Chapter 7
seven
Clara stared at the blank panel on her drafting table and resisted the urge to set it on fire.
The deadline was tomorrow. Tomorrow. And she had three panels left to finish, except Marina refused to cooperate.
The dialogue felt forced. The sea witch's motivations made no sense.
And the lighthouse keeper character—the one Clara had based on herself, the one who was supposed to be offering sage wisdom—just stared back from the page looking as confused as Clara felt.
This was a disaster.
She'd been sitting here for two hours, pen in hand, staring at the same three lines of dialogue that refused to work no matter how many times she rewrote them.
Her coffee had gone cold. Her shoulders ached.
And the voice in her head that sounded suspiciously like Sam kept helpfully suggesting that maybe she just wasn't talented enough for this anymore.
"Clare-bear, maybe you should consider this a sign. Not everyone's cut out for creative work long-term."
"Shut up," Clara muttered to the empty air.
From across the room, Jack looked up from the window frame he was repairing—because of course he'd found another thing to fix. "You okay over there?"
"Fine."
"That sounded convincing."
"I'm fine." Clara set down her pen with more force than necessary. "Just having a completely normal breakdown about my deadline that's tomorrow and my brain that's decided to stop functioning. Totally fine."
Jack set down his screwdriver and crossed the room, stopping a few feet from her drafting table. Close enough to see her work, far enough to respect her space. He'd learned her boundaries over the past week and a half, which was both considerate and annoying.
"Writer's block?" he asked.
"Is that what we're calling 'complete and utter creative failure'?"
"Yes, I believe that's the clinical term." He leaned against the wall, studying her with those hazel eyes that saw too much. "How long have you been sitting there?"
"Two hours. Maybe three. Time lost all meaning around hour one."
"And how's that working out for you?"
Clara gestured at the blank panel. "Spectacularly. Can't you tell?"
Jack's mouth curved into that small smile she'd become dangerously familiar with. "You know what your problem is?"
"Please, enlighten me. I love unsolicited advice about my creative process."
"You're stuck in your head. All that energy is just sitting there, stagnant. You need to shake it loose."
Clara raised an eyebrow. "Shake it loose?"
"Yeah. Physically. Get your body moving so your brain can unstick itself." He pushed off the wall. "Come on. Stand up."
"I'm not—"
"Stand up, Clara."
Something in his tone—not commanding, but encouraging, like he genuinely believed this ridiculous idea would work—made her comply. She stood, crossing her arms defensively.
"Okay. Now what? We do jumping jacks? Run laps around the lighthouse?"
"Now," Jack said, and proceeded to do the most ridiculous shimmy shake Clara had ever witnessed in her life.
It wasn't dancing. It was barely movement. It was just... Jack Callahan, carpenter and shipwreck survivor, shaking his entire body like he was trying to dislodge water from his ears while simultaneously impersonating a malfunctioning washing machine.
His shoulders bounced. His hips wiggled. His arms flailed with zero coordination. He looked absolutely absurd.
Clara's laugh burst out before she could stop it—surprised and genuine and loud enough to startle the seagulls outside.
"See?" Jack said, still shimmying. "It's working. You're unsticking."
"You look like you're having a seizure."
"That's the point. Can't be stuck in your head when you're too busy laughing at someone else's complete lack of rhythm." He shimmied harder, adding some kind of arm wave that made him look like an inflatable tube man outside a car dealership.
Clara doubled over, hands on her knees, laughing so hard her abs hurt. When was the last time she'd laughed like this? Not a polite chuckle or a sardonic snort, but actual, genuine, tears-streaming-down-her-face laughter?
She couldn't remember.
"Your turn," Jack said, still moving.
"Absolutely not."
"Come on. Shake it out. I promise you'll feel better."
"I'll feel like an idiot."
"You'll feel like an idiot with unstuck creative energy." He held out his hand. "Trust me."
Clara stared at his hand. This was stupid. Ridiculous. She had a deadline tomorrow and she was wasting time watching a grown man shimmy like a malfunctioning robot.
She took his hand.
Jack grinned—victorious and warm—and gave her a spin that made her stumble into him, laughing again. "Okay, now you try. Just shake. Doesn't have to be good. In fact, it's better if it's terrible."
"I can't—"
"Yes, you can. I just demonstrated that looking stupid is the whole point. Now shimmy, Hawkins."
Clara felt ridiculous. Felt self-conscious and awkward and hyper-aware of her body moving in ways that definitely weren't graceful.
But Jack was watching her with such genuine encouragement—no judgment, no criticism, just this open enthusiasm for her looking as ridiculous as he had—that something in her chest loosened.
She shimmied. Badly. Terribly. Her shoulders barely moved, her hips felt stiff, and she probably looked like her joints were superglued together.
"There you go!" Jack cheered. "That's it! Worse! Make it worse!"
"It can't get worse!"
"Sure it can! Add arms!"
Clara flailed her arms experimentally. This was mortifying. This was—
This was fun.
When was the last time she'd let herself be silly? Let herself look stupid without that voice in her head cataloging every awkward movement, every imperfection, every reason to be embarrassed?
Sam had hated when she was goofy. The impromptu dance parties in the kitchen, her terrible singing in the shower, the way she'd make up ridiculous voices for the pigeons outside their apartment window.
"Clare-bear, you're too old for that kind of behavior. It's not cute anymore."
She'd been twenty-nine.
She'd stopped dancing. Stopped singing. Stopped doing voices. Had packed away that playful part of herself because Sam said it was childish, immature, not befitting someone who wanted to be taken seriously in the ad world.
And she'd believed him.
"Wait," Jack said suddenly. "This needs music. Can't have a proper shake-out without music."
He pulled out his phone and scrolled through something. A moment later, music poured from the tiny speaker. Something upbeat and fun and completely inappropriate for a serious deadline crisis.
"Really?" Clara said.
"Really. Now dance with me."
"I don't—"
But Jack had already spun her into his arms, one hand at her waist, the other clasping hers, and suddenly they were dancing.
Not shimmying. Actually dancing, or something approximating it, in her circular lighthouse living room with the afternoon sun streaming through the windows and no good reason except that he'd suggested it.
Jack led her in an approximation of a swing dance—she thought? Maybe? It was hard to tell when neither of them seemed to know the actual steps. He spun her out, reeled her back in, dipped her unexpectedly enough to make her shriek with laughter.
"You're terrible at this!" Clara gasped.
"I know! Isn't it great?"
He spun her again, and she stumbled into his chest, both of them laughing, his arms catching her before she could fall. They were close now—close enough that she could see the gold flecks in his eyes, the freckles across his nose, the way his smile crinkled at the corners.
Close enough that her breath caught.
"See?" Jack said, slightly breathless. "Unsticking."
"You're stupid."
"And you're smiling."
He was right. She was smiling—a real, genuine, face-aching smile that felt foreign after three years of carefully controlled expressions.
The music shifted to something slower. Jack didn't let go. Just adjusted his grip, pulling her a little closer, swaying now instead of spinning.
Clara should step back. Should make a joke and retreat to her drafting table. Should remember that this was temporary, that Jack was leaving, that letting herself feel this—whatever this was—would only make it hurt more when he left.
Should.
Instead, she let herself sway. Let her forehead rest against his shoulder. Let his warmth seep into her bones in a way that felt dangerous and necessary in equal measure.
"When's the last time you danced?" Jack asked, his voice low near her ear.
"I don't know. Years. Before..." She trailed off.
"Before?"
"Before Sam." The name tasted bitter. "He didn't like it when I was silly. Said it was immature. That I needed to act my age."
Jack's hand tightened on her waist. "That's bullshit."
"Is it?" Clara pulled back enough to meet his eyes. "I mean, he had a point. I was almost thirty. Making up voices for birds, dancing in the kitchen like a teenager—"
"Being joyful," Jack interrupted. "You were being joyful. And he made you feel bad about it."
The words hit harder than they should have.
Because that's exactly what Sam had done. Systematically dismantled every piece of joy she'd expressed until she'd learned to keep it all locked away. Until being serious and controlled and professional had become her default setting, and she'd forgotten there was any other way to exist.
"I used to be brave," Clara said quietly. "Carefree. I'd try new things, take risks, make mistakes and laugh about them. I was..." She struggled for the word. "Lighter. I don't know when I stopped being that person."
"You didn't stop. You just buried her." Jack's thumb traced small circles on her waist through her shirt. "She's still in there. I've seen her—she yells at seagulls and rescues idiots from the sea and just shimmied so badly it was actually kind of beautiful."
Clara's throat tightened. "That's not the same thing."
"Why not? You're still showing up. Still being yourself even when it scares you." He paused. "You just don't trust it yet."
"What if I can't?"
"What if you can?"
The question hung between them, heavier than it should have been.
Clara had spent three years walling herself up. Three years convincing herself that being alone was safer than being seen. Three years believing that if she just stayed small and controlled and carefully ordered, nothing could hurt her again.
But Jack—ridiculous, temporary Jack with his shimmy shakes and warm hazel eyes—was suggesting that maybe safety wasn't the goal. Maybe living was.
The music ended. Neither of them moved.
"Try your panel now," Jack said finally, stepping back but keeping one hand linked with hers. "I bet the unsticking worked."
Clara looked at her drafting table, then back at Jack. At this man who'd shown up broken and almost-drowned and had somehow made her lighthouse feel less like a refuge and more like a home.
Who'd seen her guarded and prickly and defended and decided she was worth the effort anyway.
Who made her want to be brave again.
"Okay," she said. "I'll try."
Jack squeezed her hand once, then let go. Returned to his window frame. Started whistling—off-key and cheerful—like the past fifteen minutes hadn't just tilted Clara's entire world on its axis.
Clara sat at her drafting table. Picked up her pen. Stared at the blank panel.
And found the dialogue flowing.
Marina wasn't scared of the sea witch. She was scared of her own power. Scared that if she stopped fighting and just let herself be, she might discover she'd been strong enough all along.
The lighthouse keeper told the sailor: "Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is let someone see you dance."
Clara wrote for two hours straight, the words and images pouring out like they'd just been waiting for permission. She finished all three panels by the time the sun started setting, the deadline met with hours to spare.
When she finally set down her pen, Jack was making dinner—pasta because apparently that was his specialty. The lighthouse smelled like garlic and tomatoes and something indefinably warm.
"Deadline met?" he asked without turning around.
"Yeah. I'm mortified to admit that your unsticking method worked," she said.
"I knew it would work."
Clara stood, stretching muscles that had been cramped for hours. Crossed to the kitchen. Stood beside Jack at the stove, close enough that their shoulders touched.
"Thank you," she said. "For making me dance."
Jack glanced at her, something soft in his expression. "Thank you for letting me."
They stood there for a moment, the evening light golden through the windows, the pasta bubbling on the stove, the comfortable silence of two people who'd somehow become more than strangers in less than two weeks.
Clara thought about the panels she'd just finished. About Marina learning to trust her own strength. About the lighthouse keeper telling someone to be brave.
About how sometimes the characters knew what you needed to hear before you did.
"Jack?"
"Yeah?"
"Will you dance with me again sometime?"
His smile was slow and warm and did complicated things to her pulse. "Anytime you want, Hawkins."
And standing there in her kitchen with the sun setting and Jack Callahan making pasta like he belonged in her space, Clara realized something terrifying:
She was falling for him.
Not might be. Not could be. Was.
Falling for the temporary carpenter with the tragic backstory and the gentle hands and the ability to make her laugh until she couldn't breathe.
Falling for someone who'd told her from the start that he wouldn't stay.
The smart thing would be to stop it. Pull back. Regroup before it was too late. But Clara had just spent two hours writing about bravery.
And maybe the bravest thing she could do was let herself fall.
Even if she had no idea how she'd survive the landing.