I set the phone aside and continued unpacking, finding a temporary home for each item. The smell of cooking fish drifted into the room, making my stomach remember that ferry snacks didn't really constitute a meal.
I considered offering to help and then remembered his response to my earlier attempt at conversation. Hovering around the kitchen probably wasn't going to improve our working relationship.
Instead, I pulled out my research notes and spread them across the dresser's surface, trying to organize my approach to the next month. Community interviews, infrastructure documentation, and economic analysis were the boxes I had to check to turn this island into a case study suitable for a thesis committee.
Next, I headed partway down the narrow hallway. When I could see the kitchen, I watched Wes continue his methodical dinner preparation, movements economical and sure. He handled the cast-iron skillet like it weighed nothing, and I watched how his shoulders moved under the flannel, as well as the precise angle of his wrist as he flipped the fish.
I needed to understand what had brought him to this island and kept him here. It would be a key to comprehending Ironhook's resilience.
He'd set the dining table for two with precise efficiency. Two plates, two forks, and two glasses of water positioned at precisely the proper distance from the edge: no placemats or centerpieces. Nothing suggested an effort at hospitality—only the bare minimum required for two humans to consume food in the same space.
Wes emerged from the kitchen carrying the cast-iron skillet containing what looked like perfectly pan-fried cod, golden and crackling at the edges. A bowl of boiled potatoes followed, along with a jar of pickles.
"Can I help with anything?"
He set the skillet down. "It's done."
We sat across from each other in silence, broken only by the wind moaning against the windowpanes and the soft clink of silverware against ceramic.
The cod was excellent—flaky, seasoned with herbs I couldn't quite identify, and cooked by someone who clearly knew his way around a kitchen. The potatoes were potatoes, while the pickles added a sharp note that cut through the richness of the fish.
I tried to focus on the food instead of the oppressive lack of sound. Through the window, I saw the last of the afternoon light painting the scrub pine in shades of gold and green, beautiful in the way remote places were lovely when you weren't trying to converse with their inhabitants.
I had to say something. "This is really good. The fish, I mean. Do you catch it yourself?"
Wes chewed thoughtfully, swallowed, then reached for his water glass. "Sometimes."
I tried again. "How long have you lived here?"
He paused, fork halfway to his mouth. "Since I needed to."
That answer told me something. He didn't say since he wanted to, or since the job became available, or since any of the normal reasons people ended up in places. It was the answer of someone who saw the island as a refuge or witness protection program.
"I mean, it's a beautiful place— quiet."
Wes set down his fork and looked at me. "Most people don't like quiet. They like pretending at it."
He spoke sparingly, but his words carried weight. He'd probably watched plenty of visitors arrive with romantic notions about island solitude, only to discover that actual isolation wasn't nearly as appealing as the Instagram version.
I was curious about how he saw me. "What makes you think I'm pretending?"
He shrugged and returned to his dinner. "You're here for a month. That's not quiet. That's a vacation from noise."
Ouch.He wasn't entirely wrong.
I came for research, gathering raw material for a thesis that would hopefully lead to graduate school and a career built on studying places like this from a comfortable academic distance. When the month was over, I'd return to Whistleport—a town with coffee shops, reliable internet, and the kind of social noise that made idle chat feel natural.
"So, how long does it take to experience real quiet?" I asked. "Years? Decades?"
"However long it takes." He refilled his plate. "You're here to study resilience, right? I hope you brought your own."
Something in the way he said it made my stomach twist.
I wasn't sure I had any.
I'd sold myself as independent and insightful to my thesis committee. Now, I was flinching from a stranger's glare. What if I wasn't built for this?
"What kind of resilience did I need to bring?"
