lips, the weight of Sophie’s question crashing over him like a wave—I knew this was coming, but it still hurts. He set the mug down, his hands trembling slightly, his brown eyes dropping to the table, tracing the grain of the wood as if it held the answer. “I wanted to, Soph,” he said finally, his voice raw, cracking with the guilt he’d carried for years. “I wanted to tell her so many times—after the quarry, after I wrote that poem, after I started writing The Velvet Anchor. But I… I was terrified.” He looked up, his eyes meeting hers, glistening with unshed tears—I owe her the truth, even if it’s late. “I was scared of what it would do to us—to her, to you and Liam, to the family we’d built. Back then, I didn’t even fully understand Amanda myself. She was this… this part of me I’d buried since I was a kid, and when she came out at the quarry, I felt alive, but I also felt shame. I thought if I told your mom, she’d see me as less of a husband, less of a dad. I thought she’d leave me, or worse, stay but look at me differently.”

He swallowed hard, his fingers tightening around the mug, the coffee cooling as the harbor’s gulls cried outside. “Your mom… she was my anchor, Soph. She kept us steady—her laugh, her library books, her dahlias. I loved her so much, but I didn’t know how to be both Connor and Amanda with her. I thought I had to choose, and I chose to be the Connor she needed—the dad you and Liam needed. That poem, ‘The Tides Thread’… I wrote it because I wanted her to know I was holding something back, but I couldn’t bring myself to say what it was. And after the quarry, I started writing The Velvet Anchor to figure it out, to give Amanda a voice, but I still couldn’t tell her. I was a coward, Soph. Even when she was dying, and she told me to be whole, I couldn’t do it—not then. I was too afraid of losing what we had left.” His voice broke, a tear slipping down his cheek—I failed her, but I’m trying now.

Sophie’s expression softened, the sharpness in her eyes giving way to a deeper understanding, though the ache of her mother’s memory lingered. She reached across the table, her hand hovering near his, not quite touching, her voice quieter now, but still raw. “I get it, Dad,” she said, her tone a mix of hurt and empathy. “I get why you were scared. But… I wish you’d trusted her. Mom loved us—she loved you—so much. I think… I think she would’ve stayed, even if it was hard at first. She always fought for us.” Her fingers brushed the book, her mind racing—Mom deserved to know, but I see why he couldn’t. “I just… I needed to ask. I needed to know why.” She paused, her eyes misty, a small nod—I’m still here, I’m still trying to understand.

Connor nodded, his throat tight, his hand reaching to cover hers, the warmth of her touch grounding him—I’m here, and so is she. “I wish I had too, Soph,” he whispered, his voice thick with regret. “I’ll spend the rest of my life wishing I’d been braver for her. But I’m trying now—for you, for Liam, for Elise, for me. Amanda’s not a secret anymore, and I… I hope that honors your mom, in some way.” Sophie squeezed his hand, her grip firm, like Melody’s when she’d fight for their family, a silent promise—I’m not running, I’m here.

Connor’s throat tightened, his hands wrapping around his mug, the weight of her words sinking in—she’s grieving Melody, and I’m part of that pain. “I’m so sorry, Soph,” he said, raw, his voice trembling. “I never meant to take anything from your mom, from you. Amanda… she was a part of me I couldn’t let out, not then. I thought hiding her would keep our family whole, but it made me distant—I see that now. Your mom… she loved us so much, and I loved her, but I was scared. Writing that book, meeting Elise, it’s helped me be honest, finally.” His eyes stung, a tear slipping down his cheek—I hurt them, but I can be here now. Sophie reached across the table, her hand covering his, her grip firm, like Melody’s when she’d fight for their family. “I get it, Dad,” she said, her voice softer now, the hurt easing into understanding. “I just… I needed to say it, to feel it. I’m proud of you, for letting Amanda out, for being her. She’s amazing—her poetry, the way she sees the world. You’re still my dad, and I love you.” They sat in silence, the coffee cooling, the harbor’s light warming the room, a father and daughter wading a new tide together, the ache of the past a part of their healing.

The weekend drew to a close, the sun low over Casco Bay, the air crisp with the promise of winter. Liam packed his duffel for Boston, his electrician tools clinking, a soccer jersey folded on top. Before he left, he turned to Connor, his grin lopsided, boyish. “Hey, Dad, can I take a copy of your book, too?” he asked, his tone casual but earnest. “Soph wouldn’t stop talking about it, and I wanna read Amanda’s stuff—maybe it’ll explain why you’re so bad at soccer.” Connor laughed, his heart swelling—they both want to know her—and handed Liam a copy of The Velvet Anchor from the shelf, its blue cover catching the light. “It’s yours, Liam,” he said, his voice thick. “Just… let me know what you think, okay?” Liam nodded, tucking the book into his bag, and hugged Connor tight, a silent promise—I’m here, Dad.

Sophie and Liam left together, their car disappearing down the hill, headed for the airport, their copies of The Velvet Anchor a tether to their father’s truth. Connor turned back to the house, where Elise waited, her auburn hair catching the sunlight through the window, her navy scarf draped over the couch. They had two days before she’d return to Seattle, 2,500 miles away, their long-distance relationship a challenge they were just beginning to navigate. They spent the first day walking the Eastern Promenade, a trail along the waterfront, the Atlantic a slate-gray expanse, lobster boats dotting the horizon, the air sharp with salt and pine. Elise held his hand, her tote bag swinging, a thermos of chai tucked inside, her hazel eyes steady—I’m here, we’ll figure this out.

They sat on a bench overlooking the bay, the wind tugging at their coats, and talked, their voices low, honest. “I don’t know how to do this, Elise,” Connor admitted, his drawl trembling. “You’re in Seattle, I’m here—I can’t just leave my kids, my life, but I don’t want to lose you.” He pulled the lilac scarf from his bag, draping it over his shoulders, Amanda’s presence a quiet pulse—I’m here, I need her too. Elise squeezed his hand, her touch grounding. “We’ll make it work,” she said, her voice a vow. “We’ll visit—Seattle, Portland, maybe meet halfway sometimes. I can come for holidays, you can bring Sophie and Liam to the bookstore. We’ll call, text, write—I’ll read every poem Amanda writes.” She smiled, her hazel eyes glinting with the bay’s reflection. “I love you, Connor, Amanda, all of you. Distance won’t change that.” Connor’s chest ached, the tide swelling—she’s my soulmate, we’ll make it.

The second day, they stayed in, the house a cocoon against the late October chill. Connor worked on a consulting spreadsheet, grounding himself as Connor, while Elise read a poetry anthology on the couch, her comments sparking Amanda’s voice—a new poem forming in his mind, lines about tides and anchors. They cooked dinner together, a simple meal of grilled haddock and roasted potatoes, the kitchen filled with laughter, the cardamom scent of chai lingering. That night, they lay in bed, the harbor’s lights a faint glow through the window, their hands entwined, and planned—Thanksgiving in Seattle, a summer trip to Portland, a rhythm to their long-distance love. When Elise left for the airport, her tote bag packed, her navy scarf around her neck, they kissed, a promise in the dawn—I’ll see you soon. Connor watched her go, the lilac scarf in his hands, Amanda and Connor whole, a tide that would carry them across the miles.

Chapter 7: Tides of Gratitude

The November days in Portland, Maine, had slipped by since Elise’s visit, the harbor’s gray expanse a constant backdrop to Connor’s routine—consulting gigs on his laptop, poetry scribbled as Amanda in the widow’s walk, daily texts with Elise weaving their long-distance love across 2,500 miles. His clapboard house on Munjoy Hill held the warmth of that weekend with Sophie and Liam, their acceptance of Amanda a tide that still carried him. Liam had taken a copy of The Velvet Anchor back to Boston, promising to read it, and Connor had been waiting, nerves flickering—what will he think of Amanda, of me?

On a chilly Sunday evening, four days before Thanksgiving, Connor sat at his kitchen table, a mug of black coffee cooling beside his laptop, the harbor’s lights twinkling through the window. His frame was bundled in a flannel shirt, jeans scuffed at the knees, the lilac scarf draped over his shoulders—Amanda’s presence a quiet pulse, eager to hear Liam’s thoughts. The laptop chimed with a video chat request, Liam’s name flashing on the screen, and Connor’s heart stuttered—he’s read it. He clicked accept, Liam’s face filling the screen, his blond hair buzzed short, a Boston trade school hoodie loose on his broad frame, a soccer ball tucked under his arm in his dorm room.

“Hey, Dad,” Liam said, his grin lopsided, boyish, but his blue eyes serious. “I finished your book—The Velvet Anchor. Took me a bit, ‘cause I’m not big on reading, but… damn, Dad, it’s good.” Connor’s throat tightened, his fingers brushing the scarf—she’s here, he sees her. “What’d you think?” he asked, his drawl low, a mix of his nerdy cadence and Amanda’s dreamer lilt, nerves threading his voice. Liam set the soccer ball down, leaning closer to the camera, his tone earnest. “It’s heavy, you know? The part at the quarry—when Amanda said she stood on a ledge like that—I felt that in my gut. I didn’t know you went through stuff like that, Dad. But the way you wrote her, the poetry, the scarf… it’s like I got to see this whole other side of you, and it’s pretty cool.”

Connor’s eyes stung, a tear slipping down his cheek—he gets it, he’s not running. “I was scared to let you see her, Liam,” he admitted, raw. “Amanda… she’s been part of me since I was a kid, but I hid her, ‘cause I thought I had to be just Dad for you and Sophie, for your mom. Hearing you say that—it means everything.” Liam nodded, his grin softening. “You’re still Dad, just… more, I guess. I liked the poem in Chapter 9, the one about the tide’s thread. Made me think of how you’re always there for us, even when you were struggling. I’m proud of you, Dad.” Connor’s chest swelled, the tide in his heart surging—they see me, all of me. 

“Thanks, Liam,” he whispered. “We’ll talk more in Seattle—I’m flying out tomorrow with Sophie for Thanksgiving at Elise’s. We’ll see you there.” 

Liam grinned, tossing the soccer ball up. “Can’t wait, Dad—gonna eat so much turkey. See you soon.”

Thanksgiving morning dawned in Seattle, the Puget Sound a steel-gray mirror under a sky heavy with clouds, the air crisp with the scent of rain and cedar. Elise’s apartment above Emerald City Books in Capitol Hill was a warm haven, its windows fogged with the heat of cooking, the bookstore closed for the day, string lights twinkling along the shelves below. The living room was a cozy chaos—mismatched chairs around a folding table, a turkey roasting in the oven, its sage-and-butter aroma mingling with the sweetness of a baking cranberry pie, a playlist of Joni Mitchell’s Blue humming softly in the background—“River,” her voice a haunting thread through the chatter.

Connor stood in the kitchen, his flannel shirt rolled at the cuffs, helping Elise mash potatoes, the lilac scarf tucked into his pocket—Amanda here, part of this. Sophie, 23, sat at the table, her dark hair loose, a Dartmouth sweater over her jeans, slicing green beans with a librarian-sharp focus, her copy of The Velvet Anchor on the counter, its pages tabbed with notes—she’d brought it to share with Elise after celebrating her 23rd birthday a few weeks ago, a quiet dinner Connor had joined via video chat, Sophie’s laughter over her cake still echoing in his mind. Liam, 19, sprawled on the couch, his trade school hoodie swapped for a flannel, tossing a foam football with Elise’s nephew, Theo, a lanky 15-year-old with dyed blue hair, their laughter echoing over the music. Elise moved between them, her auburn hair tied back, a navy apron over her skirt, her hazel eyes bright with the joy of hosting—I’m home, with all of them.

They gathered around the table, the turkey golden, the cranberry pie cooling, a bottle of cider passed between them, Theo sneaking a sip with a grin. Elise raised her glass, her voice warm, a Pacific Northwest lilt threading her words. “To family—old and new, near and far,” she said, her eyes meeting Connor’s, a soulmate’s promise—I see you, all of you. They ate, the table alive with stories—Sophie recounting a lit seminar debate, Liam describing a wiring job gone hilariously wrong, Theo asking Connor about Amanda’s poetry, his curiosity unguarded. “I read some of The Velvet Anchor downstairs,” Theo said, his blue hair catching the light. “That line about the tide pulling sparks—it’s dope. You wrote that as Amanda, right?” Connor nodded, his fingers brushing the scarf in his pocket—she’s here, seen. “Yeah, Theo,” he said, his drawl soft. “Amanda’s my poet, my dreamer. She’s part of me, and I’m glad you like her words.”

After dinner, they cleared the table, the dishwasher humming, the playlist shifting to “A Case of You.” Connor and Elise slipped downstairs to the bookstore, the shelves a quiet refuge, the string lights casting a golden glow. They sat in the nook where they’d first shared coffee, a thermos of chai between them, the cardamom scent grounding them. “This feels right,” Connor said, his voice low, raw. “You, the kids, Amanda here—I’ve never had a Thanksgiving where I felt so whole.” Elise squeezed his hand, her hazel eyes steady. “You’re whole, Connor,” she said, soft. “And I love having you all here. We’ll keep making this work—visits, calls, poems. I’m in, for all of it.” They kissed, a tender echo of the Bainbridge cove, the bookstore’s quiet wrapping around them—a family, a love, a tide that stretched across miles but held them close.

Upstairs, Sophie and Liam helped Theo with the dishes, their laughter drifting down, a new rhythm forming—a family that knew Connor, knew Amanda, and loved them both. The Seattle rain began to fall, a soft patter against the windows, the Sound a steady heartbeat, a Thanksgiving that marked a new chapter in their shared tide.

Chapter 8: Tides Converge

November 2036 swept into Seattle with a damp chill, the Puget Sound a slate-gray expanse under a sky heavy with rain, the air thick with the scent of wet cedar and salt. Connor stood on the same bluff where he’d first read poetry as Amanda at the Queer Lit Fest two years prior, the wooden platform now slick with drizzle, fairy lights replaced by the soft glow of dawn. He was 56 now, his frame bundled in a gray wool coat, the lilac scarf around his neck—Amanda’s presence a steady pulse, more integrated than ever. In his pocket, a small velvet box held a ring, a simple band of white gold with a sapphire inlaid, a nod to Amanda’s favorite dress. He’d been carrying it for weeks, waiting for this moment, his heart a tidal wave—I’m ready, we’re ready.

The past year had been a rhythm of love across 2,500 miles—Thanksgiving in Seattle, a summer trip to Portland, Maine, countless video calls where Elise read Amanda’s new poems, her hazel eyes bright with pride through the screen. Connor had moved to Portland from Concord, New Hampshire, three years ago, after Melody’s passing, the cedar-shingled house in Concord too full of her memory—their life together, raising Sophie and Liam, now a chapter closed. Portland had been a fresh start, a coastal town where he’d rebuilt himself, consulting part-time, writing as Amanda, but the distance from Elise in Seattle had worn on them both. Missed moments—birthdays spent apart, quiet evenings they craved together—had piled up, a high-level challenge they could no longer ignore. Tonight, Connor would propose, and with that, they’d face the question of relocation, a decision that would reshape their lives.

Elise met him on the bluff, her auburn hair tucked under a knit cap, a navy coat wrapped around her, her tote bag slung over her shoulder, a thermos of chai peeking out. Her hazel eyes softened as she saw him, the lilac scarf a quiet signal—Amanda’s here, and I love her too. “Two years ago, you read poetry right here,” she said, her voice warm with a Pacific Northwest lilt, stepping closer, the Sound’s rhythmic lap a steady heartbeat below. Connor nodded, his drawl trembling, a mix of his nerdy cadence and Amanda’s dreamer lilt. “Changed my life that night,” he said, raw. “You saw me—Connor, Amanda, all of me—and I’ve been falling for you ever since.” He knelt, the wet wood soaking his jeans, and opened the velvet box, the sapphire glinting in the dawn light. “Elise, will you marry me?”

Her breath caught, her eyes misty, and she nodded, a smile breaking through. “Yes, Connor—yes,” she whispered, pulling him up, their lips meeting in a kiss that tasted of salt air and chai, a spark turned flame, a promise sealed. They sat on a bench overlooking the Sound, the ring on her finger, the thermos between them, steam rising in the November chill, and the challenge loomed—who would relocate, and how? “I’ve been thinking about this,” Connor said, his voice low, raw. “The distance—it’s killing me, Elise. I can’t keep living half a country away from you. I… I want to move to Seattle.”

Elise’s eyes widened, her hand tightening on his. “Connor, are you sure?” she asked, her tone gentle but searching. “You moved to Portland after Concord—it’s your fresh start, your space now, and the kids visit there.” He nodded, the lilac scarf a soft weight, Amanda’s voice echoing in his mind—we need her, we need this. “I’m sure,” he said, steady. “Sophie and Liam are grown—they’re building their own lives, and they can visit us here. Concord was my life with Melody, where I hid Amanda for so long, where I lost her. Portland helped me heal, but I need a new chapter, with you. I can consult remotely, write as Amanda here, be with you every day.” His throat tightened, the weight of the decision spilling out—I’m choosing us, fully.

Elise listened, her hazel eyes steady, a soulmate’s understanding. “I was ready to move to Portland, you know,” she said, soft. “Emerald City Books—I could’ve sold it, started fresh. But if you’re sure, I’d love to have you here. We can make a home—together.” She paused, her mind turning, practical. “There’s a challenge, though. The bookstore’s my life, but it’s struggling—online sales, big chains, they’re eating into profits. If you move here, we’ll need to figure out how to keep it afloat, maybe pivot to events, workshops, something. It’ll be hard, but I think we can do it—together.” Connor squeezed her hand, his analytical, former CFO side kicking in, Amanda’s dreamer lilt threading through. “We’ll make it work,” he said, a vow. “I’ve got money from the bank merger and consulting savings—we can invest in the shop, host poetry nights, maybe publish Amanda’s next collection through it. I’m in, Elise—all in.”

They spent the day planning, the bluff’s drizzle giving way to a pale sun, the Sound glinting like a promise. They walked through Capitol Hill, past Emerald City Books, its green storefront a beacon, and envisioned a future—Connor’s desk in the backroom, Amanda’s poetry readings on weekends, a life where distance no longer kept them apart. That night, they called Sophie and Liam on video chat, sharing the engagement and relocation news, their faces lighting up the screen—Sophie’s lit-student excitement, Liam’s practical grin. “Seattle’s dope, Dad,” Liam said, tossing a soccer ball. “I’ll visit for Amanda’s readings—better bring that scarf.” Sophie nodded, her eyes misty. “I’m so happy for you, Dad—Elise, you’re family now.” The call ended, the tide of their love stretching across miles, a family whole.

The challenge of the bookstore loomed, but Connor felt a spark—hope, purpose, a new chapter. He and Elise stood on her apartment balcony above the shop, the city’s lights twinkling below, the Sound a steady heartbeat, and kissed, their engagement a flame that would light their way through the hard days ahead. Connor, Amanda, Elise—a tide converging, a home to build, a love to live, fully, finally.

Chapter 9: Tides United

The early summer sun cast a golden glow over the Puget Sound, its waters shimmering like a sheet of glass under a sky streaked with coral and lavender, the air warm with the scent of blooming salal and saltwater. Connor and Elise had chosen a small waterfront park on Bainbridge Island for their wedding—the same cove where they’d shared their first kiss, now transformed for the occasion. A wooden arch stood on the pebbled shore, draped in lilac and white hydrangeas, their petals trembling in the breeze, a nod to the scarf that had become a symbol of Amanda’s presence. Fairy lights were strung between cedar trees, their glow soft against the dusk, while a long table sat nearby, its white cloth scattered with driftwood centerpieces, mismatched chairs gathered for the intimate gathering of twenty guests. The Sound’s rhythmic lap was a steady heartbeat, a tide that had brought them here, fully, finally.

Connor stood under the arch, his frame steady in a tailored navy suit, a lilac scarf pinned to his lapel—Amanda here, part of this moment. At 57, his brown eyes were bright with a mix of nerves and joy, his hands fidgeting with the sapphire ring he’d wear, a match to the one he’d given Elise in November 2036. He’d moved to Seattle six months ago, selling the Portland house with a bittersweet ache—Portland had been his healing ground, but Seattle was his future. The $8.3 million payout from his banking days had made the transition smooth, allowing him to set up a consulting office in Elise’s apartment above Emerald City Books while investing in the shop’s revival—poetry nights, a small press for Amanda’s next collection, Tidal Sparks, now in its final edits, its pages already a fixture in the bookstore’s new reading series. The bookstore was still a challenge, but they were facing it together, their shared dream a spark that kept them grounded.

Elise walked toward him, her auburn hair loose, catching the sunset’s glow, a simple ivory dress flowing to her ankles, its lace sleeves delicate against her skin. At 47, her hazel eyes were steady, a smile trembling on her lips as she carried a bouquet of white roses and salal, a navy ribbon tying it—a nod to her scarf, their shared warmth. Sophie, 24, walked beside her, a maid of honor in a lilac dress, her dark hair pinned with a rose, her copy of The Velvet Anchor tucked into her bag—she’d reread it for the occasion, her lit-student heart proud of her dad. Liam, 21, stood as best man, his broad frame in a navy suit, a soccer ball tucked under a chair for later. Liam’s grin lopsided as he whispered to Theo, Elise’s 16-year-old nephew, whose blue-and-purple hair caught the light, his zine sales booming at the bookstore after a feature in their new poetry series—he’d even written one inspired by Amanda’s Tidal Sparks, a copy tucked into his pocket to share with Connor later. Liam had just turned 21 a month ago, a milestone Connor had celebrated with him in Seattle, their first visit since the move, a soccer game in the park sealing the occasion.

The officiant, Riley—the nonbinary poet from the Queer Lit Fest—spoke softly, their voice warm over the Sound’s lap. “We gather to unite Connor and Elise, two tides who’ve found their flame,” they said, a nod to Tidal Sparks. Connor’s throat tightened, his eyes meeting Elise’s—I’m whole, with you. They’d written their own vows, a promise woven from their journey. Elise went first, her voice steady, her lilt threading her words. “Connor, Amanda—I saw you on that bluff, reading poetry, and I knew I’d found my tide. You’ve taught me to love without hiding, to let my late-night poems breathe, to embrace the messy parts I used to bury. I promise to hold you, both of you, through every spark, every storm, as we build our life together.” Her eyes glistened, her hand squeezing his, the sapphire ring glinting on her finger.

Connor’s drawl trembled, a mix of his nerdy cadence and Amanda’s dreamer lilt. “Elise, you saw me when I thought I’d never be seen—Connor, Amanda, the whole tide. You’ve given me a home, a flame I’d only dreamed of. I promise to wade with you, to write with you, to love you, always.” A tear slipped down his cheek, Amanda’s presence a light in his chest—she’s here, she’s loved. They exchanged rings, the sapphire bands a symbol of their shared journey, and Riley pronounced them married, the small crowd erupting in cheers—Sophie’s lit-student clap, Liam’s whoop, Theo’s whistle, the handful of bookstore regulars and Seattle friends who’d become their chosen family.

They kissed under the arch, the Sound’s tide rolling in, a deeper echo of their first kiss in this cove, their hands entwined, the lilac scarf brushing Elise’s arm—I’m both, I’m whole, I’m hers. The reception unfolded on the pebbled shore, the table alive with grilled salmon, blackberry tarts, and a thermos of chai passed between them, its cardamom scent mingling with the salt air. Joni Mitchell’s “A Case of You” played from a small speaker, her voice a haunting thread—“I could drink a case of you, darling, and I would still be on my feet”—their song, from that first coffee in the bookstore. Before they danced, Connor took the microphone, the lilac scarf a soft weight, Amanda’s presence strong—I’m here, let me speak. He read a poem from Tidal Sparks, its pages now published through the bookstore’s press, his voice steady: “The tide pulls us close, / a spark turned flame, / an anchor in the cove we’ve claimed.” The crowd listened, Theo nodding along, his zine in hand, Sophie’s eyes misty, the bookstore’s revival a quiet undercurrent in the words—a shared victory, a shared home.

They danced, barefoot on the pebbles, Elise’s dress trailing, Connor’s suit jacket off, the lilac scarf a soft weight, Amanda and Connor merging in the moment—seen, loved, united. Sophie toasted them, her voice thick with emotion, holding up The Velvet Anchor. “Dad, Elise—you’ve shown me what it means to be whole, to love without hiding. I’m so proud of you.” Liam grinned, raising his cider. “To Dad and Elise—keep writing, keep loving, and maybe work on your soccer game.” Laughter rippled through the crowd, the fairy lights twinkling above, the Sound a steady heartbeat. As the night deepened, Connor and Elise slipped to the water’s edge, their hands entwined, the tide lapping at their feet. “We did it,” Elise whispered, her hazel eyes reflecting the stars. “We’re a tide, together.” Connor nodded, his heart full, Amanda’s voice a quiet hum—we’re home. The cove held them, their love a flame that had found its anchor, a tide that would carry them forward, always.

Epilogue: Tides of Memory, Portland, Maine, Late Summer 2037

The late summer sun dipped low over Casco Bay, painting the Portland, Maine, waterfront in hues of amber and rose, the air thick with the scent of saltwater and grilled lobster rolls from a nearby food cart. Sophie and Liam sat on a weathered wooden bench along the Eastern Promenade, a trail Connor had walked with Elise two years prior, the Atlantic a shimmering expanse before them, lobster boats bobbing in the distance. They’d come to Portland for a weekend visit—Sophie, now 24, on a break from her graduate program at Columbia, and Liam, 21, taking a few days off from his electrician job in Boston—to sort through the last of Connor’s belongings in the Munjoy Hill house, which had finally sold after his move to Seattle.

Sophie sat cross-legged on the bench, her dark hair loose, catching the golden light, a worn copy of The Velvet Anchor resting in her lap, its pages tabbed with sticky notes from her latest reread. At 24, her sharp eyes—Melody’s eyes—were softer now, tempered by the past two years of understanding her father in ways she never expected. She wore a Columbia hoodie over jeans, a small silver pendant around her neck—a gift from her mom, a reminder of Concord days—and her fingers traced the book’s cover as she spoke, her voice analytical but warm, a lit student weaving a narrative from memory.

“I thought I knew Dad, you know?” Sophie began, her gaze on the horizon, the tide’s steady lap a rhythm to her words. “Growing up in Concord, he was… steady. The guy who read The Hobbit to us, did Gollum’s voice for you, helped me with debate prep. But Mom… she was the heart, always planning birthdays, baking cookies for my team, keeping us together. When Dad told us about Amanda, that night here in Portland, I felt like the ground shifted.” She paused, her throat tightening, the memory of that night vivid—the lilac scarf, her father’s trembling drawl, her own confusion and hurt. “I was so mad, Liam—not at him, but at… I don’t know, the idea of Amanda. Reading The Velvet Anchor, seeing how she made him distant from Mom… I kept thinking about Mom waiting for him, glitter on her hands from my debate party, while he was out, hiding Amanda. It felt like I was losing her all over again, like I didn’t really know either of them.”

She turned to Liam, her eyes misty but clear. “But the more I read, the more I saw Dad in those pages—the boardwalk at 10, the quarry at 42, all that guilt and shame. Amanda wasn’t some secret he kept to hurt us; she was part of him, a part he thought he had to bury to be our dad, to be Mom’s husband. And I get it now—Mom loved him, even the parts he couldn’t show her, and he loved her, but he was carrying so much.” She clutched the book tighter, a small smile breaking through. “Seeing him at the wedding, with Elise, the lilac scarf pinned to his suit—Amanda was there, and it felt right. He’s whole now, in a way I don’t think he ever was with Mom, not because he didn’t love her, but because he couldn’t love himself. I’m proud of him, Liam. And I think… I think Mom would be too. She always fought for us to be happy, and Dad is, finally.”

Liam leaned back on the bench, his broad frame relaxed in a flannel shirt and jeans, a soccer ball tucked beside him—a habit he couldn’t shake, even at 21. His blond hair was still buzzed short, his blue eyes squinting against the setting sun, a practical grin tugging at his lips as he tossed a pebble toward the water, watching it skip once before sinking. He’d read The Velvet Anchor slower than Sophie, finishing it over months in Boston, but its weight had settled in him, a quiet shift in how he saw his dad.

“I didn’t get it at first,” Liam admitted, his voice steady, grounded, a tradesman’s bluntness threading his words. “That night Dad told us about Amanda, I was like… what? I mean, I knew Dad as the guy who’d cheer at my soccer games, fix my bike, always there, you know? Concord was us—Mom, you, me, him. So when he said he’d been Amanda since he was a kid, sneaking scarves and stuff, I couldn’t picture it. It didn’t fit with the Dad I knew, and I got kinda frustrated—like, where was this Amanda when I needed him to be just Dad?” He glanced at Sophie, his grin fading, the memory of that night resurfacing—his pretzel paused mid-air, his blunt “it’s weird, Dad.” “I was 16 when Mom died, Soph. I didn’t see the stuff you did, the distance Dad wrote about. I just remembered Mom being… Mom, and Dad being there, even if he was quiet sometimes.”

He picked up another pebble, rolling it in his hand, his tone softening. “But reading his book, seeing how Amanda was this part of him he hated himself for… it hit me. The quarry chapter, where he stood on that ledge—I got scared for him, retroactively, you know? He was struggling, and we didn’t even know. And then seeing him at the wedding, with Elise, being all open with Amanda—I realized he’s still Dad, just… more. Like, the scarf, the poetry stuff, that’s him too, and it’s kinda cool. I mean, I asked if Amanda ever went to a soccer game, and maybe she didn’t, but I bet she would’ve cheered louder than Dad ever did.” He chuckled, his grin returning, a practical acceptance settling in. “I’m glad he’s got Elise, and I’m glad we’ve got him—both of him. Makes me think about Mom too, how she’d probably say, ‘Let your dad be happy, Liam.’ And he is. That’s what matters.”

Sophie squeezed Liam’s arm, her smile mirroring his, the harbor’s lights twinkling as dusk deepened, the air cooling around them. “We’ve got a bigger family now,” she said, her voice warm, thinking of Elise, Theo, the bookstore in Seattle where Amanda’s Tidal Sparks now lined the shelves. Liam nodded, tossing his last pebble into the tide, the ripple a quiet echo of their father’s journey—a tide they’d learned to wade, together.