And I'd been part of the problem. Had been the person who'd taught him that caring about someone was just another way to get hurt.
“He said that he saw you yesterday,” Jonah said suddenly, breaking the silence with words that made my heart race. “At the Lodge. Came by afterward looking like he'd seen a ghost.”
“We talked,” I said, though 'talked' was a generous description of our stilted exchange. “Sort of.”
“First time in six years he's said your name out loud,” Jonah continued, and there was something almost accusatory in his tone now. “First time he's talked about you at all, actually. Just stood there in my kitchen last night drinking coffee and saying 'Nate's back' like he couldn't quite believe it was real.”
The image of Evan in Jonah's kitchen, struggling to process my return, made my chest ache with longing and regret in equal measure. Because I wanted to be the person he turned to when the world got complicated, wanted to be the one offering comfort instead of causing the pain that needed comforting.
But I'd forfeited that right six years ago when I'd chosen running over staying, dreams over love, the unknown over the person who'd made me feel like I belonged somewhere.
“Now you're back,” Jonah said, turning to look at me with eyes that held challenge and hope in equal measure. “Maybe he won't hide so much. Maybe you'll both remember how to be human instead of just surviving.”
Jonah was right—I was back, and that meant I had a choice to make. I could keep hiding behind guilt and regret, could let the past six years define whatever came next. Or I could find the courage I'd lacked at eighteen and try to build something real with the man Evan had become.
“Don't screw it up, Harrington,” Jonah said, voice carrying the weight of friendship and warning in equal measure. “He needs someone who doesn't just see the heir. He needs someone who sees him.”
The words were both accusation and plea, a reminder of how badly I'd failed him before and a challenge to do better this time. Because Jonah was right—Evan had always been more than his last name, more than the expectations that came with being Daniel Callahan's son. He'd been the boy who'd trusted me with his silence, who'd learned to speak because I'd made him feel safe enough to try.
And I'd thrown all of that away because I'd been too scared to fight for it.
“Guess I've got my work cut out for me, then,” I said, trying for lightness but landing somewhere closer to grim determination.
Jonah's smile was sharp around the edges, the kind that meant he saw right through my casual tone to the fear underneath.
“Yeah,” he said. “You do.”
We parted ways after that, Jonah heading toward whatever responsibilities filled his days while I walked home through streets that felt both foreign and familiar. My camera felt heavier than it had in the morning, weighted down with the knowledge of everything I'd lost and the faint, terrifying possibility that some of it might be recoverable.
14
CAREFUL TRUTHS
NATE
Moonbeam Café looked exactly the same, down to the coffee ring stains on the wooden tables and the way the morning light slanted through windows.
Martha stood behind the counter like a fixture that came with the building, gray hair in that same practical bun and wiping down cups.
Some things, apparently, were immune to the passage of years.
I hesitated in the doorway, camera bag weighing heavy on my shoulder and my pride doing its best impression of a deflated balloon. This was stupid. Coming here was stupid. But my feet had carried me here anyway, drawn by muscle memory and the desperate hope that maybe some places could still feel like sanctuary even when you'd thoroughly fucked up your life.
“Well, I'll be damned.” Martha's voice cut through my existential crisis like a rusty knife through butter. “Nate Harrington, as I live and breathe. Heard you were back in town.”
Of course she had. In Hollow Pines, news traveled faster than gossip, and gossip traveled at light speed.
“Hey, Martha.” I managed a smile that probably looked as fake as it felt. “Mind if I grab some coffee? I promise not to accidentally knock over your sugar dispenser this time.”
“Honey, that was one time, and you were sixteen.” She was already reaching for a mug, movements automatic. “Hot chocolate or coffee?”
The question hit me sideways, carrying the weight of a thousand mornings when I'd sat in that corner booth, camera spread across the table while I edited photos and pretended I knew what I was doing with my life. Hot chocolate had been my drink back then, sweet and comforting and safe.
“Coffee,” I said, because twenty-four-year-old failures apparently drank grown-up beverages. “Black.”
Martha's eyebrows rose slightly, but she didn't comment. Just poured coffee that smelled like it could wake the dead and slid it across the counter.
I was halfway to my old booth—because apparently I was a creature of habit even in my professional disgrace—when the door chimed behind me. The sound of footsteps on worn linoleum made something in my chest tighten with recognition before I even turned around.
