37. A Good Man
Chapter 37
A Good Man
Rafe
I try to call my mom. She doesn’t pick up. I don’t know what I was expecting. She only calls on her terms, doesn’t she?
I linger on my back porch, flicking my lighter off and on, teasing the air with nothing to spark. I toss the lighter on the railing and instead reach into my pocket to pull out gum. It’s not nearly as good as a cigarette, but it’ll do for now.
I spend a couple of hours—maybe more—sitting on my porch, pacing through my studio, or trying to disappear into painting. But my mind keeps spinning, and the image under my brush starts to form the shape of her .
I look at my phone on the kitchen island, still blank with no incoming calls. Not even a text back. And for the first time, it truly bothers me that my mom doesn’t reach out. It’s not just an irritation, but a bone-deep question of, Why?
Why can she never return my calls? Why do we only talk when it’s convenient for her? Why is the relationship with my mom—the one person who should love me unconditionally—so damn hard?
I wonder if bringing Bonnie to dinner was a bad idea. I wonder if Mom felt betrayed. She’d already had Dad leave her, and then I moved away too. I had taken the chance when I could; when she said go, I went. But was this—showing her that someone else could exist outside of her—the final straw?
Maybe I’m just as callous as Dad.
Something about that thought tickles my chest in a weird way.
Am I just like him?
I clench my fists, then slowly unfurl them before storming from my apartment down to the streets below. I don’t bother locking Ink & Tide back. I can’t imagine anyone will try to stop by. Not after the emotional whipping Bonnie gave me—one I deserved.
I tried to sink our relationship, situationship, or whatever -ship it was. There’s no reason to take pity on myself for making a mistake. I should have known she wouldn’t take that lying down.
She never has, and that’s exactly why she was right.
I pace down the street, past the clock tower reading one hour ahead—inconsistent in its time, as always. Is it telling me I’m running behind? I’m always trying to catch the next thing and the next and the next.
She was right.
When will it ever be enough?
Am I enough now?
I tuck my hands into my pockets, my boots clunking down the wooden slope to the rocky shore. I close my eyes, tilting my head back to the afternoon sky and breathing in the salty ocean air. It’s the first time in a while I’ve enjoyed the outdoors without smoke to muddle it.
I’ve been living in a haze this whole time.
And Bonnie was fucking right .
I love her. I’ve loved her since she traipsed through my shop at Night Crawl, looking at every painting in awe, twisting on her cute heel to look at me like I mattered. I loved her because she saw me for me, unabashedly and confidently, calling me out on every single detail of my being I’d thought nobody noticed.
She saw the man I am—not the man my mom thinks I could be. A good man—not a man like my dad.
I love Never Harbor. This is my home and has been for seven years. It’s seen me through my early twenties, maturing into the man I am today. But it was Bonnie that made me feel whole. She saw through all the barriers I’d put up.
She needs to know someone does the same for her.
But I need time to get myself in check.
Sucking in another breath of fresh air, I make my way back to my shop. At the end of the sidewalk, I spot Moira and Bill Jukes talking outside of Ink & Tide. The door is half open.
I freeze a couple of feet away. They both meet my gaze. Moira winds her fingers together, saying nothing.
“What are you?—”
But Moira hisses out a, “Shush,” before taking a step forward and reaching out for my hand.
I furrow my brow at Bill instead.
He gives a weak shrug. “We were looking for you.”
“Why?”
“Just come on, kid. Let’s go.”
“Go?”
Moira hooks her hand in the crook of my elbow.
I let her silently escort me across the street to Jukes’s Jambalaya. Inside, it’s a busy summer crowd, mostly tourists eating with their spoons clinking against bowls. Low conversation hums, followed by errant laughter.
Moira drops me off at a small booth in the corner. A moment later, Jukes returns with a shrimp po’boy, sliding the warm plate in front of me. Moira scoots farther in the seat across from me, making room for Jukes. The three of us sit together in silence.
“Eat,” Bill says.
“I’m not hungry.”
“Don’t care.”
“But—”
“You don’t normally like to talk,” Moira explains. “So, we’re not talking. We’re just here for you. Whenever you want.”
Irritation quickly leads to confusion, then … realization. My lips part in awe. I settle back into the squeaking booth seat.
I’ve been wondering this whole time whether the town would hate me. Mourning hated my dad for everything he did to my mom. Nobody comforted him. Nobody should have. I guess I expected the same.
Robert Cohen with his secretary.
Rafe Cohen with his intern.
Yet two people who have been my neighbors—who I’ve gone out to lunch with maybe once or twice in seven years—are sitting in companionable silence with me, letting me process whatever I need to.
They’re letting me take up a booth in this busy restaurant on a summer’s day.
I trace my thumb over the side of the table, pushing the folded napkin closer to the sticky bottle of ketchup and salt and pepper shakers.
“I don’t understand,” I murmur.
“Why?” Moira asks.
“I just … well …”
“You got your heart broken,” Jukes says. “So, here we are. We stick together. That’s what we do in Never Harbor.”
My heart swells, pulsing in my chest and down to my twitching fingers. My nose stings.
“We know you like to be left alone. You always have,” Moira explains. “But this? You don’t have to face this alone.”
I clear my throat, looking anywhere but at the two of them.
“Thank you,” I croak out.
What else is there to say?
This town sees me more than I thought they did. They’ve always respected my unspoken boundaries—not bothering my quiet—but at the core of it, they only think they’re doing what’s best. And this right here is their community shining through.
Bill gives a toothy grin. Moira tilts her head to the side with a weak smile.
She reaches across the table and covers the back of my hand with her palm.
“You’re a good man, Rafe,” she says. “We’re here. Whenever you need us.”
I nod and clear my throat.
The only thing I know to say is another small, “Thank you.”
Because words have never been my thing.
They know that. They always have. And they’ve always accepted me anyway.