Page 15 of Hometown Heart

That gap was once full of Nico's promises, like when he held my face in his hands under the porch light and said, "This is real, Silas."

Or the day Dad kissed my hair and said he would be back, but he never reappeared. It was the space where men told methey would stay, only to slip through my fingers when I wasn't looking.

I had learned my lesson.

Jack remained perfectly still, one hand half-raised as if to reach for me. His first expression radiated confusion. Next was something more like patient understanding.

"Silas—"

"I should go." The words tumbled out, rough and awkward. "Early morning tomorrow. Dottie's bridge club, they'll want their—" I gestured vaguely in the direction of Tidal Grounds. "Their scones. You know how they get about the scones."

Jack inhaled. "We could talk about—"

"Really need to prep the dough." I was already backing away, gravel crunching under my boots. "Long process. Very... particular. About the scones."

In the car, Cody shifted in his sleep, his medal scraping against the seatbelt. The small sound anchored me, reminding me why the kiss was such a terrible idea.

Jack had his son to think about. He needed to concentrate on his new start in Whistleport. The last thing he needed was the local coffee shop owner making it all twice as complicated.

"Good night," I managed, the words falling like stones between us. "I'll see you... around."

I turned before he could respond, forcing myself to walk—not run, definitely not run—toward Main Street. My steps echoed against the buildings, too loud in the empty night. Behind me, I heard the soft thunk of a car door closing, but I didn't look back.

I couldn't look back.

Main Street stretched empty before me, the usual bustle of tourist season replaced by winter stillness. The harbor lights winked in the distance, marking the edge of town like a string of scattered stars. Each storefront I passed was full of memories.It was my town, and the windows stared like dozens of pairs of eyes, watching every move, witnesses to my impulsive mistake.

They were like a Greek chorus inside my head.You got ahead of the game this time. You ran before the other guy got the chance.

Miller's Bakery's darkened windows reflected my hurried stride. Last week, Jack had stopped there for maple scones, and I joked that his loyalty was slipping. Now the memory pricked at me, sharp as the cold air in my lungs.

"Get it together," I muttered, the words forming clouds in the frigid air. A solitary gull swooped low overhead, its cry echoing off the empty storefronts.

Near the pier, I slowed. The tide was coming in, waves slapping against the pilings with steady determination. I'd learned to tell time by those rhythms as a kid, back when Dad would take me fishing before dawn. That was before he decided Whistleport was too small for his ambitions and left us with nothing but his empty chair at the breakfast table.

A loose shutter banged somewhere down the street, making me jump. I shoved my hands deeper into my pockets, fingers brushing against my phone. The urge to text Jack rose inside, but what would I say?Sorry, I kissed you and ran. Sorry, I let myself forget, just for a minute, that I'm an observer, not a participant.

The corner of Water Street and Maple brought me within sight of my apartment above the shop. Light spilled from Ziggy's family's place down the street—his dad always left the porch light on when he was out on the lobster boat. The soft yellow glow usually felt welcoming, but tonight, it reminded me of the carnival and how I'd ruined such a perfect evening.

"Some timing, Brewster," I told the empty street. After ten years of serving coffee and keeping everyone's secrets, I had to go and complicate my best new friendship in years.

My apartment greeted me with familiar shadows—the old copper kettle Mom gave me when I opened Tidal Grounds, the stack of poetry books Rory kept lending me, and the endless rows of coffee equipment I needed to test for the shop. Usually, the space was my sanctuary. At the moment, it was more like an interrogation room.

I dumped my coat over the kitchen chair, not bothering with the hook by the door. The radiator clanked and hissed, fighting against the draft from my perpetually loose window frames. Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the wooden sign at the Tidal Grounds entrance.

"What were you thinking?" I asked my reflection in the kitchen window. The dark glass offered no answers, only the ghost of my own face superimposed over the sleeping town below.

My phone sat heavy in my pocket. I pulled it out, letting it clatter onto the counter. The screen lit up, showing three texts from Rory:

Rory:Great job with the hot chocolate station.

Rory:Cody's shot was incredible.

Rory:You and Jack seemed cozy by the fire.

I started to type a response, and then I changed my mind. Staring in horror, I realized I'd mistakenly sent my half-written message.

Flipping the phone face-down, I caught the time—11:47. Maybe Rory was asleep, and he'd miss my aimless words untilmorning when I'd have a chance to explain them away with the first round of coffee.

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