Chapter 1 #2
He's working on one of the docks farther down, broad shoulders straining the faded black T-shirt as he hauls a coil of rope.
Dark hair, a little too long, falls across his forehead.
Even from here, I can make out the line of a scar along his jaw, silver against tanned skin.
He moves with the kind of deliberate strength that comes from years of discipline—controlled, economical, no wasted motion.
Military, maybe? Marjorie's words echo about the town's handyman.
When he straightens and wipes sweat from his brow, his gaze sweeps the walkway and lands on me. For a second, the world narrows to just that look. Intense. Unreadable. Something flickers in his eyes before his expression shutters. He turns away and goes back to his work.
My pulse stutters. I know that kind of shutdown.
Travis had it too, the way he'd close off when I asked too many questions about his nights out or his temper.
But this man feels different—distant, not dangerous.
Still, weariness settles over me like the fog.
I've had enough of men who hide behind walls.
Curiosity is a trap. It pulls you in, makes you ignore the red flags until they're waving in your face.
I think back to the first red flag with Travis. It was early, maybe our third date. We'd gone hiking, and I tripped on a root, scraping my knee. Instead of helping, he laughed, mocking. "Clumsy much? Come on, keep up."
I brushed it off as teasing, but it lingered. Later flags were even redder. Like the way he'd check my phone "just to see," the isolation from friends ("They're jealous of us, babe"), the outbursts over nothing.
Once he found a text from a male client about a design revision, accused me of cheating.
His fist slammed the table so hard the lamp shook.
"You're not going anywhere without me knowing," he'd growled.
I nodded, played meek, but inside, I was plotting.
The next day, while he was at work, I bought the burner phone and researched towns.
Haven's Cove called to me, and when I found a job here, I knew it was perfect. Safe. Remote.
Shaking off the memory, I turn back toward the community center, hugging my arms around myself.
The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of paperwork and small talk with locals dropping by to introduce themselves.
A fisherman named Hank brings coffee and chats about the tides.
An artist named Lenora invites me to her gallery opening.
Everyone's friendly in that cautious small-town way.
They ask where I'm from (I say "back east," vague enough), how long I'm staying, and whether I've tried the clam chowder at the diner yet.
No one pries too hard. I'm grateful for that. It lets me breathe.
One woman, an older lady with a knit scarf, lingers a bit. "You look like you could use a good meal," she says. "Come by the diner tomorrow. It will be my treat."
I smile, genuine this time. "That sounds wonderful. Thank you."
As the day winds down, my burner phone buzzes in my pocket.
I freeze, heart racing. Only one person has this number—an old college friend I'd trusted with it in case of an emergency.
But when I check, it's a spam text. Relief floods me, but it leaves me shaky.
Travis is crafty; he could find ways. I delete it, and power off the phone for now.
When the clock finally hits five, I lock up, sling my bag over my shoulder, and head to my new home.
It's a short drive up a winding road that hugs the cliffs, gravel crunching under my tires.
The house comes into view, a weathered gray Cape Cod with a sagging front porch and windows that look tired.
It's rundown, sure, but the rent was cheap, paid in cash to the landlord over the phone.
Far enough from the main road that it feels private. Safe.
I park, grab my suitcase from the trunk, and climb the steps.
The key turns easily in the lock, and the door opens with a soft groan.
Inside, it smells faintly of cedar and sea air.
Hardwood floors scarred from years of boots, a stone fireplace that probably hasn't seen a fire in months, a kitchen with chipped counters, and a view of the ocean worth everything.
It's not much, but it's empty of memories that aren't mine.
No echoes of raised voices. No ghosts of hands that hurt.
I drop my bag in the hallway and wander through the rooms, flipping on lights to chase away shadows.
The bedroom has a quilted bedspread that looks handmade, a dresser with drawers that stick a little.
The bathroom tile is cracked but clean. In the living room, I sink into an armchair by the window, staring out at the fading light.
The sun is sinking now, painting the water gold and rose.
From here, I can make out the harbor lights flickering on one by one.
And there, down on the dock again, is the man from earlier.
He's alone now, silhouetted against the sunset, staring out at the horizon like he's waiting for something that never comes.
My chest tightens. I don't know his name.
I don't know his story. But in that moment, watching him stand so still while the world moves around him, I feel a pang of something sharp and familiar.
Loneliness recognizes loneliness. Weariness, too, I've built walls of my own since Travis, thick ones to keep out the hurt.
I’m tired of living this way. I want to believe in love and happiness. My new beginning is just that. I won’t shy away from getting to know people here. I’ll be cautious, but I’m not going to let Travis take anything else from me.
Tomorrow I'll unpack the rest of my things, buy groceries, and maybe even try that chowder. Tomorrow I'll pretend I'm just another new face in a quiet town. I'll build routines, make friends slowly, and let the ocean's rhythm soothe the jagged edges Travis left behind.