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Chapter twenty-one

Eric

W es adjusted the thermos strap across his shoulder for a third time, checking the seal. Our supplies were sparse—a few granola bars, my phone with its perpetually low battery, and his leather-bound weather journal that accompanied him everywhere like a faithful dog.

"Trail's going to be rough." He nodded toward the path that faded into a tangle of brambles. "Haven't maintained this section in years."

The route stretched ahead of us, barely wider than a deer track. Thorny canes reached across the narrow corridor like grasping fingers.

I stepped over a fallen branch. "I'm sure you realize you carry that weather brain of yours everywhere. Do you ever experience weather without analyzing it?"

"Better to be prepared."

We began climbing in elevation through dense undergrowth. I asked, "When do you think is the last time anyone used this path?"

"The Coast Guard used to patrol here regularly, but that would have been before the budget cuts over ten years ago. Most people stick to the maintained trails now."

Wes's tone suggested he wasn't like most people. Sometimes, he deliberately sought out forgotten places. I wondered how often that spirit extended beyond hiking.

I watched him look up, checking the sky and reading atmospheric signs I couldn't interpret. We paused for a brief rest, leaning against a boulder. "You're quiet… even for you."

"Thinking. Storm's building. Maybe not today, but we're due for a big one soon."

The scrubby pine faded away, leaving only beach grass and scattered wild roses. We emerged onto an exposed granite ledge that opened like a doorway to infinity. The sun's reflections off the ocean waves bounced off every surface.

The ocean sprawled endlessly to the horizon. The drop was steep, perhaps sixty feet, to jagged rocks where waves exploded in white foam and spray. A salt-heavy wind that tasted of seaweed accompanied the percussive sound.

"Oh, damn." I stepped closer to where the granite ended. "No guardrails or warning signs. Only gravity and good luck."

Wes stood by me shoulder to shoulder. "People who belong here know the dangers. Everyone else learns quickly or finds somewhere safer to visit."

The edges of the ledge where we stood were worn smooth by decades of weather. Salt crystals crusted the limits of the spray's reach during high tide.

Balancing with Wes between solid ground and empty air was exhilarating. Standing there took guts, but I trusted that Wes knew every inch of the island.

He moved closer to the precipice, staring out at the horizon with an expression I'd never seen before. His usual guardedness had dissolved into something peaceful. The wind whipped his dark hair across his forehead, and his breathing synched up with the rhythm of the waves against the stone.

For a moment, he looked like he'd found his perfect place in the world.

Then, something changed. It was as subtle as a cloud passing over the sun. It was a barely perceptible flinch, but it was there.

It didn't last more than seconds, but that was long enough to ring alarm bells in my head. "Wes?"

The world dropped out from under us. The granite didn't crack or splinter—it ceased to exist beneath our feet. One moment, we stood on solid stone that had weathered Atlantic storms for millennia, and the next, we were falling, suspended in the air.

My stomach lodged in my throat. The sensation lasted forever and no time at all—a nauseating moment of weightlessness before the ledge below rose up to meet us.

The impact drove every molecule of air from my lungs. I hit the stone shelf shoulder-first, and the momentum rolled me sideways. Loose rocks rained off the side of the ledge, tumbling to the surf below.

"Eric!" Wes's voice cut through the ringing in my ears, sharp with panic. His hands appeared at my shoulders and skull, fingertips probing gently for damage. "Where are you hurt? Can you move your fingers? Your toes?"

I'd never heard Wes's voice like that—frayed, desperate. It cracked through the ringing in my ears before his usual control slid into place.

I pushed myself up to sitting, taking stock while dust settled around us. My shoulder screamed, and the rock had scraped my right palm raw where I'd tried to break the fall, but nothing stood out as a critical wound.

I tried to lighten the moment. "Well, that's one way to get a closer look at the local geology."

Wes didn't crack a smile.

We'd landed on a granite shelf roughly ten feet below our original position, wide enough to accommodate both of us but not much more.

My granola bars littered the perch, and my thermos had sustained a dent.

Above us, the cliff face showed fresh wounds where the overhang surrendered to time and salty seas.

"Fucking erosion." Wes sat back on his heels while his hand raked through his hair. "Should have seen it coming. Should have tested the stability before we got that close to the edge."

"How exactly were you supposed to predict geological failure?" I wiped a trickle of blood from my forehead with my sleeve. "You're observant, not omniscient."

"I know every inch of this island—every weak point where the rock's been compromised by weather. Monitoring erosion patterns is part of my job description."

I struggled to my feet, testing my weight distribution. "Sometimes catastrophic failure just happens… in every life venue."

He wasn't listening. He'd shifted his attention to assessing possible escape routes, examining the cliff face above and below us. He probed potential handholds, testing their reliability.

The old Wes was back—shoulders squared against the world.

After several minutes of systematic evaluation, he concluded, "Can't go up. The entire section's compromised. One wrong move, and we'll bring down half the cliff face."

I joined him at the ledge's outer edge, peering down at the jagged coastline that stretched toward churning water. The rocks below looked like broken teeth, sharp and unforgiving. Waves crashed against them, occasionally sending spray high enough that we could taste salt mist on our tongues.

"And going down looks like an efficient way to become seagull breakfast. Looks like we're officially stranded on our own private slice of Maine."

"Pretty much."

The reality of our situation settled in as thick fog gathered. We were stuck on a granite shelf, hanging between sky and sea like we'd wandered into the world's most inconvenient thriller.

I reached into my jacket pocket, expecting to find my phone reduced to metallic confetti by the fall. Instead, I found intact metal and glass—a minor miracle.

The screen lit up to reveal a single bar of signal strength, flickering but potentially functional. I held the device toward the sky in hopes of catching the attention of the cellular gods. "Does modern technology trump geological catastrophe?"

My fingers trembled as I composed what might be the most crucial text of my life. I sent it to my father.

Eric: Stranded cliffside on the North Cliff trail—safe but need help.

Hopefully, it could get through and trigger Dad's professional rescue instincts without sending him into full panic mode. The phone claimed it successfully delivered my message, but no answer was immediately forthcoming.

"Now we wait." I slid down the cliff wall to sit with my back against the stone.

Wes remained standing while he watched the horizon. We were on a part of the island that faced away from Whistleport into the open ocean. "I hate waiting."

"I know." I patted the granite beside me, inviting him to sit. "Unless you've developed the ability to fly since breakfast, waiting seems to be our most viable option."

Somewhere below us, gulls rode the updrafts with casual mastery, their cries sharp against the wind. I thought about them finding our predicament amusing, circling close enough to get a good look at the humans who'd managed to strand themselves on a thin granite diving board.

Wes finally settled beside me. His weather journal had survived the fall, leather cover scuffed but intact, and he pulled it out, leafing back through meteorological history.

"The wind's shifting. A storm is coming. Probably tonight or early tomorrow morning."

We both understood the implications of his comments. Being stranded was manageable in calm conditions, but if bad weather moved in before rescue arrived, our granite shelf would transform from an uncomfortable refuge to a death trap.

After several minutes of silence between us, Wes spoke. "Funny thing about being trapped. It makes you realize how much energy you've spent on always maintaining escape routes."

He took a deep breath. "I don't do this—sit still with someone. There's nowhere to run when things get too..."

"Too what?"

"Real." He lowered his head. "Derek used to say I had an emergency exit strategy for everything. Conversations, relationships, or even hockey drills that got too intense."

I remained perfectly still, hardly daring to breathe in case sudden movement might spook him back into silence. He'd just volunteered more personal information than in all of our previous conversations combined.

"He was right. Even as a kid, I always had one foot pointed toward the door. Guess it might take getting stranded on a cliff to figure out that running isn't always the answer."

The wind picked up and tossed his hair across his forehead. I watched his profile and maintained my silence. I had nothing to add as long as he continued his confessions.

"After the accident and everyone decided I was toxic, it hit me like validation.

See? I was right to keep my distance. People leave, or they get hurt, or they die, and the only way to avoid that is never to get close enough for it to matter.

" He pressed his palms flat against the granite, fingers spread wide.

"That's why I spent sixteen years perfecting the art of not needing anyone. "

Wes clarified the architecture of his isolated world. It wasn't built only on shame or guilt—he'd systematically dismantled his capacity for connection.

He continued and brought me into the picture. "Then you showed up, and you were impossibly cheerful while telling bad dad jokes. Despite that, I started remembering what it feels like to want someone to stay."

I moved my hand to cover his where it rested against granite. His skin was cold beneath my palm, and a subtle tremor ran through him.

"That terrifies you," I whispered.

"More than falling off cliffs." He didn't pull away from my touch, but I imagined him fighting back the impulse. "Because at least with gravity, you know what's coming. With people..."

"With people, you never know if they'll catch you or let you fall."

He turned to look at me then, gray eyes searching my face.

"I'm not going anywhere." I leaned toward him, letting my shoulder rest against his. "Whatever happens next, and whatever we figure out about us, I'm not running when things get complicated."

His breathing deepened, and a lump grew in my throat when I watched a half-smile appear. "You say that now when we're stuck on a ledge with nowhere else to go."

We both chuckled.

The ocean waves continued to crash below us, indifferent to the power of human revelations, while gulls called to each other in voices that sounded a little less mocking.

I wanted to say something that would honor what Wes had just given me, but before I could find the words, my phone vibrated, the light buzzing startling us both.

I fumbled at extracting the device from my pocket, hands clumsy with cold. Dad's name appeared on the screen.

Tom Callahan: Stay put. We've got eyes on you. Help on the way.

I held the phone so Wes could read the words and whispered, "Oh, my fucking God. He's coming."

The response was quintessentially Dad—economical, practical, and designed to convey maximum information with minimum drama. It was the calm competence of someone who'd spent decades pulling people out of situations they couldn't escape alone.

Wes read the message twice. "Eyes on you," he repeated, scanning the horizon for signs of approaching help. "Probably means the Coast Guard. Your dad's got connections."

The knowledge that rescue was imminent should have prompted celebration. Instead, we settled back against the cliff wall in companionable silence, neither of us eager to break whatever spell had been cast by our forced proximity and shared vulnerability.

A fishing boat appeared on the horizon, too distant to make out details, but it moved with a purposeful trajectory. Behind it, another vessel followed—larger, with the clean lines that marked it as Coast Guard instead of a commercial fishing boat.

"There," Wes pointed toward the approaching vessels. "Your dad doesn't mess around when it comes to marine rescue."

The wind continued to toss our hair and tug at our jackets, but the threat was gone. I pulled out my phone again, thumbs moving across the screen to compose a response:

Eric: Can see boats approaching. Thank you.

The message went through immediately this time as if the cellular gods had decided we'd suffered enough technological frustration for one morning. Within seconds, Dad's reply appeared:

Tom Callahan: Twenty minutes. Sit tight.

The boats grew larger as they approached, their engines creating a distant rumble that vibrated through the water and up through the stone beneath us. I saw figures moving on the Coast Guard vessel's deck.

Wes watched. "They'll probably use a basket and haul us up one at a time. Standard procedure for cliff rescue when the terrain's too unstable for climbing."

The fishing boat reached the base of the cliff first, maneuvering close enough to the rocks to see Dad's distinctive profile in the wheelhouse. He raised a hand in acknowledgment when he spotted us.

I returned the wave with more enthusiasm than strictly necessary.

Wes lifted his hand in greeting. "He'll coordinate with the Coast Guard. Make sure everything goes smoothly."

We watched the rescue unfold, no longer stranded but not yet saved. The urgency that drove our morning dissolved.

Wes exhaled slowly, eyes fixed on the boats below. "Never thought I'd say this, but I think I'm going to miss this ledge."

"Yeah?" I nudged his shoulder with mine.

He turned to look at me, and his voice was rough at the edges. "It's the first time I haven't wanted to run."

Neither of us spoke after that. We simply sat, side by side, with our backs pressed to the granite, as the rescue basket descended toward us and the sea wind tangled our hair.