Chapter 4
Chapter Four
By the time the weekend rolls around, I catch myself in my old beat-up car again, driving the same winding road that, I swear, led me to Killick Point last Sunday.
This time, I keep my GPS on and note that my surroundings feel the same as they did last week.
The tall trees that surround the car shift to grey, jagged rocks, the ocean expanding beside me as I make my way up the now familiar point.
When I get to the spot where the gravel path meets the road, I pull over. I’m here. It’s the same lighthouse. I do a happy wiggle in my seat before unbuckling. “I was right,” I sing as I get out of the car and make my way toward the white-and-red structure.
As the gravel crunches under my feet, it dawns on me.
If I was right, then who is living in this lighthouse?
Has someone just decided to shack up there?
And why was he so concerned about an apparent storm?
And he was talking to someone on the phone.
I think? I don’t know why I care so much, but when I get up there and see the paint-chipped red door with the rusted hinges—not boarded up like it was in the photos—curiosity takes over.
A pull that I can’t quite explain. I place my ear to the faded door and listen.
Same as last weekend. Footsteps. I take my phone out, ready to dial 911 if I need to, and very slowly, very quietly, open the door. The tingling sensation from last weekend appears as my fingers make contact with the gold handle. The old metal gives me a mild shock when I touch it.
I move from the entrance into the empty main level.
Unlike last time, the footsteps are coming from above.
He must be on the next level. I walk over to the black cast-iron staircase that winds up to where the sounds are coming from.
I start to walk up, hands gripping the cold metal as I take each hesitant step, cautious of how loud my feet are when they land.
What am I even doing?
Why do I care so much?
Because no one’s supposed to live here, remember.
I turn around once more, spotting a clipboard hanging on the wall beside the staircase with the title “Emergency Procedures,” and grip my phone a little tighter in my hand.
When I make it up to the second level, I step into the living quarters of the lighthouse—or at least part of it.
On my right is the living room with a two-seater couch and a matching chair.
Instead of a television in front of the couch, a wood stove sits in its place, backed against the opposite curved wall.
The staircase is in the centre of the lighthouse, allowing some separation between the two spaces.
Before I can continue looking around, my eyes dart over to the kitchen on the left, where the guy from last weekend stands, pouring himself a cup of coffee and stirring some sugar into it with a spoon.
He’s wearing a pair of light-wash straight Levi’s jeans and a crisp white T-shirt.
A hint of black ink pokes out from where his sleeve ends, and I bite my lip.
I wonder if he has more of those.
It’s on the same arm as the cut from last weekend, now a red scab that looks like it might scar.
A black toque sits on his head, his long, dark brown hair almost touching his very sculpted shoulders.
I gasp without meaning to, and he turns around, surprised, slamming his coffee cup onto the wooden countertop with a thud.
Black coffee pours over the side and spills onto the counter, blending into the dark wood.
“You,” he says, looking confused and thrown off. “What are you doing here? Again.”
I scoff at his anger, feeling my own build.
Maybe because he was so rude to me last weekend when my only intention was to help.
“I think the better question is, what are you doing here? In this abandoned lighthouse. During perfectly good weather, might I add!” That last jab feels extra good since there was no storm last Sunday, even though he was convinced one was coming.
“Now you’re really losing it,” he snaps back, his voice deep and gruff. “Does it look abandoned to you?” He motions around the space with his hand holding the mug of coffee. “Not only is this where I work, but it’s my home. And you’re trespassing. Again.”
My anger subsides a bit, replaced by mild confusion.
He’s right. This space doesn’t look abandoned on the inside at all.
And the door wasn’t boarded up like it was in the picture I saw online that I showed Priya.
Maybe they’ve decided to finally restore it and bring back lighthouse keepers.
According to my research, that was something that became automated in the ’90s, and since then, there haven’t been any in the province of Nova Scotia.
Until now, I guess.
“Okay, fine, you’re right,” I finally say. “It doesn’t look abandoned in here.”
My eyes bounce around the space, noticing how nice it looks, even if a bit dated.
I wonder if they kept most of the things from before and just reused them.
Better than having them end up in the landfill.
The faded mustard-yellow-and-brown plaid couch has to be at least thirty years old.
Right in front of the couch is a dark-stained wooden rectangular coffee table with a lower shelf for storage.
An old book, The Stand by Stephen King, sits on the shelf with a page near the middle dog-eared.
There’s a bookshelf to the right of the wood stove filled with more books, rolled-up maps, a pack of cards, and a few notebooks.
In front of one of the windows is a well-used wooden desk that matches the coffee table.
On top of the desk is a plastic cup filled with pencils and another one of those notebooks, flipped open, with a circular object that resembles a compass sitting beside it.
There’s an adjustable desk lamp with a shiny green top.
The light from the lamp pours over the open notebook.
A fresh-looking coffee ring stains the wood.
He must have been sitting there before I came in.
I scan the kitchen once more, lost in my thoughts.
The kitchen is very small and simple. Which is fair, considering we’re literally in a lighthouse right now.
I didn’t realize people not only worked but lived in these buildings too.
Similar to a fire tower. Compact works in a space like this.
One line of dark wooden cabinets curves with the wall, with white-painted cupboards up top.
There’s a small rectangular window above the sink, showing off a view of the ocean.
I hear a beep from the old, white Mr. Coffee drip-style coffee maker beside the sink.
Beside it is an old radio. Funny, not many people have radios anymore.
I wonder what he listens to. Over to the left is a small white fridge, and a white stove sits on the opposite side of the sink, past the radio. No dishwasher.
Someone is clearly living here.
Very minimally, I should add.
“So… I think you should leave, then?” he finally says, jerking me out of my apparent staring.
I turn back to him. “How long have you worked here?” I ask, still trying to piece together what he is doing here. Placing my hands on my hips, I wait for him to finish his sip and answer me.
“Not that it’s any of your business,” he starts as he puts the lid back on the ceramic sugar container and places it on a higher shelf in the cupboard. As he extends his arm, his shirt rises up from the bottom, and I catch a glimpse of his toned waist. “But this is my third year.”
“That’s impossible!” I practically shout.
This guy must be delusional. That’s got to be it.
There is a delusional stranger who has decided to live here, and the town must either have no idea or just doesn’t want to bother doing anything about it.
No harm, no foul. Really banking on no harm, seeing as I’m alone in a lighthouse with him right now.
Why don’t I feel more afraid?
“How is that impossible?” He seems almost amused by my outrage toward him.
A slight smirk appears at the corner of his mouth, and his green eyes twinkle while he sips his coffee more calmly now.
His eyes remind me of the leaves on a morning glory flower.
I spotted them growing through the cracks in the rocks outside the lighthouse on my way in.
“I told you. This lighthouse is abandoned. It’s all over the internet. No one has lived here for years!”
“Oh, fancy girl with her internet,” is all he says. The smirk grows wider the more frustrated I get.
“You make no sense,” is all I can muster back.
“Not that this hasn’t been lovely, having an oddly dressed stranger come into my workplace and home”—he enunciates that last word for effect—“but I have to get back to work, so if you don’t mind leaving the way you came in.
” He gestures toward the stairs behind me that lead back down to the main level.
“Ugh.” I want to stomp my feet, but don’t because I am not a toddler.
But this guy really frustrates me. First off, how am I dressed oddly?
“How am I dressed oddly?” I repeat, out loud, looking down at my loungewear set of dark blue sweatpants and a sweater I bought at the Eras Tour for way too much money.
I offer a silent thank you to my parents for that one.
“Did you just wake up?” he asks.
“No, I’ve been up for hours. Why?”
“Why are you wearing a sweatsuit in public?”
“Um, because? It’s fashionable?” I don’t even know how to respond to that.
“Odd,” he muses, sipping once more at his never-ending cup of coffee.
“Okay, well… bye, then,” I say and turn around toward the stairs.
“Who’s Taylor Swift?” he yells behind me as I make my way back down to the first level. I choose to ignore that question because, of course, he’s another Chad who has no idea who she is.
“Ugh,” I say quietly again as I open the door and slam it behind me.
I might be imagining it, but I swear I hear a sarcastic “See you next weekend” before the door closes.
Like that’ll happen.
Sunlight pours down on my face, and I look back at the lighthouse once more before making my way down the path that cuts through the rocks.
The gravel under my feet crunches with each step.
It does look abandoned from out here, red and white stripes faded after decades of rain, salt, and time left unattended.
The rectangular windows are clouded over with grime, and I even notice a couple near the top that have some cracks in them.
I scoff. How good a lighthouse keeper is he if he hasn’t fixed the cracks in his windows?
“Your windows are cracked, bud!” I yell out into the wind as I continue to walk away.
But inside. Inside, it felt so lived-in. So warm. So fresh.
Maybe they just didn’t see a point to revamping the exterior. It must have no effect on how sound the structure is. More important things to spend money on. Those windows, though. He should fix those.
I take one more look down at my outfit and then continue down the path toward my car, turning my head only once to see if I can spot him in the window. Everything seems quiet; he must have gone over to his desk to continue working on whatever he was doing.
I hate that I’m curious. I hate that I want to know more. I hate that I wish I could spot his infuriating silhouette in the window.
Sipping that damn coffee.