Chapter 12 Ronan
Chapter twelve
Ronan
The cabin feels too big and too quiet after Isla leaves.
I stand on the porch for a long time, hands shoved deep in my pockets, the wind tugging at my jacket like it wants me to follow her.
I don’t. I told her to go. I told her I’m broken.
And she listened, because she’s stronger than I ever gave her credit for.
Inside, the air still holds the faint trace of her, vanilla from her shampoo, the warmth of her skin against mine this morning.
The bed is rumpled on her side, the pillow dented where her head rested.
I don’t touch it. I can’t. Instead, I move through the motions of putting things right: straightening the quilt, folding the blanket we kicked to the foot of the bed, washing the two coffee mugs that sat on the nightstand like evidence of something I’m trying to erase.
None of it helps.
Guilt crashes over me in waves, old guilt layered with new.
Declan’s face flickers behind my eyes every time I blink: the way he grinned before missions, the way his voice stayed calm even when the helo was spinning toward the ground.
I left him there. I walked away breathing when he couldn’t.
And now I’ve done the same to his sister—pushed her out the door because the thought of letting her stay terrifies me more than losing her.
I pace the small living room until the walls feel like they’re closing in.
Late afternoon light slants through the windows, turning everything gold and soft, but there’s no warmth in it.
My chest is tight, breaths coming shallow.
Fear for her safety mixes with everything else—sharp, metallic, like blood on my tongue.
Travis is in custody, but men like him don’t stay caged forever.
Restraining orders are paper. Sheriffs can’t watch every road.
What if he makes bail? What if he finds her again?
What if she’s driving right now with no one to stand between her and the next threat?
The thought makes my hands shake.
I grab my keys, my jacket, and head for the truck before I can talk myself out of it.
The engine turns over with a low growl. I drive without thinking—past the harbor, past the diner where the neon sign is just flickering on, past the turnoff to the bluff where her cottage sits empty now.
The road climbs, narrows, and turns to gravel as it hugs the cliffs. I know exactly where I’m going.
The memorial spot is nothing official, just a flat outcrop of rock above the water where Declan and I used to sit when he would visit on leave.
We’d drink warm beer from a cooler, watch the sun sink into the Pacific, and talk about nothing and everything.
After he died, I started coming alone. Never told anyone.
Just parked the truck, walked the narrow path through the pines, and sat until the cold drove me back.
Dusk is settling when I arrive, sky bruised purple and rose, the horizon bleeding gold.
The wind is sharper up here, carrying salt and pine and the low roar of waves far below.
I cut the engine, step out, and walk the familiar trail.
My boots crunch on fallen needles. The outcrop waits ahead, flat stone worn smooth by weather and time, a single weathered bench someone placed here years ago for no reason anyone remembers.
I sit heavily, elbows on my knees, hands clasped so tight my knuckles ache.
The ocean stretches endlessly below me, dark and restless. Gulls wheel low, crying sharp against the wind. I stare at the water until my eyes burn.
Declan’s voice is the first thing that comes, clear as if he’s sitting beside me. “You’re still punishing yourself, man.”
I laugh once, short and bitter. “Yeah. Habit.”
“You think that’s what I wanted? You sitting on this rock every year, beating yourself up because I didn’t make it?”
I swallow hard. “I should’ve pulled you out.”
“You tried. You got burned for it. You lived. That’s the job sometimes. One lives. One doesn’t. Doesn’t make the one who lives wrong.”
I rub my palms over my face. “I left you.”
“You followed orders. My last order. I told you to go. You listened. End of story.”
The wind picks up, whipping my hair across my forehead. I feel the sting of salt spray on my cheeks.
“She’s gone,” I say to the empty air. “Because I told her to go. Told her I’m broken. Told her she deserves better.”
Silence for a long moment. Then, softer: “And you believed that bullshit?”
I close my eyes. “I believe I’m not safe for her. Not with Travis out there, not with the way I carry this. What if I fail her, too?”
“You think failing her means loving her? Or letting her love you?”
My throat closes. I don’t answer.
Declan’s voice, my memory of it, keeps going, gentle now.
“She’s not asking you to be perfect. She’s asking you to show up. Same way I did. Same way you did for me until the end. You didn’t leave me because you were weak. You left because I made you. Don’t leave her because you’re scared.”
The words settle deep, heavy as stones in my chest.
I open my eyes. The sun has slipped below the horizon; the sky is deep indigo now, first stars pricking through. The lighthouse beam sweeps slow and steady across the water—reliable, unchanging, still doing its job even when no one’s watching.
I think about Isla driving away this morning—chin up, eyes bright with tears she wouldn’t let fall in front of me.
I think about the way she looked at me when she woke in my arms, hopeful, trusting, like I might be worth believing in.
I think about the way she kissed me back last night, slow and sure, like she was choosing me despite everything.
And I realize, clear and cold as the water below, that I’ve been choosing fear over her. Over us. Over the memory of the man who called me brother and never once asked me to be anything other than who I was.
I stand slowly, legs stiff from sitting. The wind pushes against my back like it wants me to move.
I’m done sitting on this rock.
I’m done letting guilt decide who I get to love.
I walk back to the truck, boots sure on the path. The engine starts with a low rumble. I turn around, headlights cutting through the dusk, and head back down the bluff road.
The cottage is dark when I reach it—windows black, porch light off. I park anyway, kill the engine, and sit there a minute listening to the tick of cooling metal. Then I get out, walk up the steps, and knock.
No answer.
I knock again harder.
Still nothing.
My stomach drops.
I try the knob. Locked. I fish the spare key from under the mat, the one she told me about weeks ago when I was fixing the roof, and let myself in.
The cottage is empty.
No suitcase by the door. No coffee mug in the sink. The air smells faintly of her shampoo, but it’s already fading.
She’s gone.
I stand in the middle of the living room, hands clenched at my sides, chest tight enough to hurt.
I drove her away and now I have to find her.
I pull my phone from my pocket, thumb through contacts until I reach her number, the one she gave me the day I fixed the sink. It rings once, twice, goes to voicemail.
Her voice, soft and a little breathless, fills the quiet room.
“Hi, this is Isla. Leave a message.”
I wait for the beep.
“Isla.” My voice comes out rougher than I mean it to.
“It’s me. I’m at the cottage. You’re not here.
I—” I swallow. “I was wrong. This morning. Last night. All of it. I’m not letting fear decide anymore.
I’m not letting guilt decide. I want you.
I want us. If you’re still in town… if you’re willing to hear me out…
come back. Or tell me where you are. I’ll come to you. Just… don’t disappear. Please.”
I end the call. Stare at the dark screen.
The lighthouse beam sweeps past the window—slow, steady, still doing its job.
I sink onto the couch, elbows on my knees, head in my hands.
And I wait.
Because for the first time since Declan died, I’m not running from anything.
I’m running toward something.
And I’m not stopping until she knows it.