In the rain.
Between the truth and the lies we tell to hold onto the pieces of each other we can still salvage.
Eventually, he reaches out, groping blindly, and finds my hand. His grip is weaker than I remember. But it’s stillhim.
“You did good, kid.” He squeezes once before letting go.
And I’m ten years old again. Catching my first pop fly. Grinning like an idiot because Dad called me kid and meant it like a badge of honor.
I clear my throat, the lump nearly choking me.
“I’m proud of you, too,” I whisper.
He doesn't respond. Just closes his eyes, lets the rain sing the rest of the conversation between us.
I sit there, hands empty, heart breaking open, loving a man who’s already half-vanished into another life.
And hoping to God that somewhere deep down...he knows.
By the time the rain slows to a mist and the sky bruises into twilight, he’s half-asleep in his chair, and I know it’s time to go.
“I forgive you.” I press a kiss to the top of his head, a rare, clumsy thing I can’t remember the last time I gave him, and leave him there, dreaming whatever pieces of the past still feel safe.
The walk back to my car feels longer than it should, each step tugging at the part of me I tried to armor against him. Against this.
Forgiveness isn’t some clean, triumphant thing. It’s a choice you keep making, even when it still hurts.
Even when no one says the words.
Even when it comes too late.
Especially then.
The rain starts up again. I sit behind the wheel for a long time, the the drops tapping the windshield like a second heartbeat.
And when I finally pull out of the lot, I don’t look back.
Some things, some people, you carry forward, whether they can follow you or not.
CHAPTER 55
NORTH & ANCHOR
RORIE
The briny scentof the sea drifts through the open doors as I run my fingers over the leather-bound journal in front of me.
Outside, the waves roll lazily against the shore, the winter light stretching gold and pale pink across the water as a quiet promise.
Somewhere nearby, the town’s Christmas lights blink against the gathering mist, their colors blurred at the edges.
Inside, the café is alive. Laughter blends with the soft crackle of an old Nat King Cole record spinning on the antique player behind the counter. Pine and cinnamon hang in the air, threaded through with the bite of roasted coffee and the buttery crumble of fresh scones.
I glance up at the sign above the counter with deep green lettering carved into weathered wood.
North & Anchor.
Every time I look at it, pieces of glass loosens in my chest. I’m now tethered to something real. Somethingmine.
