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Chapter fifteen

Eric

I sat at the kitchen table, fingers wrapped around a mug that had gone cold an hour ago, watching Wes move through his morning routine. He woke before me. His weather log lay open on the counter. Everything in its place. Everything controlled.

He stood at the sink, scrubbing a dish that was already spotless, shoulders rigid beneath his worn shirt. He wore his grief over his aunt's death like an invisible shroud.

"Want eggs?" I aimed for casual and landed somewhere closer to desperate.

"Already ate."

I tried again. "Need help with the trail map?"

"Got it handled."

Nothing he said was deliberately mean. The emptiness hurt—how he could speak to me like I was a temporary visitor, and he'd already penciled my departure into his mental calendar.

I knew not to push. Everything I'd learned about Wes Hunter told me that pressure would only drive him deeper into whatever cave he occupied. Still, it hurt. It was painful watching him rebuild his safe harbor again, brick by brick, until he'd locked me out on the wrong side of his defenses.

Was it time to give in and go? Should I catch the next ferry back to Whistleport and lick my wounds at Tidal Grounds?

I could write my thesis from the mainland and synthesize my interviews into neat academic paragraphs that would satisfy Dr. Greene's committee. The report could reduce Ironhook Island to data points, filing away what had happened between Wes and me as fieldwork that had gotten too personal.

The thought lasted as long as it took him to glance my way with his gray eyes. In that microsecond, I saw something beyond the barriers. Something that looked like panic.

He was scared I'd leave.

Wes wasn't building barricades to keep me out—he was bracing for the impact of my inevitable departure. His exile on Ironhook had taught him that people left, and caring about them only made the exit wounds deeper.

I stayed put in my kitchen chair and decided I'd either prove him wrong or break us both. I wasn't going anywhere.

By late morning, I'd transformed the guest room into a war room of scattered research notes and half-formed theories.

My laptop sat perched on the dresser, its screen reflecting the organized chaos of a mind trying to solve a puzzle with too many missing pieces.

Empty coffee mugs crowded the windowsill.

My phone buzzed—three new messages from Ziggy, each a small lifeline thrown across twenty miles of ocean.

Ziggy: How's the mysterious island romance? Kade wants details.

Ziggy: Also, Mom made too much chili again. She's convinced you're bringing someone home.

Ziggy: E? You've gone radio silent. That's either really good or really bad.

I stared at the messages, thumb hovering over the keyboard. How did you explain that you'd found something extraordinary and now had to watch it slip away because the person you'd fallen for had been trained by loss to expect disappointment?

I heard Wes moving around outside the cottage—the scrape of his boots against wooden steps and the metallic clang of tools being gathered for whatever maintenance project had captured his attention.

He'd been outside for an hour, clearing storm debris that probably didn't need clearing, finding reasons to avoid the space we shared indoors.

An idea formed in my head. I started typing before my brain could talk me out of it.

Eric: Can you and Kade do a quick video call today? Need a favor.

The response came so fast that I wondered whether Ziggy had been sitting with his phone in his hand.

Ziggy: Always. What kind of favor? The legal kind or the emotional support kind?

Eric: The kind where you remind someone that not everyone leaves.

The typing indicator appeared and disappeared several times before Ziggy's response arrived.

Ziggy: Ah. The good kind of favor. Give me an hour to coordinate with Kade. And E? Whatever you're planning, it's going to work.

I set the phone aside. Wes had perfected his isolation, convincing himself that solitude was safer than risking connection. Still, I'd seen how he'd relaxed during our conversations about Ziggy and listened with genuine interest when I'd shared stories about home.

Maybe what he needed wasn't another person trying to fix him but proof that some people chose to stay simply because they wanted to. That love could exist without conditions or expiration dates.

I closed my laptop and moved to the window, watching Wes work. His movements were efficient but restless.

When he finally headed back toward the cottage, tool bag slung over his shoulder, I knew my timing had to be perfect. This wouldn't work if it felt like an ambush or an intervention. It had to be what it was—an invitation to remember that the world was bigger than his isolation.

I opened my laptop again and checked the time. Ziggy had given me the green light, and I had one more hour to figure out how to crack the shell around Wes Hunter's heart without breaking what was inside.

The cottage's living room had never been designed for video conferences. I'd pushed the wooden table closer to the couch, angling my laptop so the camera saw both seats but avoided the stack of research books that made the space look like a graduate student's fever dream.

The afternoon had settled into that golden hour, where everything looked softer around the edges. Light filtered through salt-stained windows to paint the room in shades of honey and amber.

Wes emerged from the kitchen carrying two mugs of fresh coffee. "So," I said, accepting the coffee and patting the couch cushion beside me, "want to say hi to some of my friends?"

"Friends?"

"Ziggy and Kade. They're curious about the mysterious island caretaker who's been corrupting their innocent research buddy." I opened the laptop. "Plus, I thought you might like to meet the people who know how to make me laugh."

The video call software took its sweet time connecting, pixels dancing across the screen in frustrating patterns while an electronic melody played on repeat. Wes settled beside me, tense and ready to bolt if necessary.

Finally, the screen flickered to life.

Ziggy's face appeared first, filling the frame with that infectious grin that had gotten us both into trouble since early childhood. Behind him, I glimpsed his dorm room—unmade bed, poetry books scattered over every surface, and what looked like yesterday's hockey gear draped over a chair.

"Eric Callahan!" His voice crackled through the laptop speakers, warm and familiar as hot chocolate on Christmas morning. "There's my favorite hermit. You look—" He paused, head tilting as he studied my face through the camera. "Actually, you look really good. Different."

Before I could respond, Kade's face appeared beside Ziggy's, leaning into the frame. He was sipping from a ceramic mug that said "Poetry Is Not Dead" in faded lettering, his light brown hair catching the late afternoon sun streaming through their window.

Kade spoke. "What Ziggy means is that you look happy. Like, actually happy, not just performing happiness for the camera."

I placed a hand on Wes's shoulder. "Guys, I want you to meet Wes Hunter. Wes, this is Ziggy—my best friend since… well, ever—and his boyfriend Kade."

Wes raised one hand in a slight wave, his smile polite but guarded. "Nice to meet you both."

"So you're the mysterious caretaker," Ziggy's grin widened as he leaned closer to the camera again. "Eric's been different since he got to your island. Like, actually-happy different. We were starting to think he'd been replaced by a pod person with better social skills."

"Ziggy," I warned.

Kade nudged Ziggy with his elbow. "What my tactless boyfriend means is thank you for taking care of our boy. We were worried about him going off to study alone on some remote island. Figured he'd either get eaten by seagulls or spend a month talking to himself."

A hint of a smile appeared on Wes's face. "The seagulls here are more civilized than most people."

Movement behind Ziggy and Kade caught my attention. A familiar figure passed through the background—broad shoulders, graying hair, and the unmistakable bearing of a man who'd spent decades walking into burning buildings.

"Dad?" I leaned forward, squinting at the screen.

My father appeared properly in frame, expression softening when he saw me. "Eric. Good to see you, Son."

"What are you doing at Ziggy's place?"

"Your buddy gave me a quick call, and I figured it was time I met this Kade we've been hearing so much about. The drive's just over an hour up here to Orono."

Beside me, Wes had gone very still. I felt the shift in his posture. Something had captured his complete attention.

"Chief Callahan," Wes said quietly.

My dad's expression changed, sharpening with recognition. He leaned forward, examining Wes's face through the pixelated connection. "Wesley Hunter."

Everyone was silent for a few moments.

Dad finally spoke. "I was hoping Eric might bring you home with him. We should talk when you're ready. It's long overdue."

Wes raked his fingers through his hair. "Sir, I—"

"None of that." Dad's voice was gentle but firm. "You don't owe me anything, Son. If anything, I owe you an apology. Should have reached out years ago."

Ziggy glanced between the camera and my father. "Okay, this got heavy fast, but since we're all here, Eric, tell us about this research project that isn't just research anymore."

Ziggy managed to break some of the attention, but I had a hard time coming up with words. "It's complicated."

Kade smiled. "The best things usually are. Ziggy's about to tell an embarrassing story about you. I can see it in his eyes."

I groaned. "Oh, God."

"Remember when Eric decided he would impress all of us by learning to skateboard?" Ziggy's grin turned wicked. "This was sophomore year of high school, and Eric had never been on anything with wheels that wasn't attached to a car."

"Please don't." A tingle raced up my spine, and I smiled even though I knew what was coming.