We go back to work. The rhythm of it fills the space between us. Nails, hammer, the low hum of the compressor outside. But every so often, I catch myself glancing at the street. Not because I expect to see her.
Because I want to.
By mid-afternoon, the light starts shifting, the kind that says the weather could turn on you in half an hour. Ronnie’s phone buzzes, and he groans loud enough for it to echo.
“Gotta run,” he says, already climbing down from the ladder. “Meeting a guy about a boat. If I don’t go now, he’ll sell it to someone else.”
I check the half-finished trim and the pile of boards stacked against the wall. “Thought you said you were here to work.”
“I did… and now I gotta bounce.” He grabs his jacket, stuffing a tape measure into the pocket. “I’ll be back tomorrow morning. Try not to brood yourself into a hole while I’m gone.”
I just grunt, and he laughs his way out the door. He thinks he’s so amusing.
When the sound of his truck fades, the house exhales into stillness. No humming, no nail gun, no off-key singing from the ladder. Just the creak of the old bones settling and the faint shush of the ocean and its waves crashing against the rock just a few streets over.
I clear tools, set things where I’ll find them in the morning. My boots leave sawdust tracks across the foyer, but I don’t bother sweeping.
On my way to the kitchen, I pass the front window. The glass is still streaked from the last storm, but it’s enough to see the glow from across the street. Lyla’s front room lit up, warm against the gray sky.
She’s moving around inside. I can’t hear her, but I imagine the sound anyway, her voice on the phone, maybe, or talking to her mom.
My hand rests against the cold window frame longer than it should. I tell myself I’m just checking the weather. Making sure the wind isn’t picking up.
She disappears deeper into the house. The light in that room stays on, spilling onto the street, a quiet beacon I shouldn’t be looking at.
I turn away, head for the back door, and tell myself I’ve got work to do tomorrow. That’s all I’m here for.
But even when I’m locking up, I know it’s a lie.
Chapter Three
Lyla
The next night, I’m walking into the community center. It smells like cinnamon cider and over-polished wood floors. The kind of smell that clings to your hair until morning. I force a smile as the volunteer at the door hands me a raffle ticket and a folded program.
“Glad you could make it, Lyla,” she says, all bright teeth and knit scarf. “We’ve got quite the crowd tonight. And your table’s just to the left of the stage.”
I thank her, even though she’s already looking past me at the next arrival. That’s how it is here—warm in the moment, gone in the next breath.
Inside, the place hums with overlapping conversations. Strings of white lights loop from beam to beam, reflecting off the big windows that face the dark water. Tables skirted in burgundy cloth line the walls, each stacked with silent auction items: baskets of maple syrup, knitted blankets, a framed aerial photo of the lighthouse in summer.
I spot my table right away. It has two folding chairs and a banner with my podcast’s name in bold letters:The Hart Line. I’d ordered it for a conference last spring, but it looks a little too big for the space, like it wandered into the wrong party.
I set down my tote bag and travel mug, pulling out the portable recorder. The idea was to grab a few local soundbites between speeches and raffle calls. Real voices for next week’s episode on “what community means after loss.” I’ve even written out some prompts on index cards in case my brain blanks.
It’s not that I don’t like these events. I do. Or at least I used to. But lately, every “how’s your mom doing?” lands heavier. Every “still living in the house?” feels like a reminder that I’m the one who had to stay after everything my family went through.
I make my first lap around the room with my professional smile in place, shaking hands, thanking people for listening, and handing out stickers with my podcast logo. The comments are polite but threaded with equal parts pity and curiosity.
“You’re doing such important work, dear,” says Mrs. Emerson, her hand warm over mine. “Sharing your story like that… It’s very brave.”
I thank her, even though “brave” feels like the wrong word for talking into a microphone from my bedroom closet while Mom sleeps down the hall.
The cider station is in the corner, manned by two high school volunteers in matching sweaters. I grab a cup, letting the steam warm my hands, and scan the room. I’m looking for potential sponsors, small business owners who might see the value in reaching my audience.
Instead, my eyes land on a pair of women by the cookie table. I know them both. One works at the pharmacy, the other at the post office. And they’re leaning in close, voices pitched just loud enough to carry over the instrumental music.
I don’t need to hear the words to know the subject. The way their eyes flick toward me and back again is enough.
