14. Rory

Chapter fourteen

Rory

T he news took the breath out of me. I froze in place at Tidal Grounds, with my hand clenched around a steaming mug of Silas's latest experimental brew—a concoction that smelled like a bizarre mix of cinnamon, cardamom, and, was that seaweed?

"Can you believe it, Rory?" Dottie Perkins's voice cut through the ambient chatter of the café. She leaned in close, her floral perfume mingling with the aroma of coffee and fresh-baked scones. "The New York Islanders want our Brooks as an assistant coach!"

I blinked, trying to process her words. "The Islanders? Are you sure?"

Dottie nodded vigorously. The movement caused her oversized earrings to jingle like wind chimes in a nor' easter. "Oh, would I make up something like that? Mabel's niece's cousin works in their front office, you know. She overheard the news straight from the horse's mouth, so to speak."

I gripped my mug so hard that my knuckles turned white, and I worried it might shatter in my hand. "That's... something else."

"I suppose it is." Dottie's eyebrows shot up, disappearing beneath her elaborately coiffed bangs. "I can't believe you make it sound like he merely won the weekly sweeps at Gus's Groceries. This is an opportunity of a lifetime! Just imagine our Brooks back in the big leagues. Oh, the stories I'll have for my bridge club!"

She paused, fixing me with a knowing look that made me want to sink into the floorboards. "Although, I suppose this might put a damper on your rekindled romance, mightn't it?"

"Dottie, it's not—we're not—" I stammered, still trying to hide what I thought I had with Brooks.

"Fiddlesticks," she waved a bejeweled hand dismissively. "You can't fool old Dottie. I've seen the way you two look at each other. It's like watching one of those Hallmark movies come to life right here in Whistleport!"

The coffee suddenly tasted intensely bitter on my tongue; Silas's experimental blend turned my stomach. With trembling fingers, I set the mug down, the ceramic clattering against the worn wooden counter.

"Speaking of Brooks," Dottie continued, oblivious to my discomfort, "I heard he's at the arena right now. He's probably sharing the big news with everyone. You should hurry if you want to congratulate him yourself!"

"Excuse me," I mumbled, pushing past Dottie's floral-scented cloud. The bell above the door sounded out of tune as I burst onto the street, gulping in lungfuls of the salty air.

As I approached the half-renovated arena, the rhythmic thud of jackhammers and the whine of power saws filled the air. The din of noise was a perfect match for the chaotic thoughts careening around my head.

It didn't take long to find Brooks. He stood at the street corner, his sweaty shirt clinging to his back while he spoke with the foreman.

He turned as I approached, his face lighting up in a way that made my heart sink. "Rory! I was just about to call you. I've got some news—"

"The Islanders offered you a coaching job," I blurted out; the words were like sandpaper on my tongue.

Brooks's eyebrows shot up. "How did you...? Never mind, it's Whistleport." He stepped toward me. "It's an amazing opportunity, Ror, but I wanted to talk to you first, to figure out—"

"You should take it," I interrupted, my voice sounding hollow even to my own ears. "We both know you were never meant to stay here forever."

Brooks recoiled as if I'd slapped him in the face. "What are you talking about? Rory, I came back for a reason. We're building something here, both with the arena and... us."

I shook my head, unable to look into his eyes. "This is your chance to get back to the big leagues. Don't let Whistleport hold you back. Don't let me hold you back."

"Rory, wait—" He reached out for me, but I'd already turned my back to him.

As I walked away from Brooks, and his calls faded behind me, the world seemed to blur and fade into black and white. The familiar streets of Whistleport warped into a hazy, dreamlike landscape. I barely registered concerned looks from neighbors or the confused greeting from Silas as I stumbled past Tidal Grounds.

That night, sleep eluded me. I tossed and turned, the sheets tangling around my legs like an octopus trying to drag me under. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Brooks's face—the hurt, the confusion, and the unspoken plea. The gentle lapping of waves against the shore, usually a soothing lullaby, now sounded like a ticking clock, counting down the days until he'd leave again.

Dawn broke, painting the sky in hues of pink and gold that I couldn't appreciate. A leaden weight settled in my chest as I watched the sun climb over the horizon. The realization that I might have just pushed away the best thing in my life hit me with the force of a tsunami.

The next few days passed in a surreal fog. I went through the motions—cooking meals, attending arena meetings, even making small talk with neighbors—but it was all hollow like I was watching someone else live my life.

I threw myself into caring for Mom, scrubbing the house until my hands were raw, and designing elaborate meals she barely touched. The usual vibrant colors of Whistleport as early summer unfurled were muted. Sounds came to me like heard through a mile-long tube.

It wasn't until the third morning after my confrontation with Brooks that I snapped out of my daze. The acrid smell of burning toast and my mother's concerned voice calling from the kitchen jolted me back to reality. I rushed into the room, waving away a tiny cloud of smoke. Mom stood by the toaster with a bemused expression of frustration.

"I swear, this thing has a vendetta against me," she said, jabbing at the appliance with her cane. "I only turned my back for a second."

"Here, let me," I unplugged the toaster and fished out the blackened remnants of what was once bread. The burnt smell made my eyes water.

Mom sighed, easing herself into a chair at the kitchen table. "I wanted to make you breakfast. You've been looking after me so much lately, I thought I'd return the favor."

Guilt swept over me as I scraped the charred toast into the trash. "You don't need to do that, Mom. I'm fine."

She fixed me with a look that saw right through me. "Are you? Because from where I'm sitting, you look about as fine as that toast."

I busied myself making fresh coffee and trying to avoid her gaze. "I'm just tired. It's been a busy week with the arena project and all."

"Rory Blake," Mom's voice took on that tone that always made me feel like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "I may be recovering from a broken hip, but there's nothing wrong with my eyes or my brain. This wouldn't have anything to do with Brooks and that Islanders offer, would it?"

The coffee pot slipped in my hand, sloshing hot liquid onto the counter. "How did you—"

"Dottie stopped by yesterday," Mom said, a hint of amusement in her voice. "You know how she loves to keep everyone in the loop."

I groaned, mopping up the spilled coffee. "Great. I suppose the whole town knows by now."

"Probably," Mom agreed. "But that's not what I'm concerned about. I'm worried about you, honey. You've been walking around like a ghost for days."

I slumped into the chair opposite her, cradling my coffee mug in my hands. "I don't know what to do, Mom. I told Brooks he should take the job."

"Is that what you really want?"

"It doesn't matter what I want." I stared at the clouds of milk in my coffee. "He deserves this opportunity. I can't be the reason he gives up on his dreams."

"Oh, Rory," Mom reached across the table, covering my hand with hers. "Have you considered that maybe his dreams have changed? That maybe you're part of them now?"

I looked up, surprised by the firm sound of her voice. "But what if—"

Before I could finish my thought, a knock at the door saved me. "I'll get it."

I yanked open the door to find Reid Bennett on the other side, a bouquet of wildflowers in his gnarled hands. "Afternoon, Rory. Is your mother up for some company?"

The sight of Brooks's father, with his familiar green eyes, was like a dagger to my heart. "She's in the kitchen. If you'll excuse me, I just remembered I have some errands to run."

I darted past him, ignoring his concerned expression. The screen door slammed behind me as I fled, the sound like a gunshot in the quiet morning.

My "errands" amounted to aimless wandering through Whistleport's winding streets. The familiar paths I'd walked countless times now looked different, as if I were seeing them through a stranger's eyes. The cheery "good afternoons" from neighbors failed to sink in. Did they all know? Was I the subject of whispered conversations pitying me?

I ended up at the docks with the weathered planks creaking under my feet. I smelled fish punctuated by the sharp tang of diesel from the boats. Leaning against a piling, I watched the lobster boats bob in the harbor.

The rhythmic lapping of waves against the hulls was usually a soothing sound, but now it was like a cold, bloodless metronome counting down the days until Brooks would leave me again.

"Rough day, Mr. Blake?"

I turned to see old Cap'n Mike securing his boat, the Sea Widow . His wizened hands moved with practiced ease as he tied complex knots.

"Just... thinking," I replied, forcing a smile.

He nodded sagely. "Aye, the sea's good for that. She's got a way of putting things in perspective."

I watched as he hefted a crate of lobsters onto the dock. "Need a hand?"

"Wouldn't say no," he grunted.

For the next hour, I indulged in physical labor, hauling crates and helping clean the dock. The work was monotonous but satisfying; each muscle ache distracted me from the pain in my heart.

As the sun descended toward the horizon, I bid Cap'n Mike farewell and continued wandering. My feet carried me to the old lighthouse, its white tower stark against the darkening sky.

I climbed the winding steps, and they brought back a flood of memories. Brooks and I had snuck up there countless times as teenagers, sharing dreams and stolen kisses under the stars. The irony wasn't lost on me—here I was again, at the highest point in Whistleport, feeling lower than I ever had.

From the top, I could see the town spread out below and the next fishing villages to the north and south. Everything looked so small from high up, but it was my entire world.

As night fell, a cool breeze rolled in from the ocean. I made my way back down, each step feeling heavier than the last. The streets were quieter now, most of the town having returned home after the end of another workday.

As I passed Tidal Grounds, I saw Silas inside, sweeping the floors. The shop had been closed for more than an hour.

Our eyes met through the window, and his brow furrowed. I quickened my pace, trying to avoid facing his questions or well-meaning advice.

Finally, I found myself back at home, staring at the front door. The porch light was on, a beacon in the gathering darkness. Inside, I knew Mom would be waiting, probably worried sick.

I slipped inside, hoping to make it upstairs without confrontation—no such luck.

"Rory?" Mom called from the living room. "Is that you?"

Sighing, I shuffled in to find her curled up on the couch, a book in her lap. "Hey, Mom. Sorry I was gone so long."

She patted the seat beside her. "Come sit with me for a bit."

I obliged, sinking into the worn cushions. The familiar scent of her lavender lotion enveloped me. It was comforting despite my tumultuous emotions.

"So," she began, a hint of mischief in her eyes, "I suppose you're wondering about Reid and me."

I groaned. "Mom, you don't have to—"

"Oh, hush," she swatted my arm playfully. "I'm not some blushing teenager. Reid and I... we've found a connection. It's unexpected but lovely."

I studied her face, noticing a youthful glow I hadn't seen in years. "Are you happy?"

She smiled. "I am. It's different from what I had with your father, but it's good. Reid understands loss, and he makes me laugh."

"That's... great," I managed, absorbing the new reality.

Mom's expression turned serious. "Rory, love isn't a finite resource. My caring for Reid doesn't diminish what I had with your father, just like Brooks caring for you doesn't lessen his other dreams."

I felt my chest tighten. "Mom, I—"

"I know, honey," she squeezed my hand. "Just think about it, okay? Life's too short for regrets."

Mom's words echoed in my mind as I climbed the stairs to my room: "Life's too short for regrets." I collapsed onto my bed, staring at the ceiling, where glow-in-the-dark stars I'd stuck up as a kid still stubbornly clung. Each seemed to mock me with the possibilities of what could have been.

For the next few days, I continued my pattern of merely existing behind a facade of productivity. I finished all my projects and chores, but there was no experience of satisfaction at the end of the day.

I gravitated to Tidal Grounds each evening, seeking solace in the familiar atmosphere and the bitter comfort of cold coffee. Silas raised an eyebrow the first night but said nothing as he slid an iced glass across the counter. The second night, his concerned glances lingered a little longer. By the third night, his patience was wearing thin as I hunched over yet another barely touched cold glass.

The cafe was empty except for me. Lost in blank thoughts, I traced geometric patterns in the condensation on the glass.

"Alright, that's it," Silas sat across the table from me. "What in the name of all that's caffeinated is going on with you and Brooks? The tension between you two is thicker than my gran's clam chowder."

I sighed. "It's complicated, Silas."

He snorted, got up, and moved to the window, flipping the sign from open to closed. When he returned, he grunted as he sat. "Complicated like my coffee roasting process, or complicated like you're both being stubborn idiots?"

"Hey!" I protested weakly.

Silas leaned toward me, his usually carefree face serious. "Listen, Rory, this is the third night in a row you've been here, alone, drinking cold coffee and fingering that glass like it holds the secrets of the universe."

I glanced up, surprised. "You noticed?"

"Of course, I noticed. I've known you both since we were kids lighting firecrackers on the docks on the 4th of July. Do you think I can't tell when something's eating at you? Talk to me. What's really going on?"

I took a deep breath, and all of the words suddenly tumbled out. "The Islanders offered Brooks an assistant coaching job in New York."

Silas rubbed his stubbly chin. "That's big news. But why do you look like someone just told you lobster's going extinct?"

"Because he's going to take it," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "He will leave again, and I'll be left behind. Just like before."

"Did he actually say that?" Silas furrowed his brow.

I shifted uncomfortably. "Well, no. But—"

"But nothing," Silas interrupted. "You're jumping to conclusions faster than a lobster trap snapping shut. Have you even talked to him about it?"

The guilt must have shown on my face because Silas shook his head, exasperated. "Damn. For a smart guy, you can be incredibly dense sometimes. I'm not sure Brooks is much better."

"I told him he should take the job." The words tasted sour in my mouth.

"And did you mean it?"

I stared into the last of my coffee, avoiding his gaze. "I meant that I didn't want to hold him back."

"Uh-huh. It looks like pushing him away before he can leave you is working out great."

His words hit me like a bucket of ice water. "I'm not—"

"You are," he said firmly. "Listen, Rory. I've watched you two dance around each other for at least a few months. The way you look at each other when you think no one's watching... it's like seeing two halves of a whole finally finding each other again."

I felt a fresh lump form in my throat. "But what if—"

Silas cut me off. "Stop that. Whatever's going on, is it worth throwing away everything you've built? It's all right there—the arena project, your rekindled relationship, and the life you could have together?"

His words hung in the air between us, heavy with truth. The distant sound of waves crashing against the shore filtered through the open window, a reminder of the constancy of Whistleport amid the petty little changes in the lives of its residents.

"You're right," I said finally, my voice hoarse. "You're absolutely right."

Silas grinned, clapping me on the shoulder. "Of course I am. I'm rarely wrong. Now, what are you going to do about it?"

I stood, a newfound determination coursing through me. "I'm going to talk to Brooks. Really talk to him this time."

"Atta boy." Silas beamed. "And Rory? Next time you come here to brood, let me serve you hot coffee. Watching you drink it cold was breaking my heart."