Chapter 8: The Past Washes Up

Nora stood at the cottage window, watching the rain smear the glass into a blurry mess. Elias's jacket hung over a chair, still damp, its flannel scent—pine and motor oil—filling the room. She hadn't given it back yesterday, and he hadn't asked. Now it sat there like a challenge, daring her to remember.

She turned away, sinking onto the couch with Ruth's tin box in her lap. The storm outside was picking up, wind rattling the shutters, but inside, it was the past that felt loudest. She pulled out that photo again—her and Elias, 17, grinning like the world was theirs. Her fingers traced the edges, and she let herself fall back to that summer, when everything was bright and simple.

It'd been July, the air sticky with salt and heat. They'd snuck out after midnight, Elias tugging her down the dirt path to the lighthouse, a six-pack of stolen beer clanking in his backpack. "Come on, Calder," he'd teased, his grin all trouble. "Live a little."

The tower was dark, the lantern off for repairs, and they'd climbed the stairs giggling, shushing each other like kids. Up top, the view had stolen her breath—stars spilling across the sky, waves crashing below. They'd cracked open the beers, sitting cross-legged on the floor, and talked about everything—college, fishing boats, how they'd get out of Cutler Cove someday.

"You're gonna be some big-shot scientist," he'd said, nudging her knee. "Studying whales or something."

"And you'll build houses," she'd shot back, leaning into him. "Big ones, with porches."

He'd laughed, then gone quiet, his hand finding hers. "What if we don't make it out?"

"We will," she'd said, fierce. "Together."

He'd looked at her then, eyes soft, and pulled her close. The kiss was sloppy, beer-sour, but perfect—her first real one, his too, he'd admitted later. They'd stayed up there 'til dawn, making plans, dreaming loud. The pact came later, on another night, but that moment—it was the start of them.

Now, the memory ached. She'd believed it back then—believed in him, in them. But her dad's mess had crept in slow, a shadow she couldn't outrun. The debts, the fights, the night he'd come home bloody and told her to pack. She'd left Elias to save him from that, but she'd never told him why. And here she was, digging up the wreckage.

Her phone buzzed—Meg, with a link to a grant site. Nora set the photo down and opened her laptop, forcing herself to focus. The proposal was coming together—Meg's history, Elias's structural notes, her funding leads. It wasn't enough yet, but it was something. She worked 'til her eyes burned, the storm howling outside, and didn't hear the knock 'til it turned into pounding.

She stumbled to the door, opening it to Elias, drenched and wild-eyed. "You okay?" he asked, stepping in without waiting.

"Yeah," she said, startled. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Storm's getting bad. Power's out half the town. Thought you might've flooded." He shook water off his cap, glancing around. "You alone?"

"Always," she said, half a joke, but it landed flat. His eyes snagged on the photo on the table, and he froze.

"Where'd you get that?" he asked, voice low.

"Ruth's stuff," she said, crossing her arms. "Found it yesterday."

He picked it up, thumb brushing the corner. "Goddamn. Look at us."

"Yeah," she said, softer. "We were happy."

He didn't answer, just stared at it, and the silence stretched thin. "What happened, Nora?" he asked finally, setting it down. "Why'd you go?"

Her throat closed. This was it—the edge she'd been dodging. "It's complicated," she said, stalling.

"Try me," he said, stepping closer. "I've got time."

The wind screamed outside, and she wanted to tell him—spill it all, the debts, the fear, the love she'd buried. But the words wouldn't come. "Later," she said, hating herself. "When the storm's done."

He nodded, slow, like he didn't believe her. "Sure. I'll check the lighthouse tomorrow. You coming?"

"Yeah," she said. "I'll be there."

He left without another word, and she sank back onto the couch, the photo staring up at her. She'd dodged it again, but the past was washing up fast, and she couldn't keep it at bay much longer.