She’s sitting at the table, her mail in front of her.
Unopened.
I adjust the bag strap on my shoulder, glancing between the woman and the white envelope. “’Fraid it’s gonna bite you, baby girl?”
Hell, I have to stop with the pet names. I’m not doing either of us any favors.
“Don’t be silly,” she huffs, but her throat works, and her eyes don’t leave the envelope. She doesn’t want me here when she opens it. Fair enough. I shuffle back to the door and slap the jamb. “I’ll be away for a few nights. Things on the south end of the island need a once-over. You be okay here?”
Like she can go anywhere else.
Her head snaps up, gaze piercing the window. “Sure.”
When she still doesn’t look at me, I nod and leave her to her mail. I can take a hint. Pretty sure the strained look scrawled all over her face is regret.
That’s something, at least. Maybe we can find a truce in a threadbare friendship. My gut slips, knowing I’m leaving her like this.
Who am I kidding? I’ve fucked everything.
I shut the door behind me and head for the forest tree line. It takes a solid thirty minutes of walking through the wild, dense forest before I come across the small but deep freshwater water hole. It’s been my place to wash up on these trips many times.
The cooler air under the canopy is a relief. The warmer days sometimes mean afternoon storms, and I’m hoping none roll in in the next few days. I need this.
Evie needs this, whether she realizes it or not.
My stride loosens, and in no time I’m deep into the forest. The quiet is the first thing I soak in. The constant crashing waves near the shore are nice, but sometimes you need silence. From here, they are muted to the point of disappearing. I roll my shoulders, peering up into the canopy as I go. I forgot how much I love this little slice of paradise.
With everything that’s been going on—the lighthouse in dire straits and Evie arriving—I’ve missed this. I’ll need this again when she eventually leaves. That seems to be the only recurring pattern in my life. Find something great I want to hold on to. Get attached. Lose said thing. Hide away on my island until the hurt fades.
Some hurts take longer than others.
The only other time I felt anything close to this was twenty years ago. When my life had just started to make sense. Of course, that’s when the rug was slipped out from under me, leaving me with the burn of an entire town hating me for how things went down.
I can’t blame them.
And I never will.
They deserved better from me.
Shedeserved better.
I won’t make that mistake twice.
So, the forest is where I need to be. Far enough away to think things through without interference. No matter how muchI crave her. I won’t make a choice that has Evie end up worse for it.
I hear the waves rolling in before the tree line breaks and the old hut comes into view. Steadfast, even on this tiny strip of ocean island. It looks exactly as I left it nine months ago. It’s been too long.
The overhang of the roof at the front of the building shelters handmade wooden tables, the one and only place my old man ever worked his fish over. His small collection of knives I haven’t touched in decades hangs on wires above it. The windows are opaque, as if blasted by time and sand during the storms. The front door, with its weathered and warped boards, hangs on its hinges. I vaguely remember making a note to bring tools after the last visit.
The door creaks open, revealing a sand-littered floor decked out with one single bunk, a small table, and a lopsided bookshelf lining the space. A wood stove sits on the opposite side. It needs a good sweeping. And the cobwebs hanging like drapes from the corners and tucked away in angles of the furniture have to go.
I set my bag on the table and take in the wear and tear. As my gaze roves the small space, memories flood in. The last day I spent here with my father. Iris complaining the fish guts touched her as he flung them behind him, into the brush. I remember the hearty chuckle that bellowed from his throat as my little sister dry heaved, dramatic as usual. He had shaken his head, getting back to his task at hand. One of the large bass I’d pulled up. My efforts at descaling and gutting already on the pan inside.
The memory of the aroma of frying fish with the potato dish Mom always sent with us hits me low in the gut, hard. Running a hand over my beard, I tug my cap from my head and toss it to the bed.
An hour later, with a sweat well and truly worked up, the little fishing hut looks much more respectable. Cobwebs gone, sand swept out, and some semblance of a small fire smoldering away in the now clean stove for later, I drop onto one of the rickety chairs at the table.
Remembering the kerosene lanterns and candles, I lean over to the bed and reach a hand under it. My fingertips finally land on something wooden, and I hunt for the rope handle. Curling my fingers around it, I slide the box out and flip the heavy lid open. The fumes of kerosene and burnt wicks finds me. Three burners and a hoard of candles of all shapes and sizes sit nestled into the base of the deep box, safe from the elements.
