6. Carried Weight #2
I picked up another photo, this one more recent.
Rowan on stage somewhere, guitar in hand, caught mid-song with his eyes closed and his mouth open, completely lost in the music.
He looked alive in a way I hadn't seen since he'd come back to Harbor's End, connected to something larger than his own pain.
He shifted in his sleep, one hand emerging from beneath the blanket to rest on his chest. His fingers were long and callused, marked by years of guitar strings.
I stayed until the first hint of dawn crept through the small window, painting the walls gray and making the lamp beside the bed seem suddenly unnecessary. Rowan's breathing had deepened and evened out, and the flush of alcohol had faded from his cheeks, leaving him pale but peaceful.
When I finally left, I locked the door behind me and slipped the keys back through the mail slot.
The streets of Harbor's End were empty at this hour, just me and the seagulls and the eternal sound of waves against stone.
The air smelled like salt, the way it always did in the hour before the town woke up and remembered all the reasons for disappointment.
By morning, I was dressed and walking toward the Mariner's Rest, telling myself I needed breakfast and human contact, not that I was hoping to run into someone who might distract me from the night I'd just had.
The morning was crisp and clear, Harbor's End looking almost prosperous in the golden light that made everything seem possible.
Tom was already at his usual table when I arrived, coffee and newspaper spread in front of him like offerings to the god of routine. He looked up when I slid into the booth across from him, his weathered face creasing into a smile that held just a hint of concern.
“You look like hell,” he said by way of greeting. “Rough night?”
“You could say that.” I ordered coffee from the waitress and tried to arrange my face into something that looked less like I'd spent hours watching someone else breathe.
Tom studied me closely. He folded his newspaper deliberately, the way he did when he was settling in for a real conversation.
“Anna called me this morning,” he said. “Said you helped out with that young man who was asking questions about Elaine. That was decent of you.”
I shrugged, wrapping my hands around the coffee mug when it arrived. “Anyone would have done the same.”
“Would they?” Tom leaned back, studying me. “Most people would have let someone else handle it. But you've always been the type to pick up strays.”
The coffee was bitter, too hot, but I drank it anyway. “He's not a stray.”
“No, he's not. But he's hurting, and you've got that look you get when you think you can fix something.” Tom's voice carried the gentle authority of someone who'd watched me make the same mistakes for decades. “Remember when you tried to save that pelican with the broken wing?”
“That's different.”
“Is it? You kept that bird in your garage for three weeks, feeding it fish you couldn't afford, convinced you could nurse it back to health. Your mother finally had to explain that some things need professional help, not just good intentions.”
I stared out the window, watching early tourists wander the streets with their cameras and guidebooks. “This isn't about fixing anyone.”
“Then what is it about?”
Tom watched me struggle with it, his weathered face patient.
“Speaking of fixing things,” Tom said, apparently deciding to let me off the hook, “heard Victor's been making the rounds again. Buttonholing business owners about that waterfront development.”
“Yeah?”
“Stopped by Dan’s Hardware yesterday. Dan said Victor spent twenty minutes explaining how the town needs to 'modernize or die.'” Tom's fingers made air quotes around the phrase. “Apparently we're all supposed to be grateful for his vision.”
“Victor's always had opinions about Harbor's End's future.”
“His opinions are getting louder. And more expensive.” Tom folded his hands on the table. “Dan said Victor mentioned some kind of timeline, said decisions needed to be made soon or opportunities would be lost.”
The weight in my stomach shifted, became something sharper. “What kind of decisions?”
“Property sales and zoning changes that make certain people very wealthy and leave others displaced.” Tom's eyes found mine. “You ever think about what you'd do if someone made you an offer you couldn't refuse?”
“Victor doesn't make offers. He makes ultimatums.”
“That's what I figured.” Tom signaled the waitress for more coffee. “Man's been circling this town like a shark for years, waiting for people to get desperate enough to take his money.”
The fresh coffee arrived, and I watched steam rise from the surface. “He's my brother.”
“He's also an asshole.” Tom's voice was matter-of-fact, without heat. “Those two things aren't mutually exclusive. Just because you share blood doesn't mean you have to share his values.”
“Sometimes I wonder if we even share blood. We're so different it's like we were raised by different people.”
“You were, in a way. You had your mother's influence longer than he did. She died when Victor was what, fourteen? That's old enough to remember her but young enough to let Kepler's pragmatism fill the gaps.”
I'd never thought about it that way. Victor had been shaped by loss in different ways than I had, hardened by it rather than softened.
“Your mother would have liked that young man,” Tom said, apparently following his own train of thought. “She had a soft spot for musicians. Used to say they saw the world differently, that they could find beauty in broken things.”
“Yeah, she did.”
“She also would have told you to trust your instincts. About Victor, about the boy, about whatever it is you're wrestling with.” Tom leaned forward slightly. “You've got good instincts, Eli. Better than you give yourself credit for.”
The words settled in my chest, warm and unexpected. Tom wasn't given to unnecessary reassurance, which made his approval feel genuine, earned.
“Victor's been asking questions about your studio,” Tom said, his tone carefully neutral. “About the property, the lease terms, whether you'd ever consider selling.”
“What kind of questions?”
“Questions that suggest he's got plans for that space. Plans that don't include music production.” Tom's weathered hands wrapped around his coffee cup. “Might be worth thinking about your options before he decides to make his move official.”
The implications hit me slowly, like dominoes falling. Victor wasn't just circling Harbor's End in general. He was circling me specifically, my business, the life I'd built from the ashes of everything I'd lost.
“I'm not selling to him.”
“Didn't think you would. But it's good to know where you stand before the ground starts shifting under your feet.” Tom smiled, the expression both reassuring and slightly predatory.
“Besides, there are ways to make sure he doesn't get what he wants.
Ways that don't involve you giving up anything important.”
“Such as?”
“Such as remembering that you've got friends in this town. People who care about what happens to you, who don't want to see Victor turn Harbor's End into his personal kingdom.” Tom's eyes held mine. “People who might be willing to help if you asked.”
“I'll keep that in mind.”
“Do that.” Tom signaled for the check. “And remember what I said about trusting your instincts. They've kept you alive this long.”
We sat in comfortable silence while the waitress processed payment, the morning crowd beginning to thin as people headed off to their jobs and obligations. Harbor's End was settling into its daily rhythm, but underneath the normalcy, I could feel the currents shifting.
Victor was making his move. The question was whether I was ready to make mine.
“You know what your problem is?” Tom said as we prepared to leave.
“I'm sure you're going to tell me.”
“You think you have to handle everything alone. Always have, even as a kid. Your mother used to worry about that, the way you'd disappear into yourself when things got tough. ”
“Some things are easier to handle alone.”
“And some things aren't.” Tom stood, stretching slightly. “That young man who kept you up last night? He's probably the same way. Probably spent years convincing himself he was better off not needing anyone.”
The observation hit closer to home than I wanted to admit.
“Maybe that's why you're drawn to him,” Tom continued. “Maybe you recognize something of yourself in all that careful distance.”
“Maybe.”
“Or maybe you're both just tired of carrying your grief alone.” Tom clapped me on the shoulder, the gesture both friendly and final. “Either way, trust your instincts. They're better than Victor's, and they're definitely better than whatever fear's been running your life for the past two years.”
I stood with him, fishing a few bills from my wallet and leaving them on the table.
The morning crowd had thinned, leaving behind the lingering smell of bacon grease and coffee grounds.
Tom walked with me to the door, his presence steady and reassuring in the way that only came from decades of friendship.
“Thanks,” I said as we stepped onto the sidewalk. “For the coffee. For the advice.”
“For telling you what you already knew?”
“For reminding me I don't have to figure it all out alone.”
Tom nodded, squinting in the morning sun. “Call if you need anything. And I mean anything—even if it's just someone to talk sense into you when you start overthinking.”
We parted ways at the corner, Tom heading toward the marina and his boat, me turning toward the studio. The walk was short but gave me time to process what he'd said, to feel the weight of his support settling into something I could actually use.