Page 7 of All Along The Watchtower

“Love you too, sweetheart.”

Through the kitchen windows, morning sun glinted off the whitewashed lighthouse walls. The old beacon hadn’t guided ships in decades, but it still stood sentinel over our piece of coastline. A watchtower. When my moms bought the property, the tower and caretaker’s cottage had been falling apart. Now the expanded cottage wrapped around the base of the lighthouse in a horseshoe of weathered cedar shingles and bright window boxes overflowing with Mimi’s herbs and the sturdy pansies that could weather winter on the Outer Banks.

“How’s the new studio working out?” I nodded toward the glass-walled space they’d added last fall, jutting out toward the water like the prow of a ship.

Mimi’s face lit up. “Perfect light, perfect view. Though your mom keeps saying I’m going to fall right through the floor with all my pottery wheels and kilns.”

“You did reinforce it, right?”

“Of course! I may be an artist, but I’m not completely impractical.” She topped off my coffee. “Though I did have to promise no glass-blowing experiments.”

I choked on my coffee. “Please tell me you weren’t actually considering that.”

“A girl can dream.” She winked. “Besides, the attic workshop has plenty of room for new ventures.”

The attic had been their pet project—expanding what had once been a cramped attic into a workshop that ran the full length of the house. They’d done most of the work themselves, cursing and covered in sawdust for months. I’d helped when I could, hauling lumber up the narrow stairs and installing the skylights that now flooded the space with natural light. Mom and Mimi had insisted on doing the bulk of the renovation though, determined to create exactly the studio space they’d always dreamed about. Even now, years later, I could still hear Mimi’s excited chatter about proper ventilation and the way Mom had fretted over every measurement three times before making a single cut.

“Speaking of ventures.” Mimi retrieved a wrapped package from beside the fridge. “A little something for you to take with you.”

Inside was one of her signature potbelly coffee mugs, glazed in deep blues and greens that swirled like the ocean. My throat tightened. “It’s perfect, Mimi. Thank you.”

“Well, you need something civilized to drink from. Can’t have my boy using those awful Navy mess cups all the time.”

I ran my thumb over the smooth surface, remembering all the mornings I’d watched her throw pots in her old workshop, the wheel spinning hypnotic circles while she shaped wet clay with sure hands. I missed those mornings. Missed, too, the meditative nature of simply watching her work. Hell, I missed everything about the island. I had for a long time, but something about this trip had really brought it into sharp focus.

Well, not something. Sawyer. Seeing him building a life with Willa had me actually thinking about retirement when my contract was up. The way they’d settled in together, makingsomething real and permanent, stirred up feelings I’d been fighting since the day I enlisted.

I set the mug down carefully, tracing the spiral pattern with one finger. Could I really come back here? Make a life on this tiny strip of sand where every other corner held memories of Bree? The thought of running into her at the market or the post office made my chest ache, but maybe that was exactly why I needed to come home. Some wounds didn’t heal with distance, and Lord knew I’d tried that route for long enough.

The boardwalk where we’d spent summer nights watching stars, sharing secrets and dreams while the waves crashed below. The dunes where we’d hidden from the world, building sandcastles as kids. The cove on the north end of the island where everything had changed, right before it all went straight to hell. That night still haunted me—the fire’s glow reflecting off the water, the taste of whiskey, and the way she’d looked at me with such raw hope in her eyes.

Bree’s walls were titanium-reinforced these days. The few times we crossed paths, her eyes skated past me like I was a stranger. Worse than a stranger—someone who didn’t even register as worth acknowledging. Each time it happened was a fresh punch to the gut, a reminder of how spectacularly I’d managed to destroy twenty years of friendship in one alcohol-fueled night and its aftermath.

“You’re thinking awful hard for this early in the morning.” Mimi’s voice cut through my spiral, her knowing tone making me wince. She’d always been able to read me.

“Just… future stuff.” I tried to brush it off, but my other mother had the tenacity of a bloodhound when she caught the scent of something bothering me.

“Ah.” She nodded sagely, her curls catching the morning light. “Would this have anything to do with a certain blonde brewery owner?”

I groaned, slumping back in my chair. “You’re worse than Mom with the interrogations.” Mom was an environmental rights attorney now, but she’d started her career as a prosecutor, and those instincts had never quite gone away. Between the two of them, keeping secrets had been impossible growing up.

“Please. Your mama taught me everything I know about extracting information.” Mimi gathered our plates with practiced efficiency, the ceramic clinking together. “You know, sometimes the hardest wounds to heal are the ones we keep picking at.” Her warm brown eyes held mine, full of warmth and acceptance.

“I’m not picking.” But the protest died on my lips. Who was I kidding? “Okay, maybe I am. But seeing Sawyer and Willa so happy… it just hits different now.” Seeing them together since I’d been back, the way they’d looked at each other like they were the only two people in the world, had twisted something in my chest.

“Because you want what they have? Or because you had a shot at it once, and you blew it?”

My gaze shot to hers. I’d never told either of my moms what had gone down with Bree. But neither of them were stupid women. Maybe they’d guessed. Hell, they’d seen the way everything changed after that night, the way Bree stopped coming around, stopped answering my calls. I appreciated the fact that they’d never pressed.

“Doesn’t matter.” I shrugged, fidgeting with my coffee mug to avoid those knowing eyes. “My retirement is a long way off. Plenty of time to figure my life out.”

“Or plenty of time to keep running.” Mimi’s voice held no judgment, just that quiet wisdom that had guided me through more than one crisis growing up. The same tone she’d used when I’d crashed my first car, when I’d bombed my AP chemistry final, when I’d told them I was enlisting.

I stood and pulled her into a hug, pressing a kiss to the top of her head, breathing in the faint scent of turpentine and clay that always clung to her clothes from her studio. “I love you, Mimi. But please stop meddling.”

“Love you too, baby. So, of course, I won’t.” She squeezed tight, her slight frame somehow managing to envelop me the way she had since I was a kid, even though I towered over her now. “Just remember—sometimes the right words aren’t nearly as important as just showing up and being present.”

My presence was exactly the thing I hadn’t been able to do a damned thing about from the moment I’d enlisted. The irony of that wasn’t lost on me. Over ten years of service to my country had cost me the one person I’d never meant to hurt. But I filed that wisdom away for some future point when maybe, just maybe, I’d find the right way to get Bree to hear my apology.

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