Chapter 38
THIRTY-EIGHT
JUDAH
The Rusty Anchor smells exactly like it always has—stale beer, pine cleaner, and the faint ghost of cigarette smoke that’s seeped into the wood over decades despite the smoking ban.
But it looks completely different. I don’t think I’ve seen a crowd this large since Derek made the mistake of hosting an all-night happy hour. Some of the local drunks nearly put him out of business.
I settle onto a stool at the far end of the bar, well away from the small crowd that’s already gathering.
Word spreads fast in a town this size. Within hours of Dom mentioning Atticus would be performing again, half of Harmony Harbor seemed to know about it.
The other half probably found out from the first half before sunset.
Dom catches my eye from behind the bar and holds up a finger. One minute.
I nod, content to wait. The familiar rhythm of the place washes over me—the clink of glasses, the low murmur of conversation, the creak of old floorboards under shuffling feet.
I’ve spent more hours in this bar than I care to count.
First as a sullen teenager nursing sodas while my father played poker in the back room.
Later as a young man drowning his sorrows in whiskey after Mason left.
Now? Now I’m not sure what I’m doing here, except that Dom asked me to come.
The makeshift stage in the corner draws my attention.
It’s nothing fancy—just a small platform Derek cobbled together years ago for the occasional open mic night.
Someone’s dragged a proper speaker system up there, and the old guitar that usually hangs on the wall behind the bar has been joined by what looks like professional audio equipment.
This isn’t going to be some casual acoustic set.
Dom appears in front of me, and instead of reaching for a beer glass, he produces something else entirely.
The liquid inside of the cocktail glass catches in the light—a shade of reddish-amber with a sprig of rosemary balanced on the sugar-dusted rim.
I stare at it.
As far as I know, Dom doesn’t make fancy cocktails. Dom pours beer and whiskey and the occasional gin and tonic or cosmo for the girls slumming it here from the local college.
“What the hell is this?”
“Try it.”
I pick up the glass, sniff. Honey. Tequila, maybe, though it doesn’t quite smell right. Definitely citrus, maybe grapefruit? And underneath it all, an herbal note I’m not convinced is something edible.
The first sip hits my tongue and I actually close my eyes.
Jesus Christ.
The drink is complex and layered, balanced sweetness that still has a nice burn at the end. “Fuck, that’s good.”
He shrugs, but I can see the pleased twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Been messing around with mezcals. Glad you like it.”
“Didn’t know you had it in you.”
Dom toasts the sentiment before sipping from the glass of water he has behind the bar. “Bars in Portland would charge twenty bucks for that.”
“Maybe Derek will let you trial a craft cocktail menu.”
Dom scoffs. “Doubtful. It was hard enough to convince him to order imported beer.”
“Maybe you should be working somewhere you’re appreciated,” I tell him. “Or even opening your own place somewhere like Portland.”
“Judah.” His voice is quiet. “Don’t.”
“Why not? You’re clearly talented. You shouldn’t be wasting it—“
“I said don’t.”
The sharpness in his tone makes me stop. Dom sets down the rag and braces both hands against the bar, shoulders tight.
“I’m fine where I am.”
“Doesn’t really sound like it.”
I watch Dom’s jaw work, watch him swallow whatever he really wants to say. “You really don’t want to have this conversation with me right now.”
I just stare at him. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
He blows out a hard rush of air. “Fine, let’s do this. Did you know Mabie got offered a job?”
The non-sequitur throws me. “She did?”
“She did,” he repeats. “Some yacht gig that would have her traveling for months at a time. And she hasn’t been able to work out the nerve to tell you about it.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because she’s worried about what will happen to you if she leaves!”
I glare back at him. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“You fell apart when Mason left and there’s no reason to think he isn’t about to do the same thing all over again.
” Dom won’t look at me, staring blankly at the growing crowd as he lowers his voice so only I can hear him.
“It took months for you to become functional the last time and you’ve spent every minute since entirely focused on taking care of this family.
We can’t repay you by leaving when you need us the most.”
“Wait…” My hand squeezes so hard on the cocktail glass that I’m worried I might break it. “Are you saying that both of you are only staying in town for me?”
Dom sighs. “That’s a way of putting it.”
“I never asked you to do that.”
“You didn’t have to ask. That’s just how family works.”
Jesus fucking Christ.
I set the cocktail down carefully. Then I set my hands flat on the bar, fingers spread, pressing hard against the wood until I can feel the grain biting into my palms.
My family put their lives on hold. For me.
Dom, who just described dreams of getting out of this town that he buried so deep he practically forgot they existed. Mabie, who has a job offer she’s too scared to even mention because she thinks I’ll crumble without her.
Because I crumbled once. A decade ago. When I was barely old enough to vote.
“Dom.” I wait until he looks at me. “I was twenty when Mason left.”
He blinks.
“Twenty,” I repeat. “I was a kid. A kid who’d just accidentally bonded with his best friend and didn’t know how to process it. Of course I fell apart. What twenty-year-old wouldn’t?”
Dom opens his mouth, then closes it.
“I’m thirty now. I run a fishing operation.
I pay a mortgage. I kept this family afloat when the industry nearly collapsed under us.
” I can hear my voice getting rougher, an edge to it I can’t smooth out.
“I’m not a boy who doesn’t know how to manage his own goddamn emotions anymore.
And the idea that you and my sister have been sacrificing your futures because you think I’m still that fragile—“
Dom winces. Actually winces, his shoulders coming up around his ears like he’s bracing for impact.
“When you put it that way,” he mutters, “it sounds pretty patronizing.”
“It sounds entirely patronizing.”
He scrubs a hand across the back of his neck, silver rings catching the neon light. His jaw works through something that might be embarrassment, might be relief, might be both at once. “I didn’t mean it like—“
“I know you didn’t.” The anger drains out of me as fast as it arrived, leaving behind something heavier.
Something that aches. “But you need to hear this. Whatever dreams you’ve been putting on hold for me, we are going to sit down and discuss.
And Mabie is going to take this yacht job if that’s what she wants. ”
Dom stares at me. The flush has crept up past his ears now, spreading across his cheekbones.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Okay.”
Movement catches my eye across the room.
In the far corner, half-hidden by the growing crowd, Mason crouches behind a camera tripod.
He’s adjusting the angle, tilting the lens toward the makeshift stage.
Phoenix must have asked him to film Atticus’s set.
His hands are steady on the equipment, his face composed in that focused expression I used to love to see—brow slightly furrowed, lower lip caught between his teeth.
My chest tightens with something that isn’t pain. Something warmer. More terrifying.
I turn back to Dom and drain the rest of the cocktail in one long pull. The mezcal burns clean and bright all the way down.
I set the empty glass on the bar with a loud thunk on the wood. “In the meantime, there’s another important conversation I need to have.”
I push through the crowd, weaving between bodies and conversations, my eyes locked on Mason’s position in the corner. Each step feels heavier than the last, but I force myself not to slow down.
It’s time to resolve this, for better or worse.
I stop three feet away. Close enough to smell chamomile and black pepper beneath the bar’s ambient cloud of hops and old wood.
“Hey.”
Mason’s hands still on the camera for just a moment before he continues adjusting the settings. “Hey.”
The greeting is neutral, as if we’re meeting up for coffee.
I wasn’t expecting that.
I’d been bracing for resistance. For the clipped tone and averted eyes that I’d been getting from him since his heat ended.
“One of the legs keeps slipping.” He nods at the tripod. “Can you hold the camera steady while I fix it?”
“Uh…yeah, sure.”
I step forward and wrap both hands around the camera body, keeping it level while Mason drops to one knee, making me very aware that his face is at the same level as my belt.
Then I realize that it’s my flannel shirt that he is bunching up the sleeves of as he works.
Fuck, seeing him in my clothes does something to me.
The leg clicks into place. Mason tests it, pressing down with both hands, then stands and checks the viewfinder one more time, close enough that I smell how much his scent has saturated the fabric of that damn shirt.
“That’s perfect. Thanks.”
I let go of the camera but don’t step back. “We need to talk.”
Mason is quiet for a beat. Then he exhales—not a sigh, just a slow release of air, like someone setting down something heavy they’ve been carrying for too long.
“Yeah. We do.”
I blink. Whatever I expected him to say, agreement wasn’t very high on the list.
The crowd shifts around us. Someone brushes past, jostling Mason’s elbow, and he steps sideways to avoid the tripod getting knocked. The movement brings him closer to me. Neither of us corrects the distance.
I clear my throat. Force my hands to stay at my sides instead of reaching for him.