Chapter 2
Chapter two
Ronan
The salt air clings to my skin as I coil the last length of rope and secure it to the cleat.
My hands move on autopilot, the calloused fingers finding the familiar knots without thought.
The harbor’s quiet this time of morning, just the lap of water against pilings and the occasional creak of a boat shifting in its slip.
Fog still hangs low over the water, softening the edges of everything, making the world feel smaller, safer somehow. I like it that way.
I wipe my palms on the thighs of my jeans, grab my jacket from the bench where I’d tossed it earlier, and start down the dock.
My boots thud against the weathered planks, a steady rhythm that matches the pulse I’ve learned to keep even.
No rush. No hurry. Just one foot in front of the other, the way I’ve done it since I decided my only mission was keeping my own head above water.
The diner sits at the end of Main Street, the same place it’s been for forty years.
Red-and-white awnings sag a little on one side now, but the neon Open sign still flickers reliably.
I push through the door, and the bell jingles overhead, soft and familiar.
Warmth hits me first, then the smell of coffee, bacon, and cinnamon rolls fresh from the oven.
My stomach rumbles despite itself. I ignore it. Coffee’s all I came for.
I slide onto my usual stool at the counter, the one closest to the door with my back to the wall and the whole diner in sight—old habit. Easy exit. Jonny, the cook, nods from behind the pass-through without looking up from the grill. “Black, two sugars?”
“Black,” I correct him, same as always. He grunts, already pouring.
The place isn’t crowded yet. There’s just a couple of fishermen in oilskins nursing their mugs, an older woman reading the local paper at the window booth, and Marjorie from the community center perched on her regular stool two down from mine.
She glances over when I sit, offers that warm smile she gives everyone.
“Morning, Ronan.”
“Morning.” I nod, keep it short. Polite, but not inviting conversation.
She doesn’t take the hint. Never does. “You hear we got fresh blood in town?”
I accept the mug Jonny slides across the counter and wrap my hands around it. The heat seeps into my palms. “Didn’t hear anything.”
“New coordinator at the center. Started yesterday. Sweet little thing—Isla something. Hart, I think. Says she’s from back east.” Marjorie sips her coffee, eyes bright with the small-town pleasure of new gossip.
“Moved into that old Gray cottage up on the bluff. The one that’s been sitting empty since the last tenant left.
Looks like she’s rented it sight unseen. ”
I take a slow sip, let the bitter heat ground me.
“Poor thing looked a little lost when she walked,” Marjorie continues. “Tired around the eyes, but she smiled like she meant it.”
I stare into my coffee. “New people always look lost at first.”
Jonny slides a plate in front of me—two eggs over easy, toast, even though I didn’t order food. He does that sometimes. I don’t argue. Just pick up the fork.
“You ought to stop by the center sometime,” Marjorie says. “Introduce yourself. She’ll need help with that leaky roof before the next storm rolls in.”
“Not my problem.” I cut into the eggs, watching the yolk spill across the plate. “Plenty of guys around who can swing a hammer.”
She laughs, light and knowing. “You’re the best with a hammer, Ronan Black, and you know it. Besides, you’re good with folks who need a hand. Quiet doesn’t have to mean cold.”
I meet her eyes. “I’m good where I am.”
She studies me for a moment, the way people do when they think they see something broken and want to fix it. “Suit yourself. But the world’s not as lonely as you make it out to be.”
I don’t answer. She sighs, but there’s no judgment in it, just the gentle resignation of someone who’s known me long enough to stop pushing. She finishes her coffee, leaves a few bills on the counter, and pats my shoulder on her way out. “Take care, Ronan.”
The bell jingles behind her.
I sit there a while longer, nursing what’s left in my mug. The fishermen have moved on to talking quotas and diesel prices. Jonny hums tunelessly while he scrapes the grill. Outside, the fog is starting to lift, sunlight cutting through in pale shafts that catch on the water like scattered coins.
I think about the woman—Isla Hart. Maybe it’s just the coincidence of a last name that sounds too close to something I’ve buried.
Or perhaps it’s the way Marjorie described her—tired eyes, polite smile.
I’ve seen that look before on guys coming off deployment.
I look at myself in the mirror some mornings.
Doesn’t matter. I don’t know her. Don’t want to. I’ve spent the last three years building walls high enough to keep everyone out, and they’ve held just fine. Routine. Work. Solitude. No complications. No one to disappoint when the nightmares come or when the quiet gets too loud.
I pay for the coffee and the breakfast, leave a tip that’s more habit than generosity, and step back into the cool morning air.
The street is waking up now. Shop owners flipping signs to Open, a delivery truck idling outside the hardware store.
I walk past them all without stopping, hands shoved in my pockets, shoulders set against the wind coming off the water.
My cabin sits at the end of a gravel road that branches off the main highway, tucked against a stand of pines that block most of the view unless you know where to look.
It’s small, just one bedroom, a woodstove that throws more heat than light, a porch that creaks under my weight.
I like the creek. It announces whoever steps on the porch.
I climb the steps and unlock the door. I shrug out of my jacket, hang it on the hook by the door, and move to the kitchen. Kettle on the stove. Coffee grounds are measured into the French press. Same motions, same order. Control in the small things.
While the water heats, I lean against the counter and stare out the window.
The ocean stretches wide and gray beyond the trees, restless today.
I watch a gull ride the wind, wings tipped silver in the strengthening light.
For a second, I let myself wonder what it would be like to feel that free—weightless, unburdened.
The kettle whistles. I pour, press, pour again.
The first sip burns my tongue, grounds me back in the moment.
I carry the mug to the small table by the window and sit.
There’s a stack of mail on the corner; it’s mostly junk, and a couple of bills I’ll pay later.
Underneath, half-hidden, is the photo I keep meaning to put away but never do.
Declan and I, six months before the mission that took him. We’re both grinning, arms slung around each other’s shoulders, desert dust coating our gear. His eyes are bright, alive. Mine look tired even then. I trace the edge of the frame with my thumb, feel the old ache settle in my chest.
No one here ever knew him. He came through on leave once or twice, crashed on my couch, drank too much beer, and talked about getting out someday. But he never stayed long enough for the town to claim him. Never left footprints. Just a ghost passing through.
“You’d laugh at me,” I mutter to the empty room. “Hiding out in this nowhere town. Keeping my head down like I’m still waiting for incoming.”
He doesn’t answer. Of course, he doesn’t.
I set the photo facedown, gentle, like I’m tucking him in for the night.
Then I stand, carry my coffee to the porch, and settle into the old Adirondack chair that groans under me.
The wind carries the scent of salt and cedar.
Far below, the harbor glitters now that the fog’s mostly gone.
Boats move in slow motion, men calling to each other across the water.
I take another sip of coffee, let it scald all the way down. This is what I want, I remind myself, to be alone and beholden to no one.