I stood and moved to the kitchen window, staring out at the harbor. The familiar view should have been soothing, but my fingers trembled.
"What if it hurts? What if I get out there and realize how much I've lost, how far I've fallen from—"
Eric interrupted me. "What if it doesn't?"
That was the real fear, wasn't it? Not that I'd discover I was broken beyond repair, but that I'd find pieces of myself worth putting back together. That I'd build something I could lose again.
I turned to face him, searching his expression for signs of pressure or expectation. Instead, I found only patience and something suspiciously like faith in me.
"And if I make a fool of myself in front of people who remember when I was supposed to be something special?"
Eric shrugged. "Then you come back here to Ironhook and know that you tried. That's more than most people can say about the things that scare them."
He stood and took his empty vessel to the kitchen sink.
"You don't owe anyone an answer about this but yourself. Not me, and certainly not anyone else in Whistleport. You only owe it to yourself."
The simplicity of his argument was devastating. For years, I'd convinced myself that staying away was about protecting other people from my damage and my failure to live up to their expectations. Eric was right—the only person I really owed anything to was the one who'd been too scared to find out if anything was left worth saving.
The cottage had settled into its evening quiet by the time Eric disappeared down the hallway, his soft "goodnight" trailing behind him like the last note of a song. I heard the guest room door close with its familiar click, followed by the rustle of sheets and the creak of bedsprings as he settled in for the night.
I stayed at the sink, hands in warm, soapy water, scrubbing my mug long after it was clean. Moonlight glinted across the harbor, casting ribbons of silver over the surface. Somewhere beyond the rocks, a buoy bell chimed, steady as breath.
My thoughts were still with that kid.
I remembered how his grip shifted, and suddenly, he got it. His eyes lit up like the world had tilted in his favor for the first time. And the look his friend gave him—like he'd just witnessed a miracle.
I hadn't meant to say anything. The words had just... happened. Not because I was trying to help but because not helping felt unbearable.
That was the truth I didn't want to face. Not that I'd fail if I stepped on the ice, but I'd remember how much I loved it and might still want it.
My bare feet whispered across the floorboards as I made my way to the guest room. I stood outside the door for a moment, listening. There was no light beneath it, only the soft hush of Eric's breathing.
I didn't need to do it now. I could wait until morning, make it casual over coffee like it didn't matter.
But it did matter. My knuckles were already tapping twice against the wood.
"Let's go," I said quietly. My voice sounded wrecked. "I'll skate. But no promises."
A pause. Then his voice, low and warm. "Didn't ask for any."
I exhaled like I'd been holding my breath for hours. I didn't open the door. I didn't need to. I just stood there momentarily, hand still raised, heart thudding.
Then, I turned and walked back toward my room, the cottage dim and hushed around me. Everything was different. The silence wasn't silence anymore. It was waiting.
Behind me, the guest room door stayed closed, but he was still on the other side of it—steady as the tides.
And maybe that was the scariest part.
Not skating.
Not failing.
Letting him see the part of me that wanted him—and choosing to let him stay. Outside the window, the harbor shimmered, and inside the cottage, something began to thaw.
Chapter nineteen
Eric
