Chapter 6 The Harbor Effect （Wesley） #2
Waving to Frank, she steps away, still playing the part. And I stand there, snow drifting down, harbor lights glowing gold, realizing I’m completely fucked.
Because I’m in love with a woman who thinks this is all pretend. A woman who’ll take off that ring in a week and tuck me neatly back into the friend zone—unless I figure out how to make her consider me.
“Wesley?” Her voice cuts through the noise. “Ready to head back?”
I take her gloved hand, fingers lacing automatically. “Yeah,” I lie. “Let’s go.”
But as we walk back, all I can think is how the hell I tell her this is real.
We’re halfway home when I notice Dad standing across the street, outside Callahan’s Hardware, coffee steaming in his hand, watching us through the falling snow.
His expression is hard to read. Not the judgment from this morning. Something else. Softer.
He lifts his hand in a small wave.
I wave back.
Joy doesn’t notice, too busy laughing about Frank’s camera angle and how the photo’s probably already on Bristol Bay’s Facebook. But I feel Dad’s gaze follow us all the way down Main Street.
The house is warm when we get back, smelling of Mom’s cinnamon rolls. The kind of smell that never made sense after a day on the boats—sweet, soft, safe. Joy heads upstairs to change, and I’m about to follow when Dad’s voice stops me.
“Got a minute?”
I turn. He’s standing in the doorway of his office, the converted mudroom where he runs Bristol Bay Provisions, computer humming, invoices stacked on the desk. Even now, part of me expects him to smell like diesel and salt, not paper and toner.
“Sure.”
He gestures me in, closes the door. A photo on the wall catches my eye—me, age twelve, holding my first king salmon, grinning.
Dad’s arm around my shoulders, both of us soaked and happy.
Behind us, the boat’s deck is slick with rain and fish scales, ropes coiled like snakes.
I can still remember the ache in my palms from hauling the net.
He sits at the desk but doesn’t look at me right away. Just stares at his hands—work-roughened, scarred from nets and hooks and thirty years on the water. There’s a faint white line along one knuckle where a gillnet once caught and nearly pulled him over.
“Saw you at the harbor,” he says finally.
“Yeah.”
“That girl. Joy. She’s good for you.”
I wait. There’s more coming.
“Hannah looked—” He stops, tries again. “She looked like she realized what she gave up.”
“Maybe.” I lean against the wall, careful. “Doesn’t matter now.”
“No.” He looks up. “It doesn’t. Because you moved on. Built something. And I—” His jaw works. “I gave you shit for it.”
The words hang.
“Dad—”
“Let me finish.” He exhales, rough. “I started with one boat. Worked my ass off. Then I realized if I wanted to succeed, I couldn’t just fish. Had to process. Had to ship. Had to build infrastructure.”
I nod slowly, not sure where this is going.
“First time I hired someone else to run a boat while I stayed onshore handling logistics, I felt like a sellout.” He laughs bitterly.
“Like I wasn’t a real fisherman anymore.
Just some guy in an office, sending emails, running numbers.
Even now, when Levi’s out there in the rain and I’m here under a roof, it still itches.
I miss the danger. The way a line can snap and break a wrist, or a rogue wave can throw you against the drum.
That’s what felt real to me—risking something you could lose. ”
The radiator hisses. Outside, someone’s kids shriek with laughter.
“You built a business,” I say quietly. “That’s not selling out.”
“No. It’s not.” His eyes meet mine. “But it took me years to believe that. And in the meantime, I looked at you—taking endorsements, doing media, building something bigger than just hockey—and I saw myself. Saw the guilt I felt. The fear that I’d left the real work behind.”
My throat tightens.
“So I judged you for it,” he says. “For doing exactly what I did. For taking something honest and scaling it up. For leaving the dock and finding a bigger ocean. I kept telling myself hockey was safe because it paid well. I forgot it’s a contact sport—broken bones, concussions, knees blown out—and you still get back on the ice.
Hell, that’s no different from a man climbing back on a deck after watching a wave take his skiff. ”
I can’t speak.
“I was wrong,” Dad continues, voice rough. “When you left for juniors, I took it personal. I’d built this business for you. Told myself you’d come back, take over, make it bigger.”
I swallow hard. “Dad—”
“But you didn’t come back. You went to the professional league. And I—” He stops, jaw working. “I felt rejected. Like what I built wasn’t good enough for you.”
“It wasn’t that—”
“I know.” He looks up. “Took me too long to figure it out, but I know. You weren’t rejecting me. You were chasing your own dream. Building your own thing. Same as I did when I left my father’s cannery job to start my own operation.”
The parallel lands like a depth charge.
“Levi’s a good kid,” Dad says. “He stepped in when you left. Kept the business running. But he’s not you. And I shouldn’t have needed you to stay to prove you love us.”
My throat closes.
“You didn’t abandon where you came from,” he says. “You just grew past it. And that’s not betrayal. That’s success.”
“Dad.” My voice comes out rough. “You don’t have to—”
“Yeah, I do.” He stands and crosses to me. “I’m proud of you, son. The hockey, the endorsements, the youth programs you fund. All of it. You built something real. And you did it your way.”
He extends his hand.
I take it, then pull him into a hug—brief, tight, the kind men give when words aren’t enough.
When we pull back, his hand stays on my shoulder. “That girl upstairs, she’s the real deal.”
“I know.”
“Don’t let her get away.”
“Not a chance.”
He nods, satisfied. Then his mouth quirks. “Now go. Your mom’s got dinner in twenty minutes, and she’ll kill us both if we’re late.”
I head for the door, then stop. “Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks.”
He just nods, but there’s something in his eyes—pride, relief, maybe both.
I take the stairs two at a time, Dad’s blessing still warm in my chest.
Don’t let her get away.
The problem is, she was never supposed to stay. This was a deal. A performance. Help each other out and walk away clean.
Except I’m not walking away from anything. I’m falling. Fast. Hard. Completely.
And I have no idea if she’s falling too, or if I’m alone in this freefall.