Chapter 20: Madeline
As soon as we step outside, the wind hits like a slap.
It rips through the trees and around the porch, catching the edge of my coat and nearly spinning me sideways. I take an involuntary step back, my eyes watering instantly.
“Jesus,” Liam mutters, yanking his beanie down lower over his ears. “I hate when the north wind lifts. Always feels like it’s trying to skin your face.”
I don’t say anything right away. I’m too busy blinking through the cold and adjusting my scarf, already regretting not bringing a thicker one. The sky is deceptively clear — a bright stretch of blue from end to end, not a single cloud in sight. But the air? The air is cruel. It's almost too easy to forget that this, this is summer. And suddenly I wonder what winter here is like.
We start down the path, shoulders hunched slightly, boots crunching against the damp gravel. It’s funny — just a day ago I was taking this same walk, breathless with how beautiful it all was. Now I’m focusing on just keeping my eyes open.
Liam walks beside me, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, shoulders braced like he’s been through this kind of cold a hundred times. Which he probably has.
I think I’ve memorized the way, but twice he steers me away from a wrong turn — once before I lead us into someone’s backyard, and once when I nearly miss the path that curves down toward the water.
“Not bad,” he says. “You almost had it.”
“I’ve been here forty-eight hours,” I mutter. “Give me another day and I’ll stop trying to get us arrested.”
He grins and nudges me lightly with his elbow. “That’s the spirit.”
For a while, it’s quiet between us. Not uncomfortable, just wind-hushed. My scarf keeps riding up over my mouth, and I give up trying to fix it. The harbor glimmers faintly ahead, the white of the boats like teeth against the deep green water.
Then, Liam breaks the silence.
“So,” he says, not looking at me, “tell me something.”
I raise an eyebrow, pulling my coat tighter. “Like what?”
“I don’t know,” he shrugs. “Favorite dessert. Start small.”
I blink. Of all the questions…
“Chocolate cake, I guess.”
“Classic. Frosting?”
“Obviously.”
He hums, like this is deeply important data. “Thick or whipped?”
“Whipped frosting is for cowards.”
Liam laughs, head tipping back slightly as he walks. “God, I love a woman with strong opinions on icing.”
I smile despite the cold. “You’re really determined to get information out of me, huh?”
“Well, yeah. You’re the mysterious newcomer. We’re all dying to know if you’re secretly a spy or something.”
I roll my eyes and keep walking.
“You ever gonna tell us where you’re from?” he adds.
“Maybe.”
“Or how you ended up here?”
“Probably not.”
He glances over at me then — not offended, just curious. And I realize he’s actually listening. Not probing. Not trying to corner me into a story. Just… interested.
That’s somehow worse.
“There’s not much to say,” I murmur. “Nothing exciting.”
He looks at me for a second longer, but doesn’t push.
“Alright,” he says, letting it go. “Then let’s talk about me.”
“Finally,” I mutter, pretending to be exasperated. “I was wondering when you’d make it about yourself.”
He smirks. “So I tried to study environmental tech when I got out of high school. Didn’t love it. Switched to marine trades. Liked working with my hands more than reading about other people working with theirs.”
I nod, my breath visible in front of me now.
“Been crewing here on and off since I was twenty, like I told you” he continues. “Took a gap year that never really ended. Did some boat work in Newfoundland. Came back. My folks are in Halifax, so it’s not that far. Now I'm twenty-one and, well, that's it.”
There’s something calm in the way he talks — not like he’s reciting a bio, but just... telling me a story as it happens to come to him.
“And now?” I ask. “You want to keep doing this?”
He shrugs. “For now. I like the rhythm of it. The early mornings, the rough sea, the weird silence you get when you're out far enough. It feels honest.”
Honest.
I chew on that word for a minute, letting it settle in the space between us.
We reach the edge of the harbor and pause, the wind whistling around the corners of the nearest shack. I can see the wharf now, the familiar blue tarp over one of the market stalls, a couple of lobster traps stacked neatly beside a shed.
“Guess that’s what I want,” Liam says, nudging a rock with his foot. “A life that feels like it means something. Even if it’s just hauling gear and getting salt in my socks.”
I look at him then — really look at him. Windburned cheeks, sea-damp hair, hands roughened from rope and metal. He doesn’t look like he’s searching for anything. He looks like he already found it and just hasn’t named it yet.
“I like that,” I say quietly.
He glances at me, half-smiling. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
And we keep walking, the sea in front of us, the cold biting at our necks, and the unspoken things — the things I’m still not ready to say — trailing quietly behind me.