Chapter 4
four
Jack woke to thunder and his lungs wouldn't work.
For a moment—horrible, stretched-out moment—he was back in the water. Waves crashing over his head. Salt burning his throat. His fingers slipping off the raft. The certainty that this was it, this was how he died, alone in the Atlantic while his sister wondered why he never called back.
Then his brain caught up. Bed. Room. Lighthouse. Safe.
Not drowning. Just remembering it.
His heart hammered against his ribs. Sweat soaked his t-shirt. Outside, light rain pattered against the windows, but every gust of wind sounded like waves, and the thunder—Jesus, the thunder sounded exactly like being pulled under.
Another boom rattled the lighthouse hard enough to make the windows shake.
"You've got to be kidding me," Jack muttered to the ceiling.
Because this? This wasn't normal. Summer storms in New England were supposed to be quick afternoon affairs—roll in, dump some rain, roll out. Polite. Predictable. Not this full-scale midnight assault that felt personal.
He'd clearly pissed off Mother Nature in a past life.
Maybe several past lives. That was the only explanation for capsizing his boat in a "minor summer squall" that turned into the maritime equivalent of a grudge match, and now—three days later—getting hit with what sounded like a nor'easter that had taken a wrong turn off the calendar.
What were the odds? Astronomical. And yet here he was, winning the worst lottery ever.
Jack sat up, forcing air into his lungs. Counted breaths like the ER nurse had taught him after his dad died. In for four. Hold for four. Out for four.
His hands were still shaking when he finished. So much for that.
Because every crack of thunder sent his brain straight back to those hours in the water. The cold. The exhaustion. The moment he'd looked at the rocks and thought: That's going to hurt. And then I'm going to die.
He'd been fine during the day. Totally fine. Fixed Clara's window, made pasta like a functional human being who definitely wasn't traumatized by a near-death experience.
But apparently his subconscious had just been waiting for the right moment to remind him that he'd almost died. And a freak summer storm that had no business existing was the perfect trigger.
"Okay," Jack said to the empty room. "Okay. You're fine. You're not in the ocean. You're in a two-hundred-year-old lighthouse that has survived way worse storms than this. Probably. Hopefully."
Thunder boomed. The whole structure groaned.
"Or maybe not."
Despite being initially grateful to trade the couch for a bed, the walls of the spare room felt too close. The air too thick. The storm too loud, too present, too much like being helpless in the water.
Jack pulled on jeans with shaking hands—annoyed at himself for shaking, which somehow made it worse—and stumbled out into the main room.
That's when he saw the light from the tower.
Not the main lighthouse beam, which had been automated years ago and ran on a timer. This was smaller, coming from above. From the tower.
Jack climbed the spiral stairs, each step creaking under his weight. The sound should've announced his presence, but when he reached the top, Clara didn't turn around.
She sat on the narrow bench that circled the lamp room, knees pulled to her chest, watching the storm through the curved glass. Lightning illuminated her profile in stark flashes—her wild red hair loose around her shoulders, her face tilted up like she was studying the sky for answers.
She looked different like this. Smaller. Like someone who also couldn't sleep and wasn't going to pretend otherwise.
"Can't sleep?" he asked.
Clara didn't startle. Just glanced over, unsurprised. "Storms wake me up. Always have."
"I used to be able to sleep right through them," he admitted, watching as the night sky lit up with a zag of electricity. "But now…not so much."
He wasn't about to spell out why. She could do the math.
"Mind if I join you for a few minutes?" he asked.
"Be my guest." She returned to watching the sky, giving him permission to sit beside her without making it weird.
The bench was cold, the glass fogged with condensation. Outside, the Atlantic churned black and furious, waves crashing against the rocks with enough force to send spray halfway up the lighthouse.
"My grandfather taught me to count," Clara said suddenly. "Between the lightning and the thunder. You can tell how far away the storm is. Five seconds equals one mile."
Lightning split the sky. Clara started counting under her breath.
"One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi—"
Thunder cracked like the world splitting open.
"Three miles out," she said. "Getting closer."
They sat in silence, watching nature throw its tantrum. Jack tried to focus on the present—the cold bench, the sound of rain, Clara's quiet breathing beside him. Not another storm. Not seven years ago. Not Joel's car on a wet highway in the dark.
Lightning again. Closer. Clara counted.
"Two Mississippi—"
Thunder.
"Two miles," she said. "You okay?"
"Yeah. Why?"
"Your hands." She nodded at his lap.
Jack looked down. His fists were clenched tight enough to make his knuckles white. He forced them open, flexed his fingers. He forced a levity to his tone that he didn't feel. "Not a huge fan of storms."
"After almost drowning in one, I don't blame you," she said.
"Yeah, that certainly didn't help."
Clara didn't push. Just returned to her counting, giving him space to decide whether to fill it.
Another flash. Another count. Another crash.
"My older brother, Joel, died in a storm," Jack heard himself say. "Seven years ago. January.”
His mouth had moved before his brain signed off on it. The counting, maybe. The quiet. The way she'd looked at his hands and hadn't made him explain. Something about this woman and this room and this storm had found the latch he kept bolted and just — opened it.
Clara turned to face him fully, her expression careful. "I'm sorry."
"Thanks." Jack leaned forward, elbows on his knees, watching rain stream down the glass.
Easier than looking at her. "He was driving home from work.
Night shift at the hospital—he was a nurse.
Storm came in fast, the kind where you can't see five feet in front of your car.
He hydroplaned on the highway, went into the median.
Truck coming the other way couldn't stop. "
Lightning. Thunder. Barely a pause between them now.
"Were you close?"
"Yeah. I mean—" Jack scrubbed a hand through his hair.
"He was my older brother. Five years older.
When we were kids, he was like... I don't know.
A hero, I guess. The kind of guy who'd let you tag along even when his friends said you were too young.
Who taught you how to throw a football and covered for you when you broke Mom's favorite lamp. "
"He sounds like a good brother."
"He was the best brother." Jack's throat tightened. "And I was supposed to be with him that night."
His chest ached. Not the panic-attack ache from earlier — something older. Deeper. The kind of ache you stop noticing because it's been there so long it feels like it’s part of your skin.
Clara didn't say anything. Just sat with him in it, steady and still, and somehow that was better than any response she could've given.
"We'd made plans," Jack continued, the words coming easier now that he'd started.
"Joel's shift ended at eleven. I was going to meet him at this diner we liked, the kind that's open all night and serves breakfast at 3 AM.
But I was working on a job site, running late, and I texted him to order without me. Said I'd catch up."
Thunder shook the lighthouse. Clara's hand found his—just rested there, warm and solid, not squeezing or demanding anything. Just there.
"He never made it to the diner. I got the call around midnight. Mom, crying so hard I couldn't understand her at first. Josie had to take the phone and tell me." Jack's voice cracked. "If I'd been there. If I'd just—"
"Don't." Clara's fingers tightened. "Don't do that to yourself."
"I was supposed to be there."
"You weren't driving the truck. You didn't cause the storm. You didn't make him hydroplane." Her voice was firm, leaving no room for argument. "Sometimes terrible things just happen, and there's no one to blame. Not even yourself."
Jack wanted to believe her. Wanted to accept that Joel's death was just bad luck, bad timing, bad weather. But seven years of guilt didn't dissolve that easily.
"I bought the boat because of him," he said.
"Joel always wanted to learn to sail. Had this whole plan—he was going to save up, buy a boat, spend his retirement sailing around the Caribbean like some kind of retired pirate.
He had books about it. Charts. He'd mapped out routes he wanted to take.
Hell, I used to tease him about it. I never actually believed he'd do it. "
Clara's face had gone still. Not closed off — just steady. The face of someone who wasn't going to flinch from whatever came next.
"After he died, I found the books in his apartment.
All the planning he'd done for a future he never got.
And I thought—" Jack's laugh was bitter.
"I thought I could do it for him. Live the life he wanted.
Buy the boat, learn to sail, see the places he'd dreamed about.
Like maybe if I did all the things he didn't get to do, it would mean something.
Make his death less... pointless. But, life got in the way and I never got around to buying a boat like I said I was going to. "
"Until…?"
He chuckled ruefully. "Until I got drunk one night at a bar and somehow ended up the owner of an old 14-foot fiberglass Sunfish sailboat that looked like it'd been dry-docked in someone's yard for half its life before it was dumped back in the port."
"Oh my God, you took a Sunfish into the open ocean? It's a miracle you're alive," she breathed, her eyes wide. "Did you have a death wish?"
"No, just—" He rubbed the back of his neck. "Too many beers and a dead brother's dream. Not a great combination for decision-making."
Clara whistled low under her breath, still shaking her head. "You've got to be the luckiest man alive."
"Maybe."
"So, is that why you travel?" Clara asked cautiously. "To honor your brother?"
He had to be honest, even if it didn't make him look great. "I wish it were that pure. If anything, travel helps me to forget how much it hurts that he's gone because if I'm always somewhere new, I don't have time to think about anything else."
"Hmm. My Gran used to say that no matter how fast you run, you can never outrun your problems. They'll always find you. Eventually."
Jack didn't answer right away. Because the honest response was: yeah, I know. And the deflection was: but I can give it the ol' college try. And somewhere between those two things was a truth he wasn't ready to look at directly.
"Your Gran sounds like she knew a thing or two," he said.
"She did." Clara was quiet for a moment. Then, carefully: "So you just… keep moving. Never stay long enough to lose anything."
Something about hearing it in her voice — flat, simple, not a judgment but a fact — made it sound different than it did in his own head. Worse. Lonelier.
"Yeah," he said. "Something like that."
Clara was quiet for a long moment, watching the storm. The lightning was moving away now, the gaps between flash and thunder stretching longer. Four seconds. Five. Six.
"Storm's moving on," she said.
Sure enough, it was. And something in his chest had loosened with it — not all the way, not gone, but quieter. Like a joint that had been seized up for years and finally, just barely, gave.
He swallowed hard.
Clara inhaled deeply and rose from the bench. "Goodnight, Jack. See you in the morning."
"Yeah, see you in the morning," he murmured, watching as she descended the stairway and disappeared into her bedroom, the door closing softly behind her.
He sat there for a while after she left. Hands on his knees. Breathing. The glass was still streaked with rain, but the sky beyond it had gone quiet — just the low grumble of thunder retreating down the coast, losing interest.
His body felt wrung out. Hollowed. Like someone had reached into his chest and rearranged the furniture, and he hadn't given them permission but couldn't exactly say they'd done it wrong.
He'd told her about Joel. About the diner and the storm and the guilt he carried like a bag he never set down. He'd said those things out loud, in this room, to a woman he'd known for four days.
Jack pressed his palms flat against his thighs. Steady. Still.
He should leave. That was the smart move — the pattern that had kept him intact for seven years. Get out before the roots set. Before the woman with the red hair and the quiet patience became someone he couldn't walk away from.
His hands weren't shaking anymore. That was the problem.
Clara Hawkins had steadied them, and he hadn't asked her to, and that scared him more than any storm.