He looked up at me, and for a heartbeat, his armor slipped completely. "Took me years to realize it was beautiful because it was broken."
We stood there in the growing dusk, the sound of waves against rock filling the space where words should have been. The fishing boat had disappeared beyond the horizon, leaving us alone with the vast indifference of the ocean.
Finally, Wes turned away from the edge. "Dinner's in an hour." He headed for the cottage, but his retreat felt different this time. It was less like slamming a door and more like strategic withdrawal.
He walked back toward the path without waiting for a response. He moved slowly, giving me time to follow if I wanted to.
I remained on the bluff for several more minutes, watching the sun sink toward the waterline. The air grew cooler.
The fortification was still intact. A structure that had protected Wes's heart for so many years couldn't be dismantled in a single conversation, but I'd found a crack. It was a place where the mortar had worn thin enough to let a little light through.
Here's the thing: people who've been abandoned don't stop believing in connection. They only stop thinking they'reallowedto have it. Hope doesn't die—it gets quieter, like an animal hiding under the porch, still breathing but too scared to come out.
The first stars were beginning to appear when I made my way back down the path, following the warm glow of lamplight that spilled from the cottage windows. Wes was probably already in the kitchen, methodically preparing dinner with the same careful precision he brought to everything else.
Tomorrow, we'd both have to figure out what came next. Tonight, I was content to know that he'd let me see him crack, just a little. Underneath all that armor, the person I'd kissed yesterday was still there, still breathing, and still hoping despite himself that maybe this time would be different.
Chapter eight
Wes
The mattress springs beneath me had their own vocabulary of complaints—a squeak when I shifted left, a groan when I turned right, and a persistent whine whenever I tried to find a position that didn't shoot fire up from my knee.
Despite its persistence, the pain wasn't what kept me awake.
Every time I closed my eyes, the rink materialized behind my eyelids. Derek's laugh echoed off the boards. I heard the scrape-slide rhythm of blades carving fresh ice.
I saw Eric's fingers wrapped around that rotted stick. His body was warm against mine as I guided his stance.
I pressed the heels of my palms against my eyes. The images refused to dissolve. Past two in the morning, sleep became a lost cause.
Easing out of bed, I tested my weight on the bad knee before committing to standing. The floorboards were cold against my bare feet, and I pulled on jeans and the work boots I'd left beside the door. My jacket hung on its usual peg, pockets heavy with random scraps of island living—spare batteries, a foldingknife, and the emergency whistle Margaret Sinclair insisted all caretakers carry.
My flashlight lived in the kitchen drawer. I clicked it on once to test the beam, then switched it off. The cottage plunged back into darkness.
Outside, clouds drifted across the moon, casting the island in shifting shades of charcoal and silver. It was the kind of restless night Derek would have loved. He'd always been drawn to darkness like other people sought sunlight, claiming the best adventures happened when decent folks were asleep.
I remember him appearing at my bedroom window. "Come on, Wes, the night's calling."
I started walking before I'd consciously decided where I was going. My flashlight beam bobbed ahead of me, illuminating patches of rough ground and the occasional glint of animal eyes that vanished the moment I turned toward them.
What are you doing, Hunter?
I couldn't answer that question. I only knew that staying in bed meant wrestling with memories that grew sharper in the dark. Walking meant I could consciously choose which ghosts to face.
The fence materialized out of the darkness like the skeleton of some massive creature, chain-link diamonds catching fragments of moonlight. The gate still hung open from yesterday's work, metal hinges silent on their rust-seized pins. I slipped through the gap and stepped onto the fractured asphalt.
Without Eric's presence to anchor me, the rink became unstuck from time. The boards rose on either side. Goal frames stood empty at either end, their crossbars silhouetted against the night sky.
The bleachers had been built into the natural slope of the hillside. Most of the wooden bench seats rotted through over time, but the concrete structure beneath remained solid.
I climbed toward the spot that matched where I used to sit in the Whistleport arena before pickup games—three rows up, dead center, where you could see the entire ice surface.
The concrete was cold through my jeans, and dampness immediately began seeping into the fabric. I shifted my position to find an angle that didn't aggravate the pain in my leg.
I rubbed the joint through the denim worn soft by salt air and work, exploring the raised ridge of scar tissue that mapped the surgeon's path through cartilage and bone. The physical therapist had warned me about weather sensitivity.
The abandoned Ironhook rink wasn't the same as the indoor one in Whistleport, but it was close enough. Both were temples built to worship the hockey gods.
