Taking a break from dusting the counters in the registration area, I call upstairs to Ellie, who is changing sheets in the guest rooms, to let her know I’m going outside for the mail.

As soon as I open the door, my nose is filled with the salty ocean air and my skin warms with a gentle breeze that floats in off the water. Even though the ocean is on the backside of the property and I can’t see it as I walk down the front sidewalk to the mailbox, I can still hear the waves crashing against the shore and the cry of seagulls as they skim the water looking for fish. So many times I’ve thought of moving off this island, selling the inn and doing something new and exciting. Those thoughts have plagued me every day for the last three weeks as I wondered how I’m going to be able to stand living in the place where everywhere I look, I see and remember something about our life together.

Smelling the ocean air, listening to the call of the birds, feeling the sand between my toes and being woken up every morning by the sun rising over the ocean water is like nothing I’ve ever known. I lived on the mainland for sixteen years, surrounded by tall buildings and bustling traffic, everyone rushing past and shoving you out of the way because they’re always in a hurry. I go over there every once in a while for meetings or dinner with old friends, and there’s absolutely nothing that I miss about it. Island life is like living in your own piece of heaven. Everything is slower here, everything is quieter here and everything is more beautiful here. During the summer months, cars are banned from Main Street because of all the tourists. The only way to get around is by golf cart or bike, both of which every permanent resident on the island own at least a few of. I wave to a couple people as they bike or putter by in carts as I stroll down the long, bricked walkway to the mailbox.

This island might be filled with ghosts and memories of things that I’d rather forget, but it’s also my home. It’s jam packed with all of the people I care about and the business I love to run, even if it exhausts me.

I open the door to the mailbox and grab the letters from inside, taking a moment to breathe deeply, close my eyes and enjoy the sun on my face. Everything is going to be okay. My pride is hurt and my heart is broken, but I live in one of the most beautiful places in the world. I have supportive family and loving friends and they will help me get through this. Maybe Fisher will find what he’s looking for away from this island, but maybe he’ll get better and come back to me. The damage that has been done doesn’t have to be permanent. Holding out hope probably makes me as weak and pathetic as he accused me of being, but I like to think of it as having a big heart that knows how to forgive. The Fisher of the last few months was not the boy I fell in love with or the man I married, and I know that person is still in there somewhere. He just has to want it bad enough to break free of the prison in his mind.

With one last deep breath, I open my eyes and make my way back up to the inn, flipping through the bills, coupons and other items that came in the mail. As I walk up the steps and push through the front door, I toss all of the mail except for one large, white envelope on the registration desk. My heart starts beating erratically in my chest when I see the handwriting in the middle. Tracing my fingers over my name and address written in Fisher’s small, neat block letters, I try to ignore the words running on repeat in my mind. Forcing memories of the cold, empty look on his face as he told me he never wrote to me when he was overseas because he just didn’t want to from my head, my eyes fill with tears and I smile to myself as I flip the envelope over and quickly tear it open. He finally wrote me a letter. I almost can’t believe it. I knew I shouldn’t give up on him. I knew that no matter what, he would find that person inside I fell in love with and come back to me.

I reach inside the envelope and pull out a stack of papers stapled together. Flipping them over, my smile falls and my hands shake when I see the computer printed pages with the words Grayson & Smith, Attorneys at Law.

Scanning through the pages, I see the words no-fault divorce and irreconcilable differences. On the very last page, in dark blue ink, is Fisher’s signature.

I let the pages flutter to the ground and I brace my hands on the desk in front of me, holding myself up so I don’t crumple to the floor with them.

“Alright, all the beds are clean and ready to go. Do you want me—”

Ellie’s voice cuts off when she walks into the room. She rushes over to me, picks up the papers at my feet and I hear her flipping through them as I take deep breaths and hold back the tears.

“That worthless piece of shit! I’m going to kick his motherfucking ass,” she curses as she clutches the papers in one hand and wraps her arms around me.

Refusing to break down, I swallow back the tears threatening to choke me. The anger at how quickly he’s cut me out of his life simmers just below the surface and I let it take over, bubbling to the top and exploding out of me. I move away from Ellie’s arms and stomp around to the back of the desk, shoving folders, invoices, cups of paperclips and a stapler out of my way as I rummage around for what I’m looking for.

When I find it, I hold the pen up in front of me as well as my outstretched hand.

“Give me the papers,” I tell Ellie in a low, pissed-off voice that I barely recognize.

“Sweetie, take a breath. You don’t have to sign these right now. Let’s go out and have a few drinks and come back and deal with this later,” she tries to reason with me.

“Give me the fucking papers,” I growl at her.