I stare into my coffee. “New people always look lost at first.”
Jonny slides a plate in front of me—two eggs over easy, toast, even though I didn’t order food. He does that sometimes. I don’t argue. Just pick up the fork.
“You ought to stop by the center sometime,” Marjorie says. “Introduce yourself. She’ll need help with that leaky roof before the next storm rolls in.”
“Not my problem.” I cut into the eggs, watching the yolk spill across the plate. “Plenty of guys around who can swing a hammer.”
She laughs, light and knowing. “You’re the best with a hammer, Ronan Black, and you know it. Besides, you’re good with folks who need a hand. Quiet doesn’t have to mean cold.”
I meet her eyes. “I’m good where I am.”
She studies me for a moment, the way people do when they think they see something broken and want to fix it. “Suit yourself. But the world’s not as lonely as you make it out to be.”
I don’t answer. She sighs, but there’s no judgment in it, just the gentle resignation of someone who’s known me long enough to stop pushing. She finishes her coffee, leaves a few bills on the counter, and pats my shoulder on her way out. “Take care, Ronan.”
The bell jingles behind her.
I sit there a while longer, nursing what’s left in my mug. The fishermen have moved on to talking quotas and diesel prices. Jonny hums tunelessly while he scrapes the grill. Outside, the fog is starting to lift, sunlight cutting through in pale shafts that catch on the water like scattered coins.
I think about the woman—Isla Hart. Maybe it’s just the coincidence of a last name that sounds too close to somethingI’ve buried. Or perhaps it’s the way Marjorie described her—tired eyes, polite smile. I’ve seen that look before on guys coming off deployment. I look at myself in the mirror some mornings.
Doesn’t matter. I don’t know her. Don’t want to. I’ve spent the last three years building walls high enough to keep everyone out, and they’ve held just fine. Routine. Work. Solitude. No complications. No one to disappoint when the nightmares come or when the quiet gets too loud.
I pay for the coffee and the breakfast, leave a tip that’s more habit than generosity, and step back into the cool morning air. The street is waking up now. Shop owners flipping signs to Open, a delivery truck idling outside the hardware store. I walk past them all without stopping, hands shoved in my pockets, shoulders set against the wind coming off the water.
My cabin sits at the end of a gravel road that branches off the main highway, tucked against a stand of pines that block most of the view unless you know where to look. It’s small, just one bedroom, a woodstove that throws more heat than light, a porch that creaks under my weight. I like the creek. It announces whoever steps on the porch.
I climb the steps and unlock the door. I shrug out of my jacket, hang it on the hook by the door, and move to the kitchen. Kettle on the stove. Coffee grounds are measured into the French press. Same motions, same order. Control in the small things.
While the water heats, I lean against the counter and stare out the window. The ocean stretches wide and gray beyond the trees, restless today. I watch a gull ride the wind, wings tipped silver in the strengthening light. For a second, I let myself wonder what it would be like to feel that free—weightless, unburdened.
The kettle whistles. I pour, press, pour again. The first sip burns my tongue, grounds me back in the moment. I carry the mug to the small table by the window and sit. There’s a stack of mail on the corner; it’s mostly junk, and a couple of bills I’ll paylater. Underneath, half-hidden, is the photo I keep meaning to put away but never do.
Declan and I, six months before the mission that took him. We’re both grinning, arms slung around each other’s shoulders, desert dust coating our gear. His eyes are bright, alive. Mine look tired even then. I trace the edge of the frame with my thumb, feel the old ache settle in my chest.
No one here ever knew him. He came through on leave once or twice, crashed on my couch, drank too much beer, and talked about getting out someday. But he never stayed long enough for the town to claim him. Never left footprints. Just a ghost passing through.
“You’d laugh at me,” I mutter to the empty room. “Hiding out in this nowhere town. Keeping my head down like I’m still waiting for incoming.”
He doesn’t answer. Of course, he doesn’t.
I set the photo facedown, gentle, like I’m tucking him in for the night. Then I stand, carry my coffee to the porch, and settle into the old Adirondack chair that groans under me. The wind carries the scent of salt and cedar. Far below, the harbor glitters now that the fog’s mostly gone. Boats move in slow motion, men calling to each other across the water.
I take another sip of coffee, let it scald all the way down. This is what I want, I remind myself, to be alone and beholden to no one.
Chapter three
Isla
The afternoon sun slants through the big windows of the community center, turning the worn hardwood floors golden and warming the air just enough to make the place feel almost cozy. I’ve spent the last few hours sorting through boxes of old event supplies, faded banners, stacks of construction paper, and a bin of mismatched markers that smell faintly of childhood. My hands are smudged with dust, and there’s a streak of something blue across the back of my wrist that I haven’t bothered to wipe away yet.
Marjorie pokes her head in around two-thirty. “Roof’s leaking again, hon. That last storm must’ve loosened a few shingles. I’ve got a call in to the usual handyman, but he’s out on a job till tomorrow. You okay to keep working in here?”
I glance up at the ceiling. A small brown stain has bloomed near the corner, and every few minutes a fat drop plinks into the metal trash can I dragged underneath it. “I’ll manage. Maybe Ican patch it temporarily with some duct tape from the supply closet.”
She laughs, soft and fond. “You’re a keeper, Isla. Holler if it gets worse.”
After she leaves, I decide the trash-can solution isn’t cutting it. The drip is steady now, and the last thing I want is water ruining the filing cabinet full of registration forms I spent the morning organizing. I remember seeing a short extension ladder propped against the back wall of the storage room earlier. It’s not ideal, but I’m not helpless. I’ve patched drywall, fixed leaky faucets, and even replaced a garbage disposal once when Travis was too hungover to care. This is just patching a roof.
