“Your dad seemed proud of you this morning,” I say carefully.
Wesley huffs. “He was proud of the kid who lived here. Not sure he recognizes the guy who left. He thinks I sold out.”
“Do you think you sold out?”
A long pause. “Sometimes. When I’m here, yeah. But then I get back to the city, and I remember why I wanted to play hockey.” He exhales. “I just wish he could see it’s not either/ or.”
I stand, cross to him. “You don’t have to pick. You can be both.”
“You really believe that?”
“I do.”
And I do. Because I want that for myself, and I don’t get it. Right now I can either be Preston money—marble floors, board dinners, pretty smile—or I can be the girl running a dance class on 116th Street with a busted speaker and twenty kids who light up when the beat drops. The trust is the only thing that lets those two versions of me exist in the same life without asking permission. If I lose it, I don’t just lose a number in an account. I lose the only future that actually feels like mine.
“It’s not fair,” I say, mostly to myself—that he has to defend wanting more than one home, that I have to buy my way into being mine—and I slip his hoodie off the chair. I pull it on, the Defenders logo stretching across my chest. It swallows me, warm and soft.
“Careful with that,” he says. “It looks good on you.”
My mouth quirks. “Wardrobe choice. Optics.”
“Those optics say you’re mine.”
My face is on fire. I tug the sleeves down, flustered.
He looks at me like he might just swallow me. Then he clears his throat. “Let’s go.”
6
THE HARBOR EFFECT (WESLEY)
The harbor is a postcard.
Snow dusts the fishing boats, strings of lights zigzag between masts, “White Christmas” blares over the loudspeakers. Families huddle around cocoa stands, kids in puffball hats chase each other between vendor stalls. The wind bites through my jacket, tasting of salt and memory.
Six years gone, and Dillingham hasn’t changed a damn thing.
“This is aggressively festive,” Joy mutters, stomping her boots. My scarf’s wrapped twice around her neck. “It’s a Hallmark movie that threw up on itself.”
I grin despite my nerves. “Bristol Bay at Christmas delivers.”
She snorts. “If hypothermia’s your love language.”
The mayor’s on stage now, microphone squealing, mumbling about tradition and community—same speech, different year. I only half listen, scanning faces I used to know by heart.
My dad’s fishing buddies are near the beer tent. Coach Morrison is by the cocoa stand with Mrs. Chen from the grocery store. All of them are watching me, measuring whether I turned out right or wrong.
A few wave. Most don’t. The message is clear:You left us.
“Breathe,” Joy murmurs. “You belong here as much as anyone.”
“Do I?”
“Yes.” She rises on her toes, presses a kiss to my cheek. “And I’m going to make sure they all see it.”
The crowd starts counting down. “Five. Four. Three. Two?—”
The harbor tree ignites, gold spilling across the water. Cheers rise, fireworks crackle, the whole town hums with holiday cheer.
