Chapter 18
The Sandpiper was half-empty when Clint walked in. He picked a booth near the back, away from the windows, and ordered coffee. Black. Bryan’s morning waitress brought it without comment, which he appreciated.
Sean was late. Or Clint was early. Either way, the extra minutes weren’t doing him any favors.
Last night’s conversation still rattled him, and daylight hadn’t dissolved it the way he’d hoped.
In the dark, with Melissa beside him and the lighthouse beam sweeping overhead, telling the truth had felt almost bearable. This morning it just felt raw.
He wrapped both hands around the mug. The Sandpiper smelled like frying bacon and salt air through the open deck doors. Vintage fishing photos lined the walls, boats at anchor, nets drying in the sun, and Clint stared at them because they required nothing from him.
The front door opened, and Sean walked in.
He moved well. That was the first thing Clint noticed, the way he always noticed.
Sean’s cane tapped a steady rhythm on the plank floor, but his stride was confident and unhurried.
He’d put on muscle since the last time Clint saw him.
His face was tanned, and he was grinning before he even reached the booth.
“You look terrible,” Sean said, sliding into the opposite seat.
“Thanks.”
“Seriously. Did you sleep at all?”
“Some.” Clint took a sip of his coffee. “You find the hotel okay?”
“Clint. It’s Starlight Shores. Impossible to get lost here.”
Bryan appeared with a second mug and a coffeepot. He poured for Sean, nodded at Clint, and left them alone.
Sean ordered eggs and toast and asked Clint questions about the property while they waited.
Easy questions. The kind of warm-up conversation two people have when they’re avoiding the thing they actually need to say.
Clint answered in short sentences and watched Sean’s hands as he talked, the way he gestured with his whole arm, loose and animated.
Sean had always talked with his hands. Before the rescue, after it.
The food came. Sean ate. Clint pushed his eggs around the plate.
“So,” Sean said, setting down his fork. “I didn’t drive down here to talk about your aunt’s gutters.”
“I figured.”
“I’m getting married.”
“So I heard. Congratulations.”
“You haven’t given me an answer on being my best man.”
Clint’s fork stopped moving. He kept his eyes on the plate. “Sean.”
“Don’t do that. Don’t say my name like you’re about to give me a reason.”
“You’ve got friends. Good ones. Guys from the new job, guys who’ve actually been around.”
“I don’t want guys who’ve been around. I want my best friend.”
He finally looked up. Sean’s face was calm, but his jaw was set the way it used to get on the boat when the weather turned and he’d already made his decision.
“You’ve been hiding down here for three years,” Sean said. “I let you because I thought you needed time. But I’m getting married, and I need my best friend standing next to me. Not the guy who thinks he ruined my life.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to. You stopped calling and you stopped answering. I sent you pictures of the engagement ring before I proposed, and you texted back one word. One.” Sean leaned forward. “You know what actually hurts? It’s not the leg.”
Clint’s stomach tightened.
“It’s the fact that you disappeared. You saved my life and then you acted like you’d killed me.”
Clint turned his mug in his hands. Bryan’s morning playlist drifted from the speakers, something acoustic and forgettable, and through the deck doors Clint could hear a pelican hit the water.
He didn’t have a defense. He’d told himself he was giving Sean space, letting Sean build a life without the guy who’d wrecked his leg and ended his career. But Sean was sitting across from him with a cane, a woman he loved waited back home, and he wasn’t asking for space.
“I don’t know if I can stand up there,” Clint said, his voice low.
“Why not?”
Because every person at that wedding would see Sean’s cane and know the story.
And he would be standing at the front of a room full of people who’d all heard some version of the rescue, and they’d look at him and see a man who made a call that cost his best friend a career and a life without chronic pain.
Because Sean’s forgiveness didn’t fix what he’d done. It just made it harder.
He didn’t say any of that.
“What if I mess it up?” he said instead, and it was such a small, stupid version of what he meant that he almost laughed.
Sean did laugh. “It’s a best man speech, not a rescue operation. You show up, you say something nice, you don’t lose the rings. Even you can handle that.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.” Sean’s voice dropped. “I need you there. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. The scar on his left hand caught the light, the one he’d gotten pulling Sean over the gunwale. He still remembered the drag of the waves, his fingers locked around Sean’s vest and refusing to let go.
“Yeah,” Clint said. “Okay.”
“Okay you’ll do it?”
“I’ll do it.”
Sean exhaled and sat back against the booth. His whole body loosened, and Clint realized Sean had been afraid he’d say no. He hadn’t considered that.
“Good. You’re going to need a pair of khakis and a white shirt. And brown shoes. Don’t ask, but Laura insists.” Sean pointed his fork at Clint. “Oh, and a haircut.”
“Don’t push it.”
They finished breakfast talking about wedding logistics, Sean’s fiancée, and the venue in Savannah.
Normal things. He listened and tried to imagine himself there, standing beside Sean in front of a hundred people, and the image wouldn’t quite come in sharp.
But he’d said yes. He couldn’t unsay it. He wasn’t sure he wanted to.
Sean hugged him in the parking lot, hard and unself-conscious, then got in his rental and drove north toward the highway. Clint watched the car until it disappeared past the marina.
He drove back to the lighthouse and started his rounds. Checked the courtyard drainage. Tightened a loose hinge on the gazebo gate. Tested the outdoor spigots. His hands knew this work without instruction, which freed his mind to go where it wanted.
It went to Melissa.
Last night she’d sat beside him at the base of the lighthouse while he fell apart.
She could have tried to fix him, could have offered the careful, reasonable things people say when they want you to feel better and stop making them uncomfortable.
Instead she’d told him about Maria LaBelle. She’d said I know, and she’d meant it.
He thought about the way she’d looked at him through the camera earlier that day.
Before Sean arrived, before everything cracked open.
She’d been focused, her whole body still except for her hands adjusting the lens.
She’d looked at him the way she looked at everything she photographed, with that fierce, full attention that missed nothing.
But it was different when she pointed it at him.
Nobody had looked at him like that in years and decided he was worth the effort.
He passed Captain’s Watch on his way to check the beach path. Through the front window he could see the glow of her laptop screen.
He slowed. Stopped.
He could knock. He could say something. He didn’t know what. Thank you, maybe. Or just stand there.
He kept walking.
He wasn’t ready. But he wanted to knock. He wanted something, anything, after years of keeping his world small enough to survive.