Crew kneels to eye level and taps the page. “We’ll hang this up where everyone can see it.”
“Even the otter?” the kid whispers.
“Especially the otter.”
The boy nods, solemnly satisfied, and runs for the door where his dad waits with a grateful grin. Crew watches them go, his mouth pressed into a line that is not quite a smile, not quite an ache. I know the feeling. It’s what happens when the world gives you back a piece you didn’t realize was missing.
We lock up early and sit on the floor with tea, backs against the counter. The shop clicks and settles around us.
He turns his head, studying me like I’m a map. “Tell me the thing you’re still not saying.”
I pick at a loose thread on my sweater. “That sometimes I feel like a footnote in the story of people who love bigger than I do.”
“You don’t love small.”
“I specialize in quiet.”
He considers. “Quiet isn’t small. It’s chosen.”
The sentence lands in the exact place that still hurts and settles there like balm. I bump my knee against his and let my body say it for me.
Night crawls softly up the windows. We sit until the air cools enough to raise goose bumps on my arms. He notices, shrugs out of his hoodie, and drops it over my shoulders. The fabric smells like cedar and hard work and him. The hoodie is too big on purpose. I pull the sleeves over my hands, and he looks at me like I’m wearing victory.
“Tomorrow?” he says when he stands, like it hasn’t become our liturgy.
“Tomorrow.”
He goes. I stay. I sweep, wash the two mugs, and tuck the otter back into his basket like a coworker. Upstairs, I brush my teeth and laugh out loud at myself because I am happy and embarrassed to be happy in case the universe thinks it’s bragging. I apologize to the stars for my audacity and then ask for more anyway.
At the window, I watch the beam turn and turn.
When sleep comes, it’s easy. When morning comes, it’s gentle. Unlike many from my past.
And when the next headline posts online—STORY HOUR WITH STALLIONS QB?—I do not flinch. Because the photo above the fold is the drawing with block letters, and the caption reads:Thank you for the light. Sure, the internet will spin it into whatever it wants. Coral Bell Cove will do what towns do: worry, argue, forgive, bake. But I will do what I have learned to do here: open the door, sweep the floor, let the beam spin, saynowwhen I mean it andsoonwhen I have to, and walk toward the person who keeps showing up with coffee, a wrench, and a willingness to let me set the terms.
By the end of that week, the door doesn’t stick anymore. Neither does my heart.
And if the town wants to call it a chapter, fine. It is one. A long, slow, stubborn chapter where the plot isn’t a twist but a choice made again and again under decent lighting.
I write the last line of the day on the chalkboard for no one and everyone:
Open for miracles at ten.
Then I lock up, climb the spiral, and fall asleep smiling, because the best thing about being known is that you’re not alone in your own story. And the best thing about a lighthouse is that it never asks the sea to be less.
Tomorrow, he’ll knock. Tomorrow, I’ll say come in.
And tomorrow, as always, the light will turn.
Chapter Fifteen – Crew
It’s 6:03 a.m. when my phone vibrates off the nightstand.
The sound it makes when it hits the floor is how I feel most mornings lately—solid but slightly cracked. I’d been waiting to hear from Marcus for a few days after spending a couple of hours in Norfolk getting tests done on my shoulder. A necessary evil in the process of being the best I can be.
Marcus:MRI cleared. You’re good to start throwing again.
I stare at the screen, then out the window where the fields are still wrapped in fog. It should feel like good news. It does, a little. Mostly, it feels like a coin flipping in slow motion.
