One word. No elaboration. Wes continued his intense examination of whatever fascinating development was happening outside.
I sipped my coffee, searching for the right approach. Yesterday, his distance had dissolved. Now, it was like he'd rebuilt every wall overnight, reinforced with fresh mortar.
"Got work to do." Wes turned, but he didn't look at me. "Net repairs. Down by the bluff."
The avoidance was worse than his usual gruffness. At least when he was surly, he was present.
"I could help. You know what I can do with the rope work."
"Don't need help."
The words came out clipped and final. Wes headed for the door, pausing only to grab his jacket from the hook.
"Going to be out there most of the day. Don't wait on me for meals."
The screen door banged shut behind him, leaving me alone in the kitchen with my cooling coffee. I watched through the window as he disappeared down the path toward the bluff. His stride was purposeful like he couldn't get away from the cottage—and me—fast enough.
I couldn't unfeel his hunger when he kissed me. He'd needed my lips more than air.
The cottage suddenly felt too small. Every corner reminded me of the kiss.
I spread research materials across the scarred wooden surface of the kitchen table. Interview transcripts, field notes, and sketches of coastal erosion patterns—all the raw material that was supposed to coalesce into something profound about community resilience and economic adaptation.
When I fired up my laptop, all my words blurred together.
Mrs. Pelletier's voice played through the speakers, describing how the island had hung on after the fishing industry collapsed, but I kept losing the thread of her story. My mind wandered to the flex of Wes's shoulders as he'd worked on the lobster traps and how his hands guided mine on the hockey stick.
Focus, Callahan.
I hit pause on the recording and started to type, determined to capture at least one valuable insight. The screen remained stubbornly blank.
I pushed back from the table and moved to the kitchen window. I saw the path that led toward the bluff where Wes was allegedly repairing nets. I considered walking down there to bring him a thermos of coffee. I'd pretend nothing happened yesterday.
It was a bad idea. He'd see right through my ruse.
I'd kissed him. He'd kissed me back. Now, he was treating me like I had some contagious disease that spread through mouth-to-mouth contact.
My phone buzzed against the table, a welcome distraction from the spiral of my thoughts. Ziggy's name lit up the screen.
Ziggy:How's island life treating you? Still collecting fascinating data on crusty old fishermen?
I stared at the message, thumb hovering over the keyboard. Ziggy and I had shared everything since we were kids—first crushes, college anxieties, and my confused, stumbling path toward understanding my sexuality.
Somehow, this was different. More fragile.
Eric:So... I kissed the guy.
The three dots appeared immediately, disappeared, then reappeared. I envisioned Ziggy dropping whatever he was doing.
Ziggy:Whoa. DETAILS.
Ziggy:Wait, the grumpy caretaker? Hot mysterious guy Wes?
Eric:That's the one.
Ziggy:Dude. How? When? Was it good? Are you dating now? Is this why you've been radio silent for three days?
I laughed, imagining Ziggy pacing around his dorm room, probably already planning how to turn this into a poem.
