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I gritted my teeth. "You sure we should be taking something new on, Dad? How's your back?"
"Never mind my back! I'm sixty-five, not six hundred."
"I feel about six hundred."
"The job's easy. No construction, just refurbishment. An important property in town."
He knew just what to say to pique my interest. Bluehaven Beach was a passion project for me. Over the years, Dad and I had done a huge amount of work on the town. We'd learned old-fashioned building techniques to retain the historic charm of the properties, and between the two of us, we'd brought color and life back to the main street.
People were noticing. A younger crowd had started to move here, and the place felt like it was buzzing with opportunity and life again. Well, most of the town did. All except my little stretch of paradise here in the trailer park.
"All right, what's the pay?" I asked, still a little reluctant.
"Nothing," he replied bluntly.
"Nothing?!" My grip tightened around the phone. "Dad, we have to start charging people properly!"
"Relax, Cole," he sighed. "There's no money upfront, but there will be money down the line. Besides, this job is about more than money. It's about friendship."
"Friendship?" I snapped, my patience wearing thin. "That attitude is precisely why we’ve got no money!"
"Money’s not important, Cole—relationships are what count."
"In that case, I'm a pauper twice over."
I sighed. It was pointless to argue, really. When it came to my family, I could never say no. They were all I had. "Go on then, tell me about it."
CHAPTER THREE
Elara
Grief is a storm.
When you're in it, you can't imagine a way out. It grows stronger and stronger, whipping you around in every direction, until one day, suddenly, the sky clears.
But, of course, you can’t have blue skies forever.
Guilt drags you back in. Guilt because you’re feeling better. So, you go right back under that storm cloud all over again, torturing yourself about the things you never said, never did. You pore over old photos and text messages. You replay key moments, wishing that somehow you could change history.
And all the while, the world keeps turning. Storms come and go, blue skies appear and disappear, it rains, it shines, and sometimes, there’s even a rainbow.
The universe doesn't fall apart when your loved one is gone. And nor do you. Not completely.
Today in Bluehaven Beach, there were blue skies overhead and a soreness in my heart. An ocean breeze tugged at my hair, whipping it around as I pedaled down the main street, past the pastel-colored storefronts, most of which hadn’t changed, although there were a few surprises. A new coffee shop here, an art gallery there. At its core, though, Bluehaven Beach was still the same small-town it ever was. Seagulls and salt. Dunes and disappointment.
In the first couple of weeks after Dad died, I was in a state of shock. It was only after the funeral, when I realized I was going to run out of money, that I knew I had to do something. So, I made the heartbreaking decision to give up my cozy Astoria apartment and head back to my sleepy hometown.
People say not to make any life-changing decisions in the year after a major loss. I know because I googled it. But what if you’re forced to make those decisions out of necessity? What if there was never really any decision to make in the first place? Your life was doomed to change all along.
I pulled up in front of the beaten-up old bar and sighed deeply. "Well, buddy, what do you think?"
I scratched Anthony behind the ears as he poked his furry head out of the special dog basket mounted on my bike. He'd been such a good sport about riding in this thing.
The bar's sign read "O'Neil’s" in ornate but faded blue and gold lettering. Even from the outside, it was painfully obvious the place had fallen into disrepair. Boards covered the windows, and paint peeled from every surface. "Guess this old dive is ours now, huh?"
It was hard to imagine the bar as it used to be, packed to the rafters every night, full of live music and laughter and gossipy locals. The social hub of the town.
Anthony sniffed the air, distinctly unimpressed.
