Page 12

The older man finished the story. "Left in the middle of the night, and he showed up here six months later—skinny as a rail, walking with that limp, and eyes that didn't look at anyone. Margaret Sinclair gave him the caretaker job."

"Best thing that could have happened." The younger man added a coda. "Boy needed somewhere to heal."

The ferry's horn echoed across the water, announcing its approach. I watched the small group shift their attention to the incoming boat. Their conversation dissolved into practical concerns about mail delivery and grocery orders.

I crouched behind the traps for several more minutes, my camera forgotten in my lap. The pieces of Wes's story came together—a slow exile that had ended here on Ironhook Island.

Eyes that didn't look at anyone.

I thought about how Wes had kissed me and today's retreat, rebuilding every wall.

Maybe for someone who'd experienced abandonment once, intimacy wasn't a gift—it was a threat. Another chance for disappointment when people decided you weren't worth the trouble.

The ferry docked with its usual grinding of metal against wood, pulling me out of my thoughts. I gathered my camera gear and headed back toward the cottage, my mind churning with everything I'd overheard.

I hadn't gotten a single photograph of coastal erosion, but I'd learned more about the man I was falling for and why he might be so determined to keep me at arm's length.

The cottage came into view as I rounded the bend in the path, its weathered shingles catching the slanted afternoon sun. I heard Wes before seeing him—the rhythmic scrape of something dragged across wood, punctuated by occasional muttered curses.

He was behind the shed, hunched over a massive fishing net spread across a makeshift work surface he'd constructed from sawhorses and plywood. His shoulders were tense and rigid beneath faded blue flannel.

I stood at the edge of the clearing, drinking in the sight of him. Longing and frustration battled inside me. I wanted to cross the space between us and touch his back, but I knew he'd probably bolt if I tried.

I approached with practiced casualness. "Need an extra pair of hands?"

Wes didn't look up. His fingers continued their methodical work on a particularly stubborn tangle. "Got it covered."

The dismissal was polite but firm. I could have respected it and gone inside to make dinner or work on my thesis. Instead, I settled onto an overturned milk crate about six feet away, close enough to help if invited but far enough to avoid crowding him.

"Suit yourself." I reached for a coil of rope near the work surface.

I began untangling the coil, mirroring Wes's methodical approach with the net. Ropes were something I knew, and the work gave my hands something to do.

"I listened to stories about the wreck today," I said quietly, not looking up from my work. "Your cousin. The blame."

Wes's hands froze mid-motion.

"At the ferry dock. People talking while they waited for the supply boat."

"People talk." His voice was flat. "Doesn't make it news."

"They said Derek was driving. That everyone knew Derek was driving, but somehow you ended up bearing the blame anyway."

The muscles in Wes's forearms tensed visibly. He set down the section of the net he'd been working on and stared at his hands.

"They said your family turned their backs on you when things got complicated."

"Eric." The tone of his voice sounded like a warning.

I looked at him directly for the first time since sitting down. His profile was sharp against the fading light, jaw clenched tight.

I continued to speak in a soft tone. "I don't want to hurt you, but I don't want to pretend I didn't hear what I heard. And I sure as hell don't want to pretend yesterday didn't happen."

Wes finally turned to meet my gaze. His eyes were the color of slate. "What do you want me to say? That it was hard? That I've spent all these years on this island because going home meant watching people cross the street to avoid talking to me?"

"I want you to stop treating me like I'm one of them, and I'm going to do the same thing."

Wes blinked once, processing something he hadn't expected to hear.

"You don't know me well enough to prove that."

"Maybe not. But I know myself well enough to mean it."

A gust of wind rattled through the clearing, sending loose sections of the net fluttering like captured birds. Wes stood abruptly, abandoning his work. "Getting late," he muttered. "Should head in."

Instead of walking toward the cottage, he turned toward the path that led to the bluff—the high ground that overlooked the open ocean. I watched him take several steps in that direction before stopping, his shoulders sagging like he didn't have enough energy to run away.

I left the rope coil where it was and followed him—not crowding, only following.

The bluff was Ironhook's highest point, a granite outcropping that jutted into the Atlantic like a ship's prow. The path up was steep and narrow, carved by decades of footsteps that had worn the rock smooth. Wes climbed it with the fluid efficiency of someone who'd made the journey countless times.

I found him standing at the edge, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets, staring out at the water that stretched unbroken to the horizon. The sun hung low and orange, painting the waves in shades of copper and gold. A fishing boat moved across the distant swells.

The kind of view that belonged in someone else's life—one without my complications.

I sat on a flat section of granite a few feet away from Wes. "You said something once about how quiet lets you breathe. Sometimes, though, silence doesn't soothe. Sometimes, it suffocates."

Wes's hands clenched inside his jacket pockets.

My voice was barely above a whisper. "Sixteen years is a long time to hold your breath."

The wind picked up. Wes turned toward me.

"You think I want to be this way? You think I chose this?"

"No, I think you survived it. You built something here that kept you alive when everything else fell apart."

"Damn right I did." His voice cracked slightly. "You know what it's like to have everyone you trusted decide you're not worth the trouble? To wake up one day and realize the people who raised you would rather pretend you never existed than deal with the mess you've become?"

The raw pain was evident in his voice. I wanted to reach for him, but something in his posture warned me to stay still.

"I learned to stop wanting things." He stared back out at the water.

"You know what I wanted most after the accident?

Just to hear my name said without pity. That's it.

Something that simple, and I couldn't have it.

The people who matter most will find a way to disappoint you, and the ones who don't matter. .. they'll leave anyway."

He crouched down and picked up a piece of sea glass from the granite ledge—smooth and green, worn transparent by years of storms. He turned it over in his palm, thumb tracing its edges.

"Found this my first week here," he said quietly, examining the glass. "Left it where I found it—thought it was worthless. It was broken bottle glass that got beaten up by the ocean."

He looked up at me, and for a heartbeat, his armor slipped completely. "Took me years to realize it was beautiful because it was broken."

We stood there in the growing dusk, the sound of waves against rock filling the space where words should have been. The fishing boat had disappeared beyond the horizon, leaving us alone with the vast indifference of the ocean.

Finally, Wes turned away from the edge. "Dinner's in an hour." He headed for the cottage, but his retreat felt different this time. It was less like slamming a door and more like strategic withdrawal.

He walked back toward the path without waiting for a response. He moved slowly, giving me time to follow if I wanted to.

I remained on the bluff for several more minutes, watching the sun sink toward the waterline. The air grew cooler.

The fortification was still intact. A structure that had protected Wes's heart for so many years couldn't be dismantled in a single conversation, but I'd found a crack. It was a place where the mortar had worn thin enough to let a little light through.

Here's the thing: people who've been abandoned don't stop believing in connection. They only stop thinking they'reallowedto have it. Hope doesn't die—it gets quieter, like an animal hiding under the porch, still breathing but too scared to come out.

The first stars were beginning to appear when I made my way back down the path, following the warm glow of lamplight that spilled from the cottage windows. Wes was probably already in the kitchen, methodically preparing dinner with the same careful precision he brought to everything else.

Tomorrow, we'd both have to figure out what came next. Tonight, I was content to know that he'd let me see him crack, just a little. Underneath all that armor, the person I'd kissed yesterday was still there, still breathing, and still hoping despite himself that maybe this time would be different.