I turn to look at the lighthouse once more before heading back to my car. The paint is even more chipped, with holes in the concrete now showing, as if the material is crumbling. Chunks of concrete lie on the rocks around the structure. I take another photo with my phone, for proof I don’t know if I’ll ever need, and walk to my car.
Something is going on with this lighthouse, and I don’t think it’s good.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The start of the week goes by without any casualties at work. The pumpkin spice coffee creamer we’re now selling is doing really well, and we’ve come up with an official “fall drink” to sell at the cafe called the Pleasant Pumpkin Cream Coffee. We serve it hot or iced, and it features my (Dylan’s) creamer. Customers have already become obsessed with it. Sarah has even gone a little easier on me since Mandy, the owner of Pleasant Coffee, is kind of on my good side right now. We went from head nods to a first-name basis pretty quickly, and Sarah has definitely noticed and has been sucking up to me a little more because of it. It feels fake, but at least she isn’t ripping into me as much, so I’ll take it.
After work on Monday, I brought my car to a garage a few blocks away from where I live, and lo and behold, Dylan was right. The oil was low. Dangerously low. Bill, the mechanic, raised his bushy eyebrows so high they almost made it into his receding hairline. I am apparently “very lucky” my old Honda was still running. He was very kind and thankfully very non-judgmental and walked methrough everything, answering all my questions. I can now say that my oil is fresh, and the little sticker on my windshield says I don’t need to come back for another three thousand kilometres—give or take—according to Bill. Thegive or takeis key based on how much driving I end up doing. These back-and-forth trips to the lighthouse are certainly costing me.
Worth it.
I wish so badly I could call Dylan and tell him, but at least now I know I cansafelyget to him this coming weekend.
I get home from work on Thursday and plop down on the couch, throwing my feet up on the coffee table. I am wiped. After being up tossing and turning each night this week, my alarm has come a little too early, and it’s been go-go-go at the cafe. I’m very tempted to pull an Olivia Pope tonight and have popcorn and red wine for dinner.
After I grab the microwave popcorn package from my cupboard and start to tear off the plastic covering, my phone vibrates on the couch behind me. I stop what I’m doing and walk over. My mom is video calling me.
“Sweetie, it’s been too long.” She pushes her dark-framed glasses up on her freshly highlighted blonde hair. “How are you? How is work? Ready to stop playing and come home yet?” She laughs like it’s a joke, asking the questions in such quick succession and leaving me no time to respond in between. I know it’s partially excitement and partially that she misses me, but the insinuation that I might want to come home stings all the same. As supportive as she and Dad are, I know they don’t understand this thing I’m doing.
Can’t survive a day on your own.
I never told Mom about why Marcus and I ended or thethings he said and did—how deeply his words cut. Even the reason why we broke up. I don’t think she would understand. She loves her wealth and her life. Not having to do anything for herself. My parents thrive in their circumstances, whereas I felt vapid and useless. Here, I’m useful. Like I have a purpose for the first time in my life.
“Not yet.” I pull my knees into my chest and position my phone on them, leaning back onto the couch to get comfortable. “Work is good. I came up with a fall coffee that we’re selling. It’s doing well. I had help, but I’m really proud.” A small smile tugs at my lips at that declaration.
“Oh, sweetie, that’s fantastic!” She claps her manicured hands together with joy. “Your first real job, and look what you’ve done.”
Her pride brings a genuine smile to my face. She’s right. Look at everything I’ve done in the last two months since moving here. I’ve managed to get—and keep—a job with a small but steady paycheque. I have a place to live, a car to drive, and I’ve even been getting better at making my own meals. I suppress a laugh thinking about last night when I tried to recreate the grilled cheese and tomato soup that Dylan made for us on Sunday, and although I slightly burned the canned soup, it was tasty. I’ve been thriving here, and I have him to thank for that.
“Thanks, Mom,” I reply as I feel a blush creep across my cheeks. “I’ve definitely had help, but I’m really trying to put the work in here.”
“Help is okay. Everybody can use it now and then. Anyone who says they don’t is a liar.” She winks.
“Even you guys?” I ask curiously.
“Of course!” she responds loudly. “The amount of help your dad and I had with our business was huge. You can’t do all of these things on your own. And no one expects youto. Just because you get some help doesn’t take away from what you’ve accomplished.”
I don’t know why, but that comment makes me feel lighter. Like I haven’t been cheating by learning from Dylan and Priya. This is what people do. Theytryand theylearnand they get help when it’s offered. Suddenly, the fatigue from the week feels a little less intense, and I switch to feeling energized, like I’ve been zapped awake. To keep pushing to try to build my life out here.
We chat a bit more before ending the call. She and Dad are doing well; they miss me, and, as Mom likes to remind me, the door isalwaysopen for me to come back. She even offered to send me some money, but I very happily and abruptly said no. I’mjustgetting by, but that’s okay. I wouldn’t change a thing.
I place my phone down on the couch, feeling tired but more driven than usual. I may not have all the answers I need right now, but at least I know I’m proving that asshole Marcus wrong and figuring things out.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Friday comes and goes, and by the time I’m done with work, I’m antsy. I don’t want to wait another day to see Dylan. He has been a constant thought on my mind all week. Every high and low from each day has had me wishing I could call him and tell him about it. I miss the way his green eyes crinkle when he smiles and the teasing grin he gives me whenever I do something to make him laugh. I know I shouldn’t, but I miss the way his hands feel on my bare skin, rough and calloused from being outside in the salt air, and the way his lips gently brush up against mine. I keep shaking the thoughts away. I can’t do anything about it. Shouldn’t. I still don’t know what to do about the knowledge I have. I’m racking my brain, trying to figure out how to handle this predicament we’re in.
All I know is that waiting until Saturday is impossible, so before I know it, I’m in the car, driving in the dark down the winding road that leads me to him. To the lighthouse at Killick Point.
Back to 1993.
I park in my usual spot and practically fly down the gravel path to the familiar red door. I catch my breath for a few beats before opening it up, and with a loud creak from its rusted hinges, it opens. Stepping into the entry room, I’m bathed in darkness, but I can see the light from the other room creeping in from the open doorway between the two sections.
Not wanting to startle him, I call out his name before entering. There’s no response, so I walk into the main area. The lights are on, but as my eyes scan the space, I notice his dark green windbreaker is missing, along with a pair of runners from the mat. I open the back door and step out into the cool night, hoping he’s close by.
There’s more of a chill in the air here than there was back in 2025, and my black leggings and pink oversized sweater are not enough to keep me comfortably warm. Wrapping my arms around myself in a hug, I walk around the lighthouse, trying to see if he’s out here anywhere.
Nothing.
