He climbs to his feet without another beat of hesitation and walks out of the shelter, headed for the rocky steps that lead back to the shore. After a moment, I heave a sigh and follow him.
Time to get back to reality.
Back to my life.
A life that no longer includes Archer Reyes.
FOURTEEN
archer
Tommy stares at me, his bearded jaw clenched tight. He’s quiet for so long, I think I’ll be forced to repeat myself.
“Did you hear what I said?” I swallow hard. “The boat, it’s—”
“Do you want a drink?”
He doesn’t wait for me to accept his abrupt offer; he merely turns on his heel and walks deeper into the dark house. The screen door slams shut between us with a bang loud enough to disturb the neighbors on a normal evening. Not tonight, though. Tonight, most people are down at the harborside, hoping to salvage their storm-dampened holiday with a firework show and some force-fed town spirit. Tommy’s narrow, tree-lined cul-de-sac is ensconced in shadowy quiet.
I follow him inside, wiping my rubber boots on the welcome mat as I step over the threshold. It’s a simple house — a single-story ranch with a low sloping roof, reminiscent of the 1950s. Unpretentious as the man who owns it. The spartan decor style is that of an aging bachelor. The only art on the walls are fading nautical charts hung in dark wooden frames. What few knickknacks he possesses follow a similar theme — a vintage compass sitting on an end-table, a sawfish bill mounted over the fireplace, a collection of hand-painted fishing lures displayed behind glass.
A short walk down a dim hallway leads into a tiny, tidy kitchen with butcher-block countertops and striped navy wallpaper. I sit at a circular oak table while Tommy rummages through the cabinet above his refrigerator. It’s odd to see him dressed in regular clothes. I’m so accustomed to the sight of him scowling at me over a stained yellow lobstering bib. Until this moment, I wasn’t entirely confident the man had hair — I thought that low-brimmed Red Sox cap was permanently fused to his head. But there it is: a shock of thick white strands, neatly parted above his right temple.
He retrieves a bottle from deep in the cabinet, blowing a layer of dust off the cap before twisting it open. He’s silent as he pours two fingers of brown liquor into a mismatched pair of tumblers. He sets one in front of me before settling into the seat across from mine.
“I was saving this bottle of scotch for the day I retired.” He swirls his glass, watching the amber liquid form a tiny liquid tornado. “Guess this is as close as I’m going to get.”
“Tommy, you have to know how sorry I am. If there’s anything I can do—”
“You can start at the beginning,” he cuts me off, taking a slow sip. “I’m listening.”
I hardly know where to start.
I let a gulp of whiskey wash over my tongue and down my throat before I begin. Once I’ve started, the words come easily, pouring out in a torrent. I tell him everything, sparing none of the details — about the squall, the MAYDAY call, the sunken sailboat. I describe how I pulled Josephine from the water, cold and blue and needing CPR. The flimsy day mooring and the delayed Coast Guard response. The near-empty gas tank and the choice to abandon ship. The flashing spotlights of the rescue boat. The breakneck return to the docks. The paramedics waiting to whisk Jo away via ambulance without so much as a goodbye or a backward glance in my direction.
They wanted to take me to the hospital for an examination too, just to be safe, but I refused. These days, I barely have money for meals, let alone an exorbitant ambulance fee. The lobstering business may have some perks — days spent outside on the water, the occasional free fish dinner, no long commute to a stuffy office — but health insurance is not one of them. Whatever cuts and scrapes my body accumulated out on the water this afternoon will have to heal on their own time.
God knows I’ve healed from worse before.
I don’t intend to confide in Tommy about my relationship with Jo, but as the telling of today’s events unfurls, I find the past spilling out along with it. Before I know it, I’ve laid the whole story at his feet. Everything that happened last summer. The twisted path that lead me away from my family, from baseball, from the girl I loved, and to his doorstep last fall, full of scars — both surgical and soul-deep. It’s the first time, the only time, I’ve told the story aloud since it all transpired. Chris has heard bits and pieces, fragments of the truth, but never the whole sad tale in its entirety. I had not realized how badly I needed to tell it — to expel it from my system — until I started speaking.
It’s the most I’ve ever spoken to Tommy, by a long shot. It’s also likely far more than my gruff boss bargained for when he sat me down to hear about his boat. But Tommy, quite unexpectedly, turns out to be a good listener. He lets my words wash over him without interruption, absorbing the story as he drains his scotch in measured, almost methodical sips. By the time I finish, his glass is empty and my throat is hoarse.
“Anyway,” I say, pushing aside the rising tide of embarrassment inside me. “I’m not sure why I told you all that. The point is, I’m sorry about what happened with the Ebenezer, and I’m going to do whatever I can to make this right. I’ll pay you back. It might take me some time — hell, it might take me the rest of my life — but I swear I will.”
I fall silent, bracing myself for an interrogation — How could you sink my sole source of income? How do you expect to pay me back for this loss? — or, at the very least, some minor berating. Instead, Tommy merely turns his weathered stare my way and asks the one question I am wholly unprepared for. One that knocks the wind right out of my lungs.
“Do you want to stay here tonight?”
I blink, confused by the question. Confused by the kindness. Kindness I surely don’t deserve. “Uh…”
“Couch ain’t much more than a blanket over springs, but it’s yours if you want it.”
“My apartment isn’t far.”
“I know, kid.” He pauses. “That’s not why I offered. Seems to me, after the day you’ve had… I don’t know. Just figured you might not want to be alone, that’s all.”
My eyes begin to sting. I blink rapidly, burying the rising emotion behind my lids. If I cry in front of Tommy, we’ll both be even more uncomfortable. Which is hard to picture, seeing as we’re already awkwardly near to having a Hallmark movie moment.
I clear my throat roughly. “Thanks for the offer, but I’m fine.”
“Good.” Rising to his feet, he reaches down and clasps me by the shoulder. “Go home, get a good night’s sleep, and for God’s sake, take a shower. You smell like day-old bait. We’ll sort the rest out tomorrow.”
I stand, feeling shaky with emotion. I’m exhausted. My voice is choked, tight with unspoken gratitude. “Thank you, Tommy.”
He’s already walking out of the kitchen, toward his bedroom. His voice carries back to me from halfway down the hall. “These old bones of mine are beat. Heading to bed. You can stay as long as you like, just lock up when you leave, will you? And flip off the lights. You’ve cost me enough money today — no need to run the electric bill any higher.”