5. Silas
Chapter five
Silas
T he carnival crowds had thinned to nothing, leaving only the soft clink of Cody's medal against his chest as he dozed in the backseat of Jack's SUV. Salt crunched under my boots as I handed Jack the last paper cup.
"Some night, huh?" Jack's voice was soft, ensuring that he wouldn't wake Cody. He didn't move to get into the car. Instead, he leaned against the door frame, his shoulders relaxed.
"Your boy did good." I matched his quiet tone. "That second shot? Pure instinct."
"Yeah." Jack glanced at Cody through the window, then back at me. The streetlamp caught the silver threading through his dark hair. "It's been such a whirlwind, and you're always right there. The skating lessons. The approximately eight thousand hot chocolates."
"Only seven thousand, tops."
Jack's laugh formed a warm, puffy cloud in the cold air. We stood, caught in that strange space where saying goodbye felt both necessary and impossible. A car passed on the street, its headlights sweeping across the parking lot, momentarily painting everything in gold before leaving us in the gentle darkness again.
Jack turned the empty cup in his hands. "You know, I wasn't sure about this place at first. I know I told you how I picked it, but it seemed so small when we arrived to move in. I worried that it would feel—" He gestured vaguely at the quiet street.
"Too much like a fishbowl?"
"Something like that." He looked into my eyes. "But then the moments tonight. Watching Cody with his teammates. Seeing him belong somewhere."
"And you?" The question slipped out before I could catch it. "Do you feel like you belong?"
Jack shifted, angling toward me. The movement brought him close enough that I smelled the wool of his coat. "I think I'm starting to."
I didn't know how to respond, so I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. Then, Jack's gaze dropped to my mouth for a heartbeat, and something electric crackled in the space between us.
I didn't plan what happened next. Wouldn't have dared to plan it. It went against all my rules for a settled life, but somehow, the distance between us vanished, and Jack's lips were on mine—gentle, questioning. The kiss lasted barely long enough to register the scratch of his stubble.
Reality crashed into me like a storm-fueled wave against the breakwater. I jerked back, nearly stumbling. With one move, I'd created a sudden gap between us, yawning wide like a steep canyon.
That gap was once full of Nico's promises, like when he held my face in his hands under the porch light and said, "This is real, Silas."
Or the day Dad kissed my hair and said he would be back, but he never reappeared. It was the space where men told me they would stay, only to slip through my fingers when I wasn't looking.
I had learned my lesson.
Jack remained perfectly still, one hand half-raised as if to reach for me. His first expression radiated confusion. Next was something more like patient understanding.
"Silas—"
"I should go." The words tumbled out, rough and awkward. "Early morning tomorrow. Dottie's bridge club, they'll want their—" I gestured vaguely in the direction of Tidal Grounds. "Their scones. You know how they get about the scones."
Jack inhaled. "We could talk about—"
"Really need to prep the dough." I was already backing away, gravel crunching under my boots. "Long process. Very... particular. About the scones."
In the car, Cody shifted in his sleep, his medal scraping against the seatbelt. The small sound anchored me, reminding me why the kiss was such a terrible idea.
Jack had his son to think about. He needed to concentrate on his new start in Whistleport. The last thing he needed was the local coffee shop owner making it all twice as complicated.
"Good night," I managed, the words falling like stones between us. "I'll see you... around."
I turned before he could respond, forcing myself to walk—not run, definitely not run—toward Main Street. My steps echoed against the buildings, too loud in the empty night. Behind me, I heard the soft thunk of a car door closing, but I didn't look back.
I couldn't look back.
Main Street stretched empty before me, the usual bustle of tourist season replaced by winter stillness. The harbor lights winked in the distance, marking the edge of town like a string of scattered stars. Each storefront I passed was full of memories. It was my town, and the windows stared like dozens of pairs of eyes, watching every move, witnesses to my impulsive mistake.
They were like a Greek chorus inside my head. You got ahead of the game this time. You ran before the other guy got the chance.
Miller's Bakery's darkened windows reflected my hurried stride. Last week, Jack had stopped there for maple scones, and I joked that his loyalty was slipping. Now the memory pricked at me, sharp as the cold air in my lungs.
"Get it together," I muttered, the words forming clouds in the frigid air. A solitary gull swooped low overhead, its cry echoing off the empty storefronts.
Near the pier, I slowed. The tide was coming in, waves slapping against the pilings with steady determination. I'd learned to tell time by those rhythms as a kid, back when Dad would take me fishing before dawn. That was before he decided Whistleport was too small for his ambitions and left us with nothing but his empty chair at the breakfast table.
A loose shutter banged somewhere down the street, making me jump. I shoved my hands deeper into my pockets, fingers brushing against my phone. The urge to text Jack rose inside, but what would I say? Sorry, I kissed you and ran. Sorry, I let myself forget, just for a minute, that I'm an observer, not a participant.
The corner of Water Street and Maple brought me within sight of my apartment above the shop. Light spilled from Ziggy's family's place down the street—his dad always left the porch light on when he was out on the lobster boat. The soft yellow glow usually felt welcoming, but tonight, it reminded me of the carnival and how I'd ruined such a perfect evening.
"Some timing, Brewster," I told the empty street. After ten years of serving coffee and keeping everyone's secrets, I had to go and complicate my best new friendship in years.
My apartment greeted me with familiar shadows—the old copper kettle Mom gave me when I opened Tidal Grounds, the stack of poetry books Rory kept lending me, and the endless rows of coffee equipment I needed to test for the shop. Usually, the space was my sanctuary. At the moment, it was more like an interrogation room.
I dumped my coat over the kitchen chair, not bothering with the hook by the door. The radiator clanked and hissed, fighting against the draft from my perpetually loose window frames. Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the wooden sign at the Tidal Grounds entrance.
"What were you thinking?" I asked my reflection in the kitchen window. The dark glass offered no answers, only the ghost of my own face superimposed over the sleeping town below.
My phone sat heavy in my pocket. I pulled it out, letting it clatter onto the counter. The screen lit up, showing three texts from Rory:
Rory: Great job with the hot chocolate station.
Rory: Cody's shot was incredible.
Rory: You and Jack seemed cozy by the fire.
I started to type a response, and then I changed my mind. Staring in horror, I realized I'd mistakenly sent my half-written message.
Flipping the phone face-down, I caught the time—11:47. Maybe Rory was asleep, and he'd miss my aimless words until morning when I'd have a chance to explain them away with the first round of coffee.
Jack would be home by now, probably tucking Cody into bed and hanging that medal somewhere special. He might be thinking about the kiss, or maybe he'd already decided to write it off as a carnival-induced moment of madness.
My apartment was suddenly far too small. I paced from the kitchen to the living room and back, each lap bringing a new wave of questions. What if Jack decided Tidal Grounds wasn't worth the awkwardness anymore? What if Cody lost his favorite hot chocolate spot because I couldn't control my impulses?
My hand brushed a bookshelf, knocking loose a photo I kept meaning to frame. It was from a poetry reading last summer—me behind the counter, laughing at something off-camera. Mom said Dad had been like that, too. He was quick to laugh, impulsive with actions, and the first to leave when things got complicated.
The last thing Jack needed was a man like that.
The kitchen clock ticked steadily, marking time like a metronome. Almost midnight. In six hours, I'd need to be downstairs, starting the morning bake. Jack usually came in around seven-thirty, Cody bouncing beside him.
Usually.
The radiator clanked again. I should sleep. Should at least try. Instead, I found myself reaching for the French press, measuring beans with mechanical precision.
Some problems couldn't be solved with coffee. I knew that, but at least the familiar ritual might quiet the critical voices in my head.
The grinder whirred to life, drowning out my thoughts. One problem at a time. First, freshly ground coffee beans. Then sleep. Then... whatever tomorrow would bring.
I was on the way to bed, the rich aroma of the fresh grind circling around me, when I heard pounding downstairs at the Tidal Grounds door. I pulled on my boots in case someone's car had broken down nearby and they needed help.
The familiar face startled me at first. It was Brooks, peering in, trying to detect any movement inside. When I opened the door, he took one look at me and raised an eyebrow.
"You look like you tried arm-wrestling a lobster. And lost."
"Thanks. I didn't mean to send that message if that's what you think."
Brooks rubbed his arms and settled at the closest table. "Black, no cream, no sugar."
"You're here in the middle of the night to order coffee?"
"No, I'm here because Rory was already up too late grading papers. He sent me to unruffle a friend's feathers."
I set to work on the coffee. "Thanks for the concern, but—"
"Heard you were quite the skating instructor at the carnival."
"Don't." The word came out sharper than I intended.
"Don't what? I'm just trying to have a conversation about everybody's favorite new hockey dad."
I rinsed a pair of mugs in the sink, turning the water spray high, letting the noise fill the space where my response should have been. Brooks waited it out, patient as a fisherman.
When the sink fell silent, he tried again. "Si—"
"I kissed him." The words escaped before I could stop them. "And then I ran away like some teenager at his first dance." I dropped my forehead against the cabinet.
"Ah." Brooks drummed his fingers on the counter. "So, how was it? I know you're out of practice, but I bet you've got fine technique."
"Wouldn't know. It was barely seconds. I didn't stick around long enough to know whether it was good or not."
"And that's a Brewster move?"
"You're not helping."
"Not trying to help with anything." He paused. "You know he'll be in this morning. Same as always."
The reminder sent a fresh wave of panic through me. "Maybe he won't."
"Right. I'm sure Jack St. Pierre strikes you as the kind of man who runs from things." Brooks's voice had the same tone he used when coaching the peewee team. "He uprooted his entire life to give his kid a fresh start. Pretty sure he can handle the panic attack when a coffee shop owner who makes heart eyes at him every morning finally kisses him."
"I do not make—" I stopped as a shit-eating grin filled his face. "I hate you."
"You love me. Almost as much as you—"
"Don't finish that sentence."
Brooks stood and stretched his long, athletic frame. "You know what your problem is? It's not echoes of your dad or your ex. You've spent so long taking care of everyone else in this town you forgot how to let anyone take care of you."
Brooks folded his arms, fixing me with a look that saweverything—every excuse, every deflection. "You know what your problem is?" His voice was quiet but firm.
"It's not your dad. It's not Nico. It'syou.You've decided it's better to leave than give anyone a chance to stay."
I bustled around, straightening books on shelves and arranging chairs at tables. "Pretty sure that's not my biggest problem right now."
"No?" He headed for the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. "Think about it, Si. Give yourself a break and lean into it. Let that Quebecois breeze carry you for a bit. You know how sexy it would be to hear a little French when—"
I threw a bar towel at him. The bell chimed as he left, leaving me alone with only five hours before I'd have to face the new day.