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Chapter eighteen

Wes

T he water stretched smooth as hammered pewter between Whistleport and Ironhook, barely a ripple to disturb the reflection of clouds drifting overhead. October had settled into that deceptive calm between storms.

Chief Callahan's words from the video call still echoed— You don't owe me anything, Son —but it was the kids walking down the street who'd really rattled me.

When I corrected his grip, that boy looked at me like I'd handed him something valuable instead of merely opening my mouth without thinking first.

It wasn't coaching, not really. It was remembering out loud.

I rubbed my thumb along the ferry's salt-crusted rail, feeling the rough texture against my skin. The boy's face when his skating suddenly clicked—pure joy, uncomplicated by the weight of expectation or the fear of disappointment. When was the last time I'd experienced anything that clean?

Eric shifted beside me, and I caught him watching my profile. He didn't ask what I was thinking about. Long ago, he figured out that direct questions usually sent me diving for cover.

When we approached the Ironhook harbor, Mrs. Pelletier stood at the edge of the dock like she'd been carved from the same ancient granite as the island itself. Her oilskin jacket caught the harbor breeze while a Red Sox cap shadowed her eyes.

She didn't wave or call out as the ferry bumped against the dock pilings. Instead, she watched us with the patient attention of someone who'd spent seventy-eight years reading the weather in people's faces. She'd planted her boots wide on the planks, ready for any disturbance.

"Didn't expect to see you two back so soon. Island miss you already?"

Eric shouldered his supply bag, grinning at her like she'd told him a particularly good joke. "You know how it is, Mrs. Pelletier. Civilization gets overwhelming after a couple of hours."

"Mm-hmm." Her watchful gaze turned to me. "Funny thing, though. I heard a whisper about you giving skating pointers to some young ones. You sure the world's ready for Wes Hunter, youth mentor?"

I felt as transparent as sea glass under her gaze. Small towns didn't need internet—they had gossip networks, and this one spanned the twenty miles between Whistleport and Ironhook.

I hefted my bag higher on my shoulder. "Kid had a grip problem. Figured he should know before he developed bad habits."

"Course you did. Nothing wrong with remembering what you're good at."

Eric's grin widened. He was enjoying our conversation entirely too much.

She straightened, reached into her jacket pocket, and pulled out a paper sack folded neatly at the top. "This is your usual from the co-op. Thought I'd bring it to you when I heard you were on your way back."

The sack was warm against my palms, heavier than expected. "Thanks."

"Island folks take care of their own. Always have."

She turned to walk away.

Eric bumped my shoulder. "She likes you."

"She tolerates me."

"Same thing in Mrs. Pelletier's book."

On the walk back to the cottage, the path wound past fence posts with peeling paint and rose hip plants turned brown and brittle. When we approached home, I realized I'd been holding my breath.

Eric dropped his supply bag beside the kitchen table and immediately started unpacking, creating neat piles of batteries, notebook refills, and whatever else he'd deemed essential for another week of studying the island.

I set Mrs. Pelletier's bag on the counter and stared at it—coffee beans, cookies, and honey. The kind of thoughtful contributions that demonstrated someone had been paying attention to my preferences for years.

Eric moved around the kitchen with easy familiarity, filling the kettle and pulling down mugs like he'd been sharing the space for months instead of weeks. I needed something to occupy my hands before they started drumming against surfaces or fiddling with objects that didn't require fixing.

The weather log sat open on the table where I'd left it that morning, with barometric readings half-recorded in my careful script.

I settled into my usual chair and picked up the pencil, but the numbers blurred together.

Instead of atmospheric pressure, I saw that kid's face when his skating clicked and made sense.

I hadn't seen that look in someone's eyes in years—the one that said I might still have something to give.

Behind me, Eric was doing something with tea bags instead of coffee and humming under his breath—some tuneless melody that had become as much a part of the cottage's soundtrack as the wind testing the window frames.

I flipped to a fresh page in the log and tried to focus on entering the morning's wind measurements. My handwriting looked cramped and unsteady.

Eric's chair scraped against the floor as he pulled it closer to the table.

He handed me a ceramic mug cradled in both hands while steam curled between his fingers, releasing scents of chamomile and honey.

It was the choice that suggested he understood I was already wound tight enough without adding caffeine to the equation.

He sipped quietly at first, content to exist in the same space as me without demanding conversation. Finally, he couldn't stop himself. "You've been frowning at your log for ten minutes."

I glanced down at the weather log. The pencil had left several false starts where I'd begun recording wind speed and stopped mid-number. "Thinking."

"About skating?"

I set the pencil down and leaned back in my chair, studying his face. He wasn't pushing. It was more like he was holding open a door I could walk through.

"Maybe that's it. It was just a one-time thing, though. The kid needed help with his grip."

Eric nodded, taking another sip of his tea. He had a way of making space for conversations that wanted to happen, even when I wasn't sure I was ready to have them.

"Besides, those kids were being polite. Real coaching is different. It requires commitment, patience, and showing up."

Eric watched me over the rim of his mug with those ocean-blue eyes. "You didn't look like someone pretending. You looked like someone remembering."

"Remembering's dangerous."

"Is it?" Eric leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the table. "Or is forgetting what's dangerous?"

I didn't have an answer for that. Eric waited while I wrestled with words that wanted to surface.

"What if there's nothing left? What if I try and find out I was fooling myself about ever being good at anything?"

Eric set his tea down and reached across the table, covering my hand with his. "Then you'll know, and knowing is better than wondering." He squeezed my hand. "They keep the rink open for drop-ins on weekday afternoons. Community skating, mostly. I used to go with Ziggy sometimes."

My spine straightened. "And…?"

"And I think you might want to see how it feels. It's not a commitment. It's one skate."

"Eric." I pushed back from the table, needing distance from the hope in his voice. "You think I can just show up at the Whistleport rink like nothing happened?"

"I think you can show up because something happened. You helped that kid and remembered what it felt like to help someone get better at something you love."

I stood and moved to the kitchen window, staring out at the harbor. The familiar view should have been soothing, but my fingers trembled.

"What if it hurts? What if I get out there and realize how much I've lost, how far I've fallen from—"

Eric interrupted me. "What if it doesn't?"

That was the real fear, wasn't it? Not that I'd discover I was broken beyond repair, but that I'd find pieces of myself worth putting back together. That I'd build something I could lose again.

I turned to face him, searching his expression for signs of pressure or expectation. Instead, I found only patience and something suspiciously like faith in me.

"And if I make a fool of myself in front of people who remember when I was supposed to be something special?"

Eric shrugged. "Then you come back here to Ironhook and know that you tried. That's more than most people can say about the things that scare them."

He stood and took his empty vessel to the kitchen sink.

"You don't owe anyone an answer about this but yourself. Not me, and certainly not anyone else in Whistleport. You only owe it to yourself."

The simplicity of his argument was devastating.

For years, I'd convinced myself that staying away was about protecting other people from my damage and my failure to live up to their expectations.

Eric was right—the only person I really owed anything to was the one who'd been too scared to find out if anything was left worth saving.

The cottage had settled into its evening quiet by the time Eric disappeared down the hallway, his soft "goodnight" trailing behind him like the last note of a song.

I heard the guest room door close with its familiar click, followed by the rustle of sheets and the creak of bedsprings as he settled in for the night.

I stayed at the sink, hands in warm, soapy water, scrubbing my mug long after it was clean. Moonlight glinted across the harbor, casting ribbons of silver over the surface. Somewhere beyond the rocks, a buoy bell chimed, steady as breath.

My thoughts were still with that kid.

I remembered how his grip shifted, and suddenly, he got it. His eyes lit up like the world had tilted in his favor for the first time. And the look his friend gave him—like he'd just witnessed a miracle.

I hadn't meant to say anything. The words had just... happened. Not because I was trying to help but because not helping felt unbearable.

That was the truth I didn't want to face. Not that I'd fail if I stepped on the ice, but I'd remember how much I loved it and might still want it.

My bare feet whispered across the floorboards as I made my way to the guest room. I stood outside the door for a moment, listening. There was no light beneath it, only the soft hush of Eric's breathing.

I didn't need to do it now. I could wait until morning, make it casual over coffee like it didn't matter.

But it did matter. My knuckles were already tapping twice against the wood.

"Let's go," I said quietly. My voice sounded wrecked. "I'll skate. But no promises."

A pause. Then his voice, low and warm. "Didn't ask for any."

I exhaled like I'd been holding my breath for hours. I didn't open the door. I didn't need to. I just stood there momentarily, hand still raised, heart thudding.

Then, I turned and walked back toward my room, the cottage dim and hushed around me. Everything was different. The silence wasn't silence anymore. It was waiting.

Behind me, the guest room door stayed closed, but he was still on the other side of it—steady as the tides.

And maybe that was the scariest part.

Not skating.

Not failing.

Letting him see the part of me that wanted him—and choosing to let him stay. Outside the window, the harbor shimmered, and inside the cottage, something began to thaw.