I walked the perimeter slowly. The cool, dark air carried the first hints of winter—that metallic bite that made your lungs work harder for each breath. Derek had loved nights like this.
The cold makes everything sharper, Wes. Makes you pay attention."
He would have been thirty-six next month. I sometimes wondered what he would have become—whether the restlessness that had driven him toward trouble would have eventually driven him toward something worthwhile or whether he would have burned out spectacularly in some other way on another night.
I probably knew the answer. He'd been careening toward disaster since we were fourteen, collecting speeding tickets and broken curfews like trophies. Admitting that felt like a betrayal, speaking ill of the dead to justify my own survival.
I'd never know for sure. Sometimes, I was grateful it wasn't me wrapped around that utility pole.
And relieved.
I was shamefully relieved that Derek's recklessness had finally caught up with him before it could drag me down, too. I'dgrown tired of being his accomplice, covering for his drinking, and making excuses to coaches, parents, and anyone else who noticed his increasingly erratic behavior.
The accident solved that problem permanently.
Hating myself for that gratitude and relief was easier than examining what it all meant.
I heard the sound of boots finding their way through the undergrowth. Twigs snapped under deliberate footsteps, and fabric whispered against tall weeds and grass.
Eric.
I didn't turn around. At first, I wanted to demand an explanation—how he'd known where I'd gone and what gave him the right to intrude on a conversation I was having with dead people. Then, I exhaled and decided to breathe.
He materialized at the edge of my peripheral vision, a shadow moving through the gate and onto the cracked asphalt. No flashlight, which meant he'd either memorized the path from yesterday's work or trusted his feet to find their way in the darkness.
The kid had better night vision than I'd given him credit for. Maybe he was part cat.
Eric didn't speak. He didn't approach the bleachers where I sat or offer any of the awkward pleasantries that usually accompanied unexpected encounters. Instead, he walked to the far end of the structure and settled onto a bench three rows below me.
I examined him from the corner of my eye: elbows on knees and hands clasped.
No phone-checking, no fidgeting. He knew how to hold still like prey that understood sudden movements attracted predators. Somehow, he had the audacity to be precisely what the moment required—another person willing to sit with ghosts without trying to exorcise them.
I finally broke the silence. "You're supposed to be asleep."
Eric's response came without hesitation. "So were you."
A gull cried somewhere in the distance, its call sharp against the muffled sound of waves. "You ever just sit with ghosts?" I didn't think through what the question might imply about me.
Eric was quiet for so long that I began to wonder if he'd heard me. Derek would have filled the silence immediately. He'd been allergic to quiet, always needing to fill empty spaces with commentary, jokes, or plans that stretched into futures neither of us would see.
Come on, just one more lap along the coast. The night's still young."
The taste of copper and gasoline rose in my throat. Some memories had flavors.
"Every day," Eric replied at last.
He didn't elaborate on which particular ghosts kept him company or how long he'd been carrying them around. He only sat in the darkness, breathing steadily, existing in the same space as my visions.
Eric's stillness worked on me like a sedative I hadn't known I needed. No comfort offered or broken things declared fixable. Only his presence as patient as the tide pools waiting for the waves to return.
He was simply there.
In my experience, people either demanded explanations or provided solutions, requiring energy I rarely had available. Eric did neither. He was present in the way that water was present—taking whatever shape the container provided without trying to change the fundamental nature of what it held.
I leaned back against the concrete step behind me, ignoring how the cold seeped through my jacket. Eric adjusted his position slightly, boot heels scraping as he found a more comfortable angle.
We sat like that long enough for my body to adapt to the cold concrete and for the moon to travel a measurable distance across the sky. Derek's ghost was present. It followed me to Ironhook long ago.
