I don’t know why I keep thinking about him. He’s kind of an asshole. But I got the sense, the last time I saw him, that maybe he just has a hard exterior.
When my noodles are ready, I bring the bowl over to my couch, a navy blue loveseat I thrifted. I curl up and wrap an old quilt around myself and eat my dinner, thoughts drifting to a white-and-red striped lighthouse and the mystery man inside.
Chapter Seven
Saturday morning greets me with warm sun and blue skies. August is one of the nicest months out here, I’m learning. Barely any rain and warm temperatures without getting too humid. The wind can certainly still have a chill even in the summer, but all in all, it’s a pretty enjoyable time of year.
After lounging around for the morning with a coffee and the latest Audrey Quinn romance book, I decide to get dressed and get out of the house. I pull my hair back into a slick bun—no need to shower now—and some high-waisted jean shorts with a black short-sleeve button-up blouse that I half tuck in. The French tuck is a bit millennial, but I saw it done on TikTok, and it didn’t look half-bad. I slip on my chunky Ugg sandals and my favourite pair of sunglasses and head out the door.
When I get in the car, without even thinking, I start the thirty-minute drive to the placeand the personwho has been consuming my every waking thought.
I park my car and walk up the gravel path, taking in the smell of the salt air and the coast surrounding me.The lighthouse sits on the edge of a rocky cliff. The stones closest to the sea are smooth, polished by years of crashing waves battering against them. I reach the faded red door and listen. Nothing. No footsteps, no deep, muted voice. Just quiet, outside of the wind and waves around me. I knock a few times and wait, but hear nothing.
Feeling brave—and curious—I open the door and walk inside, closing it behind me. The mild shock from the door handle greets me, as usual. I sneak into the main level of the lighthouse and take in my surroundings without distraction. Off-white paint covers the concrete walls, and black cast-iron stairs curve upward toward the next level. Behind the stairs, there’s another door. It’s painted the same colour as the walls and blends into the space. Must be why I never noticed it before. Hooks on the wall and a black rubber mat lie beside it.
The yellow rubber boots are missing.
To an outsider, it might look like I’m trespassing, but our exchange last time made me feel a bit more welcome around him. Like maybe a small part of him has enjoyed my random visits. And if you think about it, this main level isn’t the living quarters, sotechnically, I’m only visiting his work, not his home.
Maybe I should have been a lawyer; I can justify my way out of anything.
Pausing, I listen. Rain beats against the side of the lighthouse. I glance at one of the two windows in front of me and see raindrops plastered on the cloudy glass. A shiver runs over my body; I should have packed a sweater. I need to be better at preparing for how fast the weather shifts here. Even if it’s warm, always bring a sweater! I don’t even have one in my car. I walk over to the hook where the clipboard isand scan the title, my head crooking to the left with confusion at what I’m reading.
EMERGENCY PROCEDURES — LIGHTHOUSE STATION
Location: Killick Point
Date Updated: March 12, 1993
Why does it say 1993? Has nothing changed since then? I think back to what happened in 1993 and wonder if it’s a nod to Dylan Hart. Maybe he was the last person to update the procedures. Though I remember seeing the mystery lighthouse keeper with a clipboard in his hand when we first met. Was it the same one? Based on how serious he was about safety and storms, it doesn’t seem like him to have a safety manual that is over thirty years out of date.
Before I can look any closer, the hidden door opens, and in walks a soaking wet lighthouse keeper. In a dark green rain jacket with the hood up, covering most of his face, he ducks slightly as he steps through the frame. I find the missing rubber boots on his feet, and he’s holding a pair of binoculars and a tool kit. His emerald-green eyes spot me, and he sighs, almost like he’s not surprised to see me here.
“Why do you always show up during the worst weather?” He takes off his dripping wet jacket and hangs it on the hook by the door, slipping out of his boots and placing them on the mat to dry.
“In my defence, it was sunny when I showed up.”
He tilts his head at me, clearly confused. “It’s Saturday,” he sighs, but there’s the slightest hint of a smirk forming. “I should have known you’d pop by. How long have you been here?”
“Not that long, maybe about five minutes.”
He shakes his head, water droplets flying off his wet strands of hair, and moves toward the cast-iron stairs. “Well, you’d better stay. There’s a storm moving in fast from the southwest. It’s not safe out there.” He walks up the stairs, pausing to wait for me to follow.
“Why wereyououtside, then, huh?” I ask, ready to spar and not even sure why.
“It’s my job?” He lets out another exasperated sigh. I must get under his skin. I like that. “I was doing a visibility check.” He holds up the binoculars. “I need to check the ocean conditions, cloud cover, and horizon visibility. It was easier to do it outside today.”
“And what do you do with that information? Store it in that big old brain of yours?”
“No, I’ll write it in my weather log.” That must be one of the many notebooks he has upstairs.
“Why don’t you use a computer? Don’t you get Wi-Fi here?”
“Wi-what?” His brows knit together as he looks at me. He must not get out much.
“Never mind.” I follow him upstairs, the warmth from the wood stove in the living room making its way over to me as soon as I get onto the second level.
“Coffee?” he asks, turning left into the kitchen and pulling out a bag of beans from the cupboard.
