Eric spoke softly. "He never shares names. It's about personal privacy and professional boundaries, but I remember that night." He stared at the wall beyond me.
"I was maybe six or seven. It was the only time I ever saw my dad cry. He locked himself in the bathroom. I heard the water running, but I heard him, too. He didn't know I was awake."
The sudden silence between us would have been uncomfortable at most times, but the wind and rain provided a soundtrack that eased some of the tension.
"I asked him once what happened that night." Eric rubbed his hands on his knees. "He said sometimes the job follows you home, and some calls stick with you longer than others. That was all I ever got out of him."
"Your father's a good man." My praise was genuine. "He stayed with me until the ambulance came. He kept talking and kept me conscious. I don't remember much from that night, but I remember his voice."
"Is that why you came here? Because of the accident?"
"Part of it." I took another sip of whiskey, concentrating on the burn. "Hockey was supposed to be my ticket out of Whistleport. Full ride to UMaine, scouts already sniffing around. Then one night, one stupid decision, riding with a buddy who had a beer in his hand, and suddenly I was the dreaded tale they tell kids about drinking and driving."
"But you weren't—"
"Doesn't matter," I cut him off. "Perception is the reality in places like Whistleport. And the perception was that Wes Hunter, golden boy hockey star, had thrown it all away for a six-pack and a joy ride."
Eric's jaw tightened. "That's not fair."
"Fair's got nothing to do with it." My voice cracked, and the words slipped out before I could stop them. "I got to walk away,but Derek—my cousin—he didn't." I clamped my mouth shut, the storm's howl filling the void where my confession hung.
Eric's eyes widened, but he didn't speak, his silence a weight heavier than the wind outside.
I gestured toward the window where the storm continued its relentless assault. "So, I came here. Where nobody knows my name, or if they do, they don't give a damn about what I used to be or what I might have been."
The silence that followed was different from before. Eric looked at me like he was seeing me for the first time, and maybe he was. I was no longer the gruff hermit who'd been answering his questions with grunts and monosyllables. I was a person with conscientiously constructed armor.
Eric leaned back against the cushions, a soft laugh escaping him. "So we're both refugees from small-town expectations."
"Something like that."
The firelight played across his features, highlighting the thoughtful set of his mouth. I paid more attention to his specific features than anyone else's for over a decade. He had faint freckles across his nose, and his hair fell in sandy waves, echoing the ocean. They caught the amber glow from the candlelight.
"It's funny." He tilted his head slightly. "When I was a kid, I used to wonder about that night. Not in a morbid way, but... Dad came home different. Quieter. He sat in that chair for hours. I knew it had been bad, whatever happened."
"Bad enough." I swirled the whiskey in my glass. "He got me out. That's what matters."
"He saved more than your life that night."
"What do you mean?"
Eric chose his words with care. "You're here. You survived. You built this life, even if it's not the one you planned. That's not nothing, Wes."
The wind outside reached a crescendo that made the whole cottage shudder. There was an unexpected parallel between the storm's intensity and whatever was growing in the space between us.
The cottage creaked, settling deeper into the storm's embrace, and I wondered what it would be like to not be alone through the storms yet to come. Silence had become my constant companion, but Eric pulled me out of that and into conversation.
It was disconcerting. I'd perfected the art of keeping people at arm's length, being polite but distant, helpful but unavailable. I'd constructed my life on Ironhook to avoid moments like this—moments when someone might see the safe harbor I'd constructed around my heart.
Sitting in my house with Eric, the son of the man who'd saved my life, I wondered whether maybe—just maybe—I was tired of being alone with my ghosts.
The fire popped and hissed, sending sparks up the chimney, and Eric stretched like a cat, a bit lanky but graceful. He looked like he belonged in my storm-swaddled cottage that had been my sanctuary for so long.
He flashed a gentle smile. "This is nice."
"What is?"
"This. Talking. Being here with you." He gestured vaguely at the space between us. "I can't remember the last time I had a conversation that felt this... real."
