25. Chords in the Rain
Chords in the Rain
Elias
I sat in my car across from the train station, engine off, watching the entrance through water that turned everything into watercolor impressions of real life.
The station looked smaller in the gray afternoon light, more like a bus stop than a gateway to anywhere important.
But it was where Rowan would go when he ran, and I knew he would run because running was what we both did when things got too complicated to bear.
I'd been keeping tabs on him for the past three days, unable to stop myself from tracking his movements like a stalker or a guardian angel, depending on how charitable you wanted to be about my motivations.
Sarah had mentioned seeing him at the grocery store, looking like he hadn't slept in days.
Anna had called to ask if I knew why he'd stopped coming to the bar, why he'd seemed to disappear from Harbor's End's social ecosystem as completely as if he'd never existed.
Mrs. Chen had wondered aloud why the young man with the sad eyes had been carrying suitcases, whether he was moving or just traveling.
The signs were all there, painted in the careful language of small-town concern. Rowan was leaving, and I was sitting in a parking lot like a creep, waiting to watch him go.
The irony wasn't lost on me. I'd driven him away to protect him from scandal, from gossip, from the kind of attention that could destroy a young man's future.
Now here I was, creating the exact kind of spectacle I'd been trying to avoid, lurking outside the train station like a character in someone else's tragic love story.
Movement at the station entrance caught my attention, and my chest tightened like a fist closing around my heart.
Rowan emerged from the warmth of the waiting area, hauling a small black suitcase that looked like it contained everything he owned worth keeping.
He was wearing the same dark coat I'd seen him in that first night on my doorstep, but it hung differently now, like it was carrying more weight than fabric and thread should be able to bear.
He looked pale, shoulders hunched against more than just the rain, moving like he was carrying invisible wounds that made every step an effort.
There was something broken in his posture, something that spoke of damage deeper than disappointment, more profound than the simple heartbreak of a relationship that hadn't worked out.
My first instinct was to get out of the truck, to cross the street and stop him from leaving, to finally tell him the truth about Victor's ultimatum and my own cowardice.
To explain that walking away had been the hardest thing I'd ever done, that every moment since had felt like dying in slow motion.
But I forced myself to stay put, hands gripping the steering wheel like it was the only thing keeping me anchored to sanity.
What right did I have to stop him? What could I possibly say that would undo the damage I'd already done, that would convince him I was worth the complications that came with caring about someone like me?
I'd made my choice. Now I had to live with watching him make his.
Rowan disappeared inside the station, swallowed by the crowds of people who had places to go and reasons for going there.
I sat in the truck for another few minutes, trying to convince myself that this was for the best, that letting him leave was the kindest thing I could do for someone I'd already hurt enough.
But something wouldn't let me drive away. Some stubborn part of my brain that refused to accept that this was how the story ended, with both of us alone and broken and too proud to admit we'd rather be broken together than whole apart.
I got out of the car and walked toward the station, not with any plan beyond the need to be closer to him, even if he never knew I was there.
The rain soaked through my jacket immediately, cold water running down my neck and into my collar, but I barely felt it.
All my attention was focused on the lit windows of the station, on the figures moving inside like actors in a play I could observe but never join.
I found a spot near one of the concrete pillars that supported the station's overhang, far enough in the shadows that I wouldn't be obvious to anyone looking out from inside.
From here I could see the departure board, could track the trains that would take him away from Harbor's End and back to whatever life he'd been living before he'd made the mistake of coming home.
The 6:47 to Boston was boarding in twenty minutes.
From there he could catch a connection to New York, could disappear into the anonymity of eight million people who wouldn't know his story or care about his pain.
Could go back to being nobody special, just another damaged musician in a city full of them.
The thought should have been comforting. Instead, it felt like watching someone die.
The rain had soaked through my coat by the time I reached the house. I stood on the porch for a long moment, my fist hovering near the door, before I forced myself forward.
It opened before I knocked. Dad stood there, shoulders bowed, his face lined with something heavier than age. He didn’t ask why I was there. He only stepped aside, and I walked in.
The familiar smell of polish and stale smoke clung to the walls. It should have felt like home, but it didn’t. Not anymore.
I sank into one of the chairs by the fire. My voice came out raw. “He’s gone.”
Dad lowered himself across from me, his hands restless against his knees. “Rowan,” he said quietly.
I nodded, and the silence stretched until it felt unbearable.
The fire snapped in the grate, a sharp crack that made me flinch.
I stared into the flames, unable to meet his eyes.
For a moment it was like being ten years old again, sitting here with scraped knees while he tried to teach me how to tune a guitar.
His hands had been steady then, his voice patient. A different life. A different man.
“You look tired,” Dad said finally, his voice tentative, as if reaching for something ordinary. “More than tired. Hollow.”
“I am tired,” I said. “Tired of watching everything I care about slip through my fingers.”
He winced. “The boy means that much to you?”
I barked out a laugh that had no humor in it. “You don’t get to ask me that. Not after everything.”
His eyes dropped. “Fair.” He rubbed at the back of his neck, the way he always did when he wanted to smoke but had promised himself he wouldn’t. “I see him in you sometimes, you know. The way you used to be. Restless, certain the world had cheated you out of something. I know that look too well.”
“You don’t know him,” I said.
“I’ve seen enough to know he’s hurting.”
I leaned forward, anger bubbling despite the exhaustion dragging at my limbs. “Everyone’s hurting. Harbor’s End runs on it. But Rowan—Rowan isn’t just some broken kid you can sum up with a glance. He’s…” I trailed off, the words catching before I could admit them out loud.
Dad studied me in silence, and I hated that he still had the ability to make me feel twelve years old again, as if one look could peel me open and see what I hadn’t said.
“You love him,” he said finally, not as a question but a truth he was laying bare between us.
The air went out of me. I sat back, staring at him, waiting for the disgust, the lecture, the warning about what people would say. But it didn’t come. He just looked at me, weary and sad.
“Yes,” I said hoarsely. “And I don’t know how to live with that anymore.”
The firelight painted lines across his face, deepening every wrinkle, every shadow. “You remind me of myself,” he said softly. “More than you’d want to.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “That’s supposed to be comforting?”
“No.” His voice was raw. “It’s supposed to be a warning.”
The room filled with silence again, thick and suffocating. I could feel the unspoken words pressing against the edges of it, whatever he was holding back. My chest tightened with the weight of it.
“What are you not telling me?” I asked finally.
Dad shifted, his hands gripping his knees until his knuckles whitened. “Elias…” He hesitated, eyes flicking to the fire before landing back on me. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
I stared at him, the dread in my stomach coiling tighter. “Then tell me.”
He didn’t. Not yet. Instead he looked around the room, at the pictures on the walls, the shelves filled with relics of another life. “Do you remember when your mother died?” he asked suddenly.
The question blindsided me. I blinked. “Of course I remember.”
“You blamed me,” he said quietly. “And you were right to. I was too proud, too stubborn, too angry to hold on to her. I’ve thought about that every day since. How easy it is to lose something because you weren’t brave enough to do what was needed.”
My throat felt tight. “Why are you bringing this up now?”
“Because I don’t want you to make the same mistakes I did,” he said. “Because I see you walking down the same road, holding back when you should be holding on.”
I shook my head, my voice rough. “It’s not that simple. You don’t know what Victor’s done, what he’s holding over me?—”
“I know,” Dad cut in, his tone sharper than I expected. For the first time, he met my eyes without flinching. “I know exactly what Victor does when he wants to break someone. I know better than anyone.”
The words sank deep, heavy with implication, but before I could press him, he leaned back again, his shoulders sagging under invisible weight .
“You think you’ve been carrying this alone,” he murmured. “But I’ve been carrying it too.”
My breath stuttered. “What are you talking about?”
His eyes flicked to the flames, then back to me. “Victor owns me. He has for a long time now.”
The words hit like a punch. “What are you talking about?”