Page 13

Chapter eight

Wes

T he mattress springs beneath me had their own vocabulary of complaints—a squeak when I shifted left, a groan when I turned right, and a persistent whine whenever I tried to find a position that didn't shoot fire up from my knee.

Despite its persistence, the pain wasn't what kept me awake.

Every time I closed my eyes, the rink materialized behind my eyelids. Derek's laugh echoed off the boards. I heard the scrape-slide rhythm of blades carving fresh ice.

I saw Eric's fingers wrapped around that rotted stick. His body was warm against mine as I guided his stance.

I pressed the heels of my palms against my eyes. The images refused to dissolve. Past two in the morning, sleep became a lost cause.

Easing out of bed, I tested my weight on the bad knee before committing to standing.

The floorboards were cold against my bare feet, and I pulled on jeans and the work boots I'd left beside the door.

My jacket hung on its usual peg, pockets heavy with random scraps of island living—spare batteries, a folding knife, and the emergency whistle Margaret Sinclair insisted all caretakers carry.

My flashlight lived in the kitchen drawer. I clicked it on once to test the beam, then switched it off. The cottage plunged back into darkness.

Outside, clouds drifted across the moon, casting the island in shifting shades of charcoal and silver. It was the kind of restless night Derek would have loved. He'd always been drawn to darkness like other people sought sunlight, claiming the best adventures happened when decent folks were asleep.

I remember him appearing at my bedroom window. "Come on, Wes, the night's calling."

I started walking before I'd consciously decided where I was going. My flashlight beam bobbed ahead of me, illuminating patches of rough ground and the occasional glint of animal eyes that vanished the moment I turned toward them.

What are you doing, Hunter?

I couldn't answer that question. I only knew that staying in bed meant wrestling with memories that grew sharper in the dark. Walking meant I could consciously choose which ghosts to face.

The fence materialized out of the darkness like the skeleton of some massive creature, chain-link diamonds catching fragments of moonlight.

The gate still hung open from yesterday's work, metal hinges silent on their rust-seized pins.

I slipped through the gap and stepped onto the fractured asphalt.

Without Eric's presence to anchor me, the rink became unstuck from time. The boards rose on either side. Goal frames stood empty at either end, their crossbars silhouetted against the night sky.

The bleachers had been built into the natural slope of the hillside. Most of the wooden bench seats rotted through over time, but the concrete structure beneath remained solid.

I climbed toward the spot that matched where I used to sit in the Whistleport arena before pickup games—three rows up, dead center, where you could see the entire ice surface.

The concrete was cold through my jeans, and dampness immediately began seeping into the fabric. I shifted my position to find an angle that didn't aggravate the pain in my leg.

I rubbed the joint through the denim worn soft by salt air and work, exploring the raised ridge of scar tissue that mapped the surgeon's path through cartilage and bone. The physical therapist had warned me about weather sensitivity.

The abandoned Ironhook rink wasn't the same as the indoor one in Whistleport, but it was close enough. Both were temples built to worship the hockey gods.

I walked the perimeter slowly. The cool, dark air carried the first hints of winter—that metallic bite that made your lungs work harder for each breath. Derek had loved nights like this.

The cold makes everything sharper, Wes. Makes you pay attention."

He would have been thirty-six next month. I sometimes wondered what he would have become—whether the restlessness that had driven him toward trouble would have eventually driven him toward something worthwhile or whether he would have burned out spectacularly in some other way on another night.

I probably knew the answer. He'd been careening toward disaster since we were fourteen, collecting speeding tickets and broken curfews like trophies. Admitting that felt like a betrayal, speaking ill of the dead to justify my own survival.

I'd never know for sure. Sometimes, I was grateful it wasn't me wrapped around that utility pole.

And relieved.

I was shamefully relieved that Derek's recklessness had finally caught up with him before it could drag me down, too. I'd grown tired of being his accomplice, covering for his drinking, and making excuses to coaches, parents, and anyone else who noticed his increasingly erratic behavior.

The accident solved that problem permanently.

Hating myself for that gratitude and relief was easier than examining what it all meant.

I heard the sound of boots finding their way through the undergrowth. Twigs snapped under deliberate footsteps, and fabric whispered against tall weeds and grass.

Eric.

I didn't turn around. At first, I wanted to demand an explanation—how he'd known where I'd gone and what gave him the right to intrude on a conversation I was having with dead people. Then, I exhaled and decided to breathe.

He materialized at the edge of my peripheral vision, a shadow moving through the gate and onto the cracked asphalt. No flashlight, which meant he'd either memorized the path from yesterday's work or trusted his feet to find their way in the darkness.

The kid had better night vision than I'd given him credit for. Maybe he was part cat.

Eric didn't speak. He didn't approach the bleachers where I sat or offer any of the awkward pleasantries that usually accompanied unexpected encounters. Instead, he walked to the far end of the structure and settled onto a bench three rows below me.

I examined him from the corner of my eye: elbows on knees and hands clasped.

No phone-checking, no fidgeting. He knew how to hold still like prey that understood sudden movements attracted predators. Somehow, he had the audacity to be precisely what the moment required—another person willing to sit with ghosts without trying to exorcise them.

I finally broke the silence. "You're supposed to be asleep."

Eric's response came without hesitation. "So were you."

A gull cried somewhere in the distance, its call sharp against the muffled sound of waves. "You ever just sit with ghosts?" I didn't think through what the question might imply about me.

Eric was quiet for so long that I began to wonder if he'd heard me. Derek would have filled the silence immediately. He'd been allergic to quiet, always needing to fill empty spaces with commentary, jokes, or plans that stretched into futures neither of us would see.

Come on, just one more lap along the coast. The night's still young."

The taste of copper and gasoline rose in my throat. Some memories had flavors.

"Every day," Eric replied at last.

He didn't elaborate on which particular ghosts kept him company or how long he'd been carrying them around. He only sat in the darkness, breathing steadily, existing in the same space as my visions.

Eric's stillness worked on me like a sedative I hadn't known I needed. No comfort offered or broken things declared fixable. Only his presence as patient as the tide pools waiting for the waves to return.

He was simply there.

In my experience, people either demanded explanations or provided solutions, requiring energy I rarely had available. Eric did neither. He was present in the way that water was present—taking whatever shape the container provided without trying to change the fundamental nature of what it held.

I leaned back against the concrete step behind me, ignoring how the cold seeped through my jacket. Eric adjusted his position slightly, boot heels scraping as he found a more comfortable angle.

We sat like that long enough for my body to adapt to the cold concrete and for the moon to travel a measurable distance across the sky. Derek's ghost was present. It followed me to Ironhook long ago.

Eric acted before I did. He stood slowly. "I'll leave you to it."

He walked toward the gate with the same deliberate pace he'd used to approach. I remained on the bleachers, watching him disappear beyond the fence line and listening to his footsteps fade into the general chorus of night sounds.

I sat there for another thirty seconds, maybe a full minute, telling myself I was simply waiting for him to get far enough ahead that our separate departures wouldn't feel like a coordinated retreat. I wanted to honor the solitude I'd come to the rink to find.

I caught up with Eric at the junction where the rink path met the main trail back toward the cottage. He briefly glanced back, registering my proximity without comment or obvious surprise.

We fell into step perhaps ten feet apart. The path wound through dense undergrowth where sumac branches reached across the narrow corridor to brush against our jackets.

Neither of us spoke. The silence we'd established at the rink had followed us onto the path.

Thorns caught at our jeans and tugged while somewhere in the darkness, a night bird called once before falling silent again. The cottage windows appeared through the trees ahead of us, golden rectangles that spoke of shelter and warmth.

Eric reached the porch steps first. He paused there for a moment. Then, he opened the screen door and stepped inside without ceremony.

I stood at the bottom of the porch steps, one boot resting on weathered wood while the other remained planted on the ground. I hesitated for only a few seconds. As I climbed toward the open door, the porch boards creaked under my weight.

Sleep was unlikely to claim me. In the kitchen, I stood listening to the cottage settle around us—the familiar creaks and sighs of old wood, but underneath it, something new.

Eric's presence had changed even the silence.

The guest room door was cracked open, and I heard him breathing, steady and deep.

I turned toward the coffee pot, then stopped. I stood in my kitchen, learning what it sounded like with someone else dreaming under my roof.

Just over two weeks, and then the cottage would be quiet again. It would be different. Perhaps the building itself dreaded the silence that would follow.

I turned and focused my attention on the coffee pot. The familiar ritual of measuring grounds and adding water gave my hands something to do.

A calendar was visible in my peripheral vision. October first, halfway through the experience of knowing Eric Callahan.

Fifteen more nights of lying awake, listening to someone else breathing in the room down the hall, wondering what dreams filled the space behind his eyes.

The coffee maker began its familiar gurgling. I focused my attention on tasks that would eventually lead to breakfast. It didn't require me to acknowledge how much I'd grown accustomed to the sound of someone else making themselves at home amid my carefully constructed exile.