Chapter 5
Five
Tarryn
I sit on the edge of my bed with my phone flipped face down, staring at the clock like it might rescue me with an excuse. It doesn’t. Each minute stretches, heavy and deliberate, like it knows I’m stalling.
I agreed to meet Declan for a drink at Micky’s. If I cancel, I’ll regret it. Avoiding Declan hasn’t dulled the ache. It’s taught it how to live quietly, right behind my ribs, waiting.
I promised myself I’d go.
Not for him.
For me.
He left without a word. Threw years away and ghosted me. This is my chance to find out why.
My fingers tremble as I pull a sweater over my head. It still smells faintly of cedar and detergent, the kind my mom uses, all safety and familiarity. I only had clothes at my parents because the cottage’s closet was too small and I stored a lot of things here.
My hair refuses to cooperate, so I twist it into something that looks like effort and call it done. The mirror throws back someone who doesn’t look like me—eyes cautious, mouth set like she’s bracing for impact.
“Get it together,” I whisper. My voice sounds smaller than I mean it to.
Keys. Purse. Phone. If I move fast enough, maybe my heart will keep up.
The drive into downtown is easy. There are only locals here this time of year. I love the tourists, but not when I need to get across the bridge in the summer with hundreds of other cars.
Mikey’s Bar & Grill’s parking lot is busy.
I check my lipstick one last time and head toward the front door.
The bar buzzes with too much cheer. Strings of holiday lights loop along the rafters, their glow soft and defiant against the cold pressing at the windows.
The fireplace pops, scattering sparks that make me flinch before I can stop myself.
Somewhere near the jukebox, someone’s murdering a Christmas song, and the laughter that follows is too bright to belong to anyone haunted.
He’s here.
Declan sits at a high table near the back, angled toward the door the way he always used to—half habit, half survival.
His profile catches the firelight, and something low in my chest tightens.
He looks older, steadier. The kind of man who’s seen too much but learned to hide the cracks.
He grew up in Fort St. John in a trailer in a small town about a five hour drive north.
His mom waited tables in one of three diners.
When he spots me, he stands. My pulse leaps, a reflex I wish I could outgrow. He doesn’t reach for me, and I don’t move closer. Our smiles meet halfway—polite on the surface, charged underneath.
“Starting without me?” My tone tries for casual, lands somewhere near breathless. I slide onto the stool across from him.
“Only testing the water,” he says.
“Hot or cold?”
“Somewhere in the middle.”
“Good. I’m not in the mood to boil.”
A flicker of amusement crosses his face. It shouldn’t hit as hard as it does.
The server appears, efficient and silent. I order a glass of pinot, and Declan sticks with whiskey. His gaze doesn’t wander as I speak, and it sets every nerve in me buzzing.
He’s studying me—cataloguing, comparing, remembering.
“You said ten minutes without work,” I remind him, trying to ground myself in the rules. “Think you can manage that?”
“I thought I could.” His voice dips lower. “Not sure I want to.”
My throat goes dry. “Why not?”
“You want the truth?” He tips his glass toward me. “The detectors in the cottage weren’t dead by accident. Their guts were ripped out.”
The menu edges bite into my palm. For a moment, I forget how to breathe. “So someone had been inside the cottage.”
“Yes.”
I nod, jaw tight. The server sets my wine down. I curl my fingers around the glass, grateful for something to hold.
The noise of the bar swells, filling the space where panic might slip in. “That’s it,” I say, steady as I can. “We stop there until the second drink.”
“Deal.” He lifts his glass.
I clink mine softly against his. “Happy Holidays.”
The wine is smooth, but it doesn’t reach the tremor inside me. My pulse drums in my throat. He watches me like he used to, like I’m both familiar and foreign, like he’s trying to remember how to navigate me.
“You look good,” he says.
“It’s the job.”
“It was always more than a job with you.”
“It’s a family business, so it has to be both family and a job.”
His mouth curves, the faintest ghost of a grin. “Say your rules.”
He knows me so well. “One drink, maybe two. No blowups. No wandering into the past. We leave with a plan for tomorrow.”
“Clear.” He leans back, but it’s false ease. His knee brushes mine beneath the table, deliberate or not, I can’t tell.
The server sets my wine down. I curl my fingers around the glass, grateful for something to hold.
“Road trip to Vancouver,” I say, needing the distraction. “You used a key as a corkscrew to open a bottle of wine and declared victory.”
“I was very young and very proud.”
“You were loud.”
“It worked. We ate on the shoulder and called it a plan.”
“It was a plan. You made it one.”
“We did that a lot,” I say quietly. “Took what we had and made it better.”
He doesn’t blink. “We can do that again.”
“You hope we can.”
“I believe we can.”
“You always did like belief.”
“I like work more.”
I swirl the wine, avoiding his eyes. “Good. Me too.”
“Then tell me what you need tonight,” he says.
I force a breath. “I don’t want to remember something else I need but will never see again. I need to laugh. I need to stop replaying worst-case reels. I need a plan that makes sense in daylight. And I need to know why you left nearly three years ago and ghosted me.”
His eyes meet mine, steady and sure. “I can do that. The last one’s hard, but I’ll try.”
I take a slow sip of my wine and wait.
He chuckles, low and rough, and the sound slides through me like a remembered touch. “Where do you want to start?”
I shrug and can’t look at him. “Wherever you feel comfortable.”
His jaw works once before he looks past me into the bar, like the words are easier if he doesn’t have to watch them land.
“I was scared,” he says. “You made me want more than I’d ever let myself want.
And I didn’t know how to carry that. You have this world—roots, family, a name that means something.
I told myself you didn’t need me, but what I was really saying was I didn’t think I was enough. ”
Something in me flinches. This is where we broke the first time.
I set my glass down. “You’re right. I didn’t need you to keep a roof over my head or the lights on. I’ve always been able to take care of myself.” I lift my eyes to his. “But that was never the kind of need that mattered.”
His attention snaps back to me, like he didn’t expect me to meet him there.
“What I needed was someone who didn’t see me as a measure of what they weren’t,” I say quietly. “Someone who could stand beside me and believe they belonged there. You thought I needed saving, but all I wanted was someone who wouldn’t walk away when things got heavy.”
A muscle jumps in his cheek.
“You thought I didn’t need you because I could survive without you,” I continue, softer now. “But surviving isn’t living, Declan. What I wanted was you choosing to stay. To build something together. To believe we were worth it.”
His breath catches, small but real.
“I never needed a caretaker,” I finish. “I needed a partner. And it was supposed to be you.”
He tightens his hand around his glass, knuckles pale. He doesn’t speak—can’t—for a beat that stretches between us like a fault line finally seeing daylight.
His voice softens. “Say you don’t feel this, and I’ll shut up. We’ll talk weather.”
The challenge lands heavy. My pulse races, but the lie won’t come. “I feel it.”
Relief flickers across his face, subtle but undeniable. “Then tell me what you need tonight.”
He barely moves—a slow inhale, like he’s adjusting to being seen this clearly.
Before he can respond—
“Tarryn? Declan Conner?”
A too-bright voice slices in.
Of course.
Marilyn Payne.
She sweeps in on perfume and nostalgia, eyes shining. “I knew that was you! When did you get back, Declan? Are you home for good?”
“Marilyn.” His smile is polite. Thin.
“And are you two—?” She gestures between us with giddy expectation. “Back together?”
Declan doesn’t look away from me when he answers. “Yeah. We are.”
It lands like he’s building a bridge I’m not ready to cross yet—solid, public, irreversible.
Marilyn practically vibrates. “That is so cute. Paradise royalty, reunited!”
She drops into the empty seat without invitation and launches into a monologue about high school memories, student council elections, and how she’s now teaching social science at the high school.
I blink once. “You’re teaching… civics?”
“Mm-hm! Canadian government systems, political models, all that,” she chirps.
I remember grade twelve and Marilyn insisting a minority government meant “kids voting to overthrow adults.” Growth, apparently, is possible.
She stays too long—of course she does—making sure her laugh is always a little too loud, her hand always drifting a little too close to Declan’s.
Eventually, I’m done pretending this is salvageable.
I stand.
Her eyes light. She thinks I’m leaving her with him.
“I’ll walk you out,” Declan says, already rising.
Outside, the night is crisp and quiet. He keeps pace beside me until we reach my car. I unlock it but don’t open the door.
“You said you had a plan,” I remind him, folding my arms lightly. “So, what does ‘doing this’ look like to you?”
He studies me like this is the first time he realizes he has to show his place beside me, not just claim it.
“I want to tell you,” he says. “All of it. But before I do…I need to know that you’re actually willing to let me stand in.”
“Fine,” I say softly. “Then here’s mine.”
His shoulders tense, like he’s bracing for rejection.
“I’m not saying no,” I tell him, and his eyes flick up, quick and hopeful. “But I’m not saying yes either. What we had was real, Declan. It mattered. But it broke because you walked away, and I can’t just forget that because you decided you’re ready now.”
He swallows hard. “I’m not asking you to forget.”
“I know,” I say. “But if we do this, it has to be slow. You don’t get to walk back in and pick up where we left off like the time in between didn’t happen. I need to see you stay this time. Even when it’s uncomfortable. Even when my brothers glare or work gets messy or I don’t make it easy.”
He nods, the motion small but steady.
“I can get there,” I say quietly. “I want to. But you need to give me time to believe it.”
His expression shifts—somewhere between relief and regret.
“I can do that,” he says, voice low.
“Good. Then that’s your plan. You show up. You stay. And we’ll see where that takes us.”
He exhales, a sound that’s half surrender, half promise. “Then that’s what I’ll do.”
He nods, the motion small but steady.
I nod once and look down, heart hammering too loud in the quiet.
He doesn’t reach for me. He just watches.
For once, that’s enough.