I shifted my position slightly, trying to get a better view of the speakers without revealing myself. Three people stood near the dock's edge—an older man with a grizzled beard, a woman in her sixties wearing a paint-stained fleece, and a younger guy who looked like he might be in his thirties.
The older man spoke quietly. "Boy's been through enough. Hard not to feel sorry for the kid."
The kid.Wes was thirty-five, hardly anyone's definition of a child. Something in the man's tone suggested he was talking about someone much younger—maybe the person Wes had been when he'd first arrived on Ironhook.
I lowered my camera and crept closer, still using the lobster traps as cover. It was eavesdropping, but it was also the first realinformation I'd heard about Wes's history from anyone other than Wes himself.
The woman spoke again. "Still can't believe how that whole thing went down. Wesley Hunter. Best hockey player this part of Maine ever produced, and everyone was so quick to write him off."
"Wasn't his fault," added the younger man. "His cousin was driving. Everyone knew that."
Derek. The cousin Wes had mentioned. He was the one who hadn't walked away from the accident.
"Try telling that to the rest of Whistleport." The older man gazed out over the water. "Kid was guilty by association. Easier to blame both of them than admit Derek had a drinking problem."
I thought about Wes's careful words about the night of the storm—how he'd said perception was reality in small towns.
"The parents didn't help matters." The woman lowered her voice. "Wesley's own parents washed their hands of him when the scandal hit. Too embarrassed to stand by their son."
I processed this slowly—no wonder he'd ended up on an island twenty miles from anywhere.
The older man finished the story. "Left in the middle of the night, and he showed up here six months later—skinny as a rail, walking with that limp, and eyes that didn't look at anyone. Margaret Sinclair gave him the caretaker job."
"Best thing that could have happened." The younger man added a coda. "Boy needed somewhere to heal."
The ferry's horn echoed across the water, announcing its approach. I watched the small group shift their attention to the incoming boat. Their conversation dissolved into practical concerns about mail delivery and grocery orders.
I crouched behind the traps for several more minutes, my camera forgotten in my lap. The pieces of Wes's story came together—a slow exile that had ended here on Ironhook Island.
Eyes that didn't look at anyone.
I thought about how Wes had kissed me and today's retreat, rebuilding every wall.
Maybe for someone who'd experienced abandonment once, intimacy wasn't a gift—it was a threat. Another chance for disappointment when people decided you weren't worth the trouble.
The ferry docked with its usual grinding of metal against wood, pulling me out of my thoughts. I gathered my camera gear and headed back toward the cottage, my mind churning with everything I'd overheard.
I hadn't gotten a single photograph of coastal erosion, but I'd learned more about the man I was falling for and why he might be so determined to keep me at arm's length.
The cottage came into view as I rounded the bend in the path, its weathered shingles catching the slanted afternoon sun. I heard Wes before seeing him—the rhythmic scrape of something dragged across wood, punctuated by occasional muttered curses.
He was behind the shed, hunched over a massive fishing net spread across a makeshift work surface he'd constructed from sawhorses and plywood. His shoulders were tense and rigid beneath faded blue flannel.
I stood at the edge of the clearing, drinking in the sight of him. Longing and frustration battled inside me. I wanted to cross the space between us and touch his back, but I knew he'd probably bolt if I tried.
I approached with practiced casualness. "Need an extra pair of hands?"
Wes didn't look up. His fingers continued their methodical work on a particularly stubborn tangle. "Got it covered."
The dismissal was polite but firm. I could have respected it and gone inside to make dinner or work on my thesis. Instead, I settled onto an overturned milk crate about six feet away, close enough to help if invited but far enough to avoid crowding him.
"Suit yourself." I reached for a coil of rope near the work surface.
I began untangling the coil, mirroring Wes's methodical approach with the net. Ropes were something I knew, and the work gave my hands something to do.
"I listened to stories about the wreck today," I said quietly, not looking up from my work. "Your cousin. The blame."
Wes's hands froze mid-motion.
