Kit’s mouth tugged into a smirk. “Wow. Listen to you, defending Wes Vaughn. Is there something there?”
“Shut up,” I muttered, but there wasn’t much heat behind it.
What I didn’t add was that hearing Wes reduced to a problem to manage or a list of failures made something twist in my chest. I didn’t like him being picked apart when he wasn’t here to defend himself.
For reasons I really didn’t want to examine, it suddenly felt like my job to make sure nobody else got to write his story for him.
“So what’s it actually like?” she pressed. “Living with him.”
I hesitated, then gave her the sanitized version. “He gave me rules.”
That got her full attention. “Rules? Like ... chore chart rules?”
“Well it was only one,” I said, rolling my eyes. “A very specific one about no random guys in the house.”
Kit barked out a laugh. “Oh my god. Of course he did. Did he at least write it down? Please tell me he wrote it down.”
I thought of the way his jaw had clenched when he’d said it, the way something had flashed in his eyes. “No. Just grumpy landlord vibes.”
“You should absolutely poke at that,” Kit said, wicked delight sparking again. “Make your own list. Hang it on the fridge.‘Tenant Rule Number One: Landlord must smile and stop being a broody asshole.’”
Despite myself, I laughed. The idea lodged itself in my brain and refused to budge.
“Seriously,” she went on. “He wants to play house-rule dictator? Fine. Give him something to look at besides his own misery. Make him mad. Maybe he needs to be mad more than he needs to be sad.”
I wasn’t sure that was sound psychological advice, but I couldn’t deny the tiny, reckless thrill the thought gave me.
I took another sip of my latte, letting it linger on my tongue. “We’ll see,” I said.
Kit’s phone buzzed and she glanced down, nose wrinkling. “Ugh. I’ve got to go or Elodie’s going to fire me from my unpaid labor position at the farm.”
She stood, leaned over to kiss my cheek, and squeezed my shoulder a little harder than necessary. “Text me if he drives you nuts,” she said. “Or if you find any secret ghost babies.”
“I’ll keep my eyes peeled,” I promised.
When she left, the café felt oddly louder. Conversations rose and fell around me, the hiss of the espresso machine punctuating the quiet at my little corner table. I sat there for another minute, hands wrapped around my empty cup like it could anchor me.
Eventually, I pushed to my feet and took the mug back to the counter.
“Have a good one, miss,” the older woman at the register said as she passed, patting my arm.
I blinked. I had known the woman my entire life. “Ms. Fitzsimmons, it’s me, Clara Darling.”
She paused, squinting at my face. “Oh! Right. The middle one. I forgot about you.”
She laughed like it was harmless and moved on before I could do more than force my lips into something resembling a smile.
Forgot about you.
Awesome. Love that for me.
Outside, the air was cold enough to sting my nose. I tugged my coat tighter and started walking toward my car. Star Harbor had always been prettier on foot anyway.
Main Street was a postcard—the kind of place city brides begged me to recreate in styled shoots. Brick storefronts with hand-painted signs, strings of white twinkle lights still up from Christmas because nobody had the heart to take them down yet, the distant glint of Lake Michigan at the end of the road. A few tourists in puffy coats wandered in and out of the bakery, but mostly it was locals ducking their heads against the wind.
My boots clicked along the sidewalk as I passed the Lady’s Lantern, its carved wooden sign swinging gently in the breeze. Across the street, the historical society building hunkered like it was keeping its secrets to itself. Beyond that, if I squinted, I could see the faint rise of the dunes and the dark slash of pine trees against the gray sky.
A pregnant Lady of the Dunes. Possibly a homicidal farmhand. Hayes’s cursed face in an old photo.
