10. What We Leave Behind
What We Leave Behind
Elias
V ictor's house always made me feel like I was contaminating something just by breathing in it.
I sat on the edge of his pristine leather armchair, afraid to lean back, afraid to make myself comfortable in a space that was designed to intimidate rather than welcome.
Every surface gleamed under the carefully positioned lighting, every book on the floor-to-ceiling shelves perfectly aligned by height and color.
Even the air smelled expensive: lemon polish and leather conditioner and the particular scent of money that had been sitting still long enough to grow roots.
The coffee in my hands was perfect too, served in a china cup that probably cost more than I made in a week. But it tasted like obligation, like the bitter medicine you swallow because someone with more power than you insists it's good for you.
Victor sat across from me in his matching chair, a small, controlled smile playing at the corners of his mouth. It was the expression he'd worn since we were kids, the one that said he knew things you didn't and was deciding whether to share them or use them against you later.
“How's work been treating you?” he asked, his voice smooth as the leather beneath him.
“Fine.” I took a sip of coffee to avoid having to elaborate. “Busy.”
“That's good. That's very good. Economy being what it is, steady work is a blessing.” He crossed one leg over the other, the crease in his pants sharp enough to cut glass. “I hear that new artist you've been working with is getting some attention. Local radio, wasn't it?”
I nodded, wondering how he knew about that. Victor made it his business to know everyone's business in Harbor's End, but his interest in my clients felt different tonight. More pointed.
“That's the thing about this town,” he continued, settling back in his chair like he was preparing for a longer conversation than I'd anticipated. “News travels. Good news, bad news, all of it gets around eventually.”
The way he said it made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Victor had perfected the art of making casual conversation sound like a threat, of wrapping warnings in pleasantries until you weren't sure if you were being invited to dinner or warned off someone's property.
“Speaking of news,” he said, and there it was, the real reason I was here. “I've been hearing some interesting things about development opportunities in town. Waterfront properties, specifically.”
My grip tightened on the coffee cup. “Yeah?”
“The town council's been very receptive to proposals for modernization.
Bringing Harbor's End into the twenty-first century, attracting the kind of tourism revenue that could really transform this place.” His smile widened, showing teeth that were too white and too straight.
“Properties with good bones but... outdated uses... those are particularly attractive to investors.”
The studio. He was talking about the studio, and we both knew it.
“That so,” I said, keeping my voice carefully neutral.
“Oh yes. Very promising. Of course, change is always challenging for people who've grown... attached to the way things were.” Victor leaned forward slightly, his pale eyes fixed on mine. “But sometimes change is necessary. Sometimes holding onto the past just keeps everyone from moving forward.”
“You're talking about my business, Victor. Not some abstract concept of progress.”
“Am I?” His eyebrows rose in mock surprise. “I was speaking generally about development opportunities. If you're feeling targeted, perhaps that says more about your situation than mine.”
I set down my coffee cup with more force than necessary, the china clicking against the saucer. “Cut the bullshit. You've been circling my property like a vulture for two years. What's changed?”
“Nothing's changed, Eli. That's exactly the problem.” His voice remained smooth, but there was steel underneath now. “The world moves forward. Harbor's End moves forward. Some people adapt, and some people...” He gestured vaguely at me. “Some people cling to things that are already dead.”
“The studio isn't dead.”
“Isn't it? When's the last time you recorded anything meaningful there? When's the last time you made music instead of just... existing in the same space where music used to happen?”
The words hit too close to home, and Victor knew it. His smile sharpened, scenting blood in the water.
“I should probably get going,” I said, standing abruptly.
“Of course.” Victor's smile didn't waver. “But before you do, I should mention that I heard some other news. More personal news.”
My stomach dropped, but I kept my expression blank. “Oh?”
“Rowan is back in town.” He made it sound casual, conversational, like he was commenting on the weather. “Interesting timing, don't you think?”
The way he said Rowan's name made my skin crawl. Like he was tasting it, rolling it around on his tongue to see how it might be used.
“Haven't seen much of him,” I said, which was technically true. The encounters we'd had were brief, charged with tension and misunderstanding, hardly enough to qualify as seeing much of anyone.
“Of course not.” Victor nodded sympathetically. “I'm sure it's complicated, given the circumstances. A young man coming back to deal with his emotions, trying to make sense of his mother's... choices.”
The pause before the word “choices” was deliberate, loaded with implication. Victor had always disapproved of my marriage, had made it clear that he thought his younger brother was wasting himself on a woman with a past and a son who might cause complications.
“People will talk,” Victor continued, his tone remaining conversational. “They always do in a town this size. Especially when there are... unusual relationships involved.”
Not a threat. Not quite a warning. Just a statement of fact.
“I'm sure they will,” I said, standing up. The coffee had left a bitter taste in my mouth that had nothing to do with the beans.
Victor stood as well, extending his hand for a shake that felt more like a business transaction than a brotherly goodbye. His grip was firm, dry, the handshake of a man who'd never done a day of manual labor in his life.
“Take care of yourself, Eli,” he said, and the use of my nickname felt like a violation. “And remember what I said about change. Sometimes it's better to embrace it before it embraces you.”
I left without another word, stepping out into air that felt twenty degrees colder than it had when I'd arrived. The wind cut through my jacket like it was made of paper, but the chill was nothing compared to the ice in my chest.
Victor's warning had been clear enough. Stay away from Rowan, or face the consequences. The studio, my livelihood, my place in this town that had been my home for forty-eight years, all of it could disappear if I didn't play by the rules that men like Victor had written.
But what Victor didn't understand was that some things were worth the risk.
The waterfront was quieter, less contaminated by progress.
The tide was low, exposing the mudflats where clams buried themselves and seagulls picked through the debris left by the last storm.
The air smelled like salt and seaweed and the particular funk of low tide that tourists complained about but locals had learned to love.
That's when I saw him.
Rowan sat on one of the weathered benches near the duck pond, shoulders hunched against the wind, tossing torn bits of bread toward a cluster of mallards that had congregated near the water's edge.
Even from a distance, I could see the tension in his posture, the way he held himself like he was braced for a blow that might come from any direction .
A brown paper bag sat beside him on the bench, the neck of a beer bottle visible at the top.
Day drinking wasn't unusual for Rowan, from what I'd observed, but something about the careful way he was rationing the bread suggested this was less about getting drunk and more about having an excuse to sit still.
He glanced up as I approached, our eyes meeting for a fraction of a second before he looked back at the ducks. No greeting, no acknowledgment beyond that brief moment of recognition. Just a subtle shift in his posture that said he was aware of my presence but wasn't going to make it easy.
I sat down on the other end of the bench without asking permission, leaving enough space between us that we weren't crowding each other but close enough that conversation was possible.
The wood was cold beneath me, warped by years of weather and worn smooth by countless other people who'd come here to think or hide or feed the ducks when they didn't know what else to do with their hands.
For several minutes, we sat in silence. Rowan continued methodically tearing pieces from what looked like half a sandwich, throwing them toward the water. The ducks paddled closer, their movements creating ripples that spread across the surface of the pond in ever-widening circles.
“She used to bring me here,” Rowan said finally, his voice so quiet I almost missed it over the sound of the wind in the trees. “When I was little. Made me feed the ducks even when I didn't want to, said it was good for me to do things that didn't matter.”
I found myself holding my breath, afraid that speaking might break whatever spell had allowed him to share even that small piece of his past.
“She thought feeding them was important,” he continued, his eyes still fixed on the water. “Said it taught patience, or responsibility, or some other bullshit that was supposed to make me a better person.”
I could hear the pain underneath the cynicism, the way his voice caught slightly on the word “bullshit” like he was testing whether I'd judge him for speaking ill of the dead.