Page 57 of Hometown Heart

My knuckles whitened around the edge of the counter. "That's not fair."

"Maybe not. But it's accurate." His voice softened. "This café? It's magnificent, Si. But it's also your fortress—your excuse toavoid participating in life. It's like you're standing on the other side of the plexiglass at a hockey game. Observe, serve, smile, but never fully engage."

The college student closed her laptop, gathering her belongings with the languid movements of someone who'd been sitting too long. Her departure left the café quieter, Brooks's words resonated uncomfortably in the open space.

"I've known you since we were kids," he continued. "I watched you pour your soul into this place while keeping everyone at a calculated distance. And now Jack and Cody have somehow breached those walls, and instead of embracing them, you're reinforcing the barricades."

"I'm not—" The protest died on my lips, withering under the weight of recognition.

Brooks studied me with the penetrating gaze that had intimidated countless opponents on the ice. "You're at a crossroads. You can retreat behind your counter and carefully measured life, or take a chance on something real."

"What if it falls apart?"

"What if it doesn't?" Brooks countered. "What if this time, you get to be happy not because you're controlling every variable but because you're brave enough to let go?"

He rose from the stool, his point made. "Jack's a good man. The kind who doesn't walk away easily. But even the most patient people have limits."

The bell chimed his departure, leaving me alone with uncomfortable truths and decisions too long postponed.

Evening descended on Whistleport, dragging indigo shadows across Main Street. Inside Tidal Grounds, I moved through my closing rituals with mechanical efficiency: chairs lifted onto tables with soft thuds, floors swept free of crumbs and stray sugar packets, and pastry cases emptied and wiped until they gleamed under the dimmed lights.

My fingers worked the register's buttons while my mind wandered through the mental labyrinth Brooks had constructed with his unflinching observations. The day's receipts tallied neatly—orderly numbers that made sense, unlike the tangled emotions rolling around in my head.

Sarah emerged from the back room, winter coat already buttoned. She had her scarf—the burgundy one I'd given her last Christmas—wound loosely around her neck.

"Cash drawer's balanced," she announced, leaning against the doorframe. "You want me to take the deposit to the night drop?"

I shook my head. "I've got it. Thanks."

She lingered, studying me with the penetrating gaze of someone who'd witnessed my daily routines for years. "You've been a million miles away today."

"Tired."

"Well, you have a good evening, and be kind to yourself."

I blurted out, "Does anyone in this town mind their own business?"

"Not really, no." She laughed. "It's part of Whistleport's charm. That, and watching you try to pretend you're not completely tangled up in knots over Jack."

I leaned against the register, suddenly exhausted by the weight of my own resistance. "Is it that obvious?"

Sarah adjusted her scarf. "Only to everyone with functioning eyesight." She paused, then added with unexpected solemnity, "You deserve something good, Silas. Maybe stop running from it?"

The simplicity of her statement disarmed me more effectively than Brooks's direct confrontation. "I wouldn't know where to start."

"Yes, you would." She moved toward the door, fishing her car keys from her pocket. "You know what to do. You're scared of where it might lead and how fantastic it might be."

After she left, the building settled around me—creaking floorboards, ticking radiator, and waves lapping against the dock beyond the windows. I completed the closing duties meticulously, as if each perfectly aligned container and spotless surface might impose order on my chaotic thoughts.

I dimmed the pendant lights to their lowest setting, leaving only the small lamp above the register illuminated. The shadows deepened, transforming the familiar space into something more intimate.

The man reflected in the darkened windows stared back at me—familiar yet somehow altered as if the day's events had subtly rearranged my features. I'd spent years cultivating one persona: Silas Brewster, reliable purveyor of caffeine and keeper of Whistleport's morning rituals. A presence, but never the focal point.

Jack had upended that careful construction with impossible ease. His quiet confidence and the attentive way he listened, making every word matter. He had a gentle sense of humor that surfaced unexpectedly.

I tugged my phone out of my pocket. The screen's glow was harsh in the dim light. My thumb hovered over Jack's name in my contacts.

Silas:You free? I think we should talk.

---