Page 127 of Stolen Harmony

I sank onto the couch, head in my hands, surrounded by the detritus of another failed attempt to build something lasting. The silence pressed down on me, thick and suffocating, broken only by Roxie's purring and the distant sound of Harbor's End going about its business outside my windows.

I needed air. Needed movement. Needed anything that wasn't the four walls of this apartment and the weight of my own failure pressing down like a physical thing.

I left the packing half-finished, grabbed my jacket, and walked out into the gray afternoon.

I found myself on Anchor Street as the sun was starting to set, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold that made even my misery look picturesque. The street was quiet except for the sound of laughter drifting from one of the houses—warm, genuine laughter that made something twist in my chest.

I followed the sound to Kepler's cottage. The backyard was visible through the side gate, and I could see two figures sitting on the small deck, beer bottles catching the last light of day.

Kepler sat in one chair, his silver hair catching the light, while Tom from the Mariner's Rest occupied the other. Theywere deep in conversation, the easy kind that came from decades of friendship, occasionally punctuated by laughter that carried on the salt-tinged air.

I should have walked away. Should have kept moving, found somewhere else to process the wreckage of the day. But something about the warmth spilling from that small gathering drew me like a moth to flame.

I was standing at the gate, debating whether to interrupt, when Kepler looked up and spotted me.

“Rowan,” he called out, no surprise in his voice despite the unexpectedness of my appearance. “This is a pleasant surprise.”

Tom turned in his chair, raising his beer in greeting. “Well, look what the tide washed up. Come on back, son.”

I pushed through the gate and approached the deck, suddenly self-conscious about interrupting what looked like a comfortable evening between old friends.

“I was walking,” I said, which wasn't really an explanation for anything. “Saw the lights, heard the laughter.”

“Best kind of walking,” Tom said with a grin. “The kind that leads you to good company and cold beer. Kepler, grab the boy a bottle.”

“Already on it,” Kepler said, disappearing into the house and returning with a beer still cold from the refrigerator. He handed it to me along with a bottle opener shaped like a fish. “Sit. You look like you need it.”

I settled into the third chair that had been folded against the house, accepting the beer gratefully. The first sip was bitter and clean, washing away some of the taste of the day's disappointments.

“So,” Tom said, settling back in his chair, “what brings you to our little corner of paradise on this fine evening?”

“Just walking off a bad day,” I said, trying to keep my voice light.

“Bad day, or bad life choice?” Kepler asked.

I laughed despite myself, surprised by how good it felt. “Both, probably.”

“Those are the worst kind,” Tom observed. “The ones where you can't tell if you're having a moment of poor judgment or revealing a fundamental character flaw.”

“Definitely the latter,” I said, taking another sip of beer. “I'm apparently very good at fucking up good things.”

Kepler and Tom exchanged a look that suggested they'd been having their own conversation before I'd arrived, one that might have been about me or people like me or the general tendency of life to kick you when you were down.

“You know,” Tom said thoughtfully, “I've been tending bar for twenty-five years. You want to know the thing I've learned about people?”

“What's that?”

“Everyone thinks they're uniquely gifted at destroying their own happiness. But really, most folks are just stumbling around trying to figure out how to connect with other human beings without getting hurt.” He took a long pull from his beer. “The trick is learning that getting hurt is part of the deal.”

“What if the other person decides you're not worth getting hurt for?”

“Then they're an idiot,” Tom said without hesitation. “Or they're scared. Sometimes it's hard to tell the difference.”

Kepler leaned forward in his chair, his weathered hands clasped around his beer bottle. “Tom, why don't you grab us another round? I think the boy and I need to have a word.”

Tom caught the hint immediately, standing up with the easy grace of someone who'd learned to read situations afterdecades of managing human drama. “I'll be right back. Going to check if you've got any of that smoked fish left.”

He disappeared into the house, leaving Kepler and me alone with the sound of waves against the rocks and the distant cry of seagulls settling in for the night.