Page 2 of Better than Yesterday
And I let her go. It was the right thing to do. She was meant for bigger things than a small-town boy trying to outrun his fear of not being enough. Hell, I’d even believed it.
But as I stood in my office with the sounds of the life I’d created humming through the wall, the defensive narrative I’d so carefully built was dangerously fragile.
I left the office and its memories behind, stepping back into the vibrant energy of the bar. The night was winding down, the boisterous peak giving way to a more contented buzz. My gaze swept the room and landed on Eli, holding court at the end of the bar with a couple of tourists who were hanging on his every word about a near-miss with a bull shark. Classic Eli. He ran the resort dive shop and was our best and only scuba instructor. Despite being aneternal smartass, there was no one I’d trust more with my life underwater.
He saw me, excused himself from his audience, and made his way over, snagging a clean glass as he came. “There he is. The man of the hour.”
I smirked. “What’d I do now?”
“Nothing, as usual, you lazy bastard.” Grinning, he hopped onto a stool. He flashed a grin that mirrored my own, framed by messy blonde hair that was a few shades lighter than mine. We even had similar blue eyes, though I liked to tell myself mine were the brighter, smarter pair. “I, on the other hand, just locked in the final details for that big Scripps marine biology project. We’re providing full dive support for their team for the next three months. It’s a huge boost for the shop.”
He paused, his expression turning serious. “Listen, most of their survey work is early mornings. I’m going to be stretched thin. I could really use a hand running backup. You know the outer reefs as well as I do.”
The name Scripps landed like a stone, sinking through the easy surface of the night. The memory from the bonfire rushed in again. My posture tightened. “Scripps? Shit. You told me at the bonfire you thought you saw Tessa Donovan.”
Eli waved a dismissive hand, laughing it off as he poured himself a taste of the new Kölsch. “Nah, man. I was three beers in. I’m sure you’re right. It was just some redheaded tourist who looked like her. Besides, I’ve been on the phone with their project manager for a month. It’s Dr. Albright, who I guess is basically the king of coral ecology, and his two grad students. That’s the team.” He leaned forward, his voice dropping slightly, sympathy softening his eyes. “No haunting flames from your past in sight, don’t worry.”
The certainty in his voice was reassuring. It wasn’t her. Of course it wasn’t. My shoulders relaxed a fraction, and a breath escaped in a slow, quiet hiss. The idea of getting back on the water, of feeling the sun and salt on my skin in the early mornings, pulled at me. Diving again would be even better. It was a part of myself I’d neglected in the whirlwind of operating the brewpub.
“All right,” I said, my voice steady again. “I’m in. I can do a couple of days a week.”
“Knew I could count on you.” Eli beamed and clapped me on the shoulder. He finished his beer, slid off the stool, and headed for the door. “I’ll text you the details. Don’t let the tourists drink you dry!”
With a final wave, he was gone, leaving me with the familiar sounds of the bar and a sense of relief. The memories had been banished. My eyes scanned the room again, landing on a back booth tucked away in the quietest corner. Ben sat surrounded by a fortress of textbooks and highlighted notes.
The contrast was stark. Out here, people were laughing, forgetting their week. In that booth, Ben was building his future one dense paragraph at a time. A small lamp I’d installed for him cast a focused pool of light on his textbook, leaving his face in shadow. The familiar urge to look out for him surfaced.
I pulled a clean mug from the rack, went to the coffee station, and poured a fresh cup. Carrying it carefully, I navigated the tables and slid into the booth opposite him. He never drank booze while studying. I pushed the steaming mug across the worn surface of the table until it rested beside his elbow.
He looked up, his green eyes blinking slowly as they adjusted from the bright page. A tired smile touched his lips. “Thanks, brother.”
“How’s it going, future hero?” I settled back against the leather upholstery. “Saving the world one textbook at a time?”
Ben scrubbed a hand through his short brown hair and took a swallow of coffee. He rubbed the back of his neck with a wince. “This section on pharmacology could be used as a torture device.”
“You’ve got this.”
My response wasn’t a platitude. It was a fact. Ben was the most determined person I knew. When he’d flamed out in his early twenties after Dad left us, becoming the bad boy of Dove Key, we’d all worried. It took a decade, but he found his calling in the fire department as an EMT. Now he was doubling down by working toward full paramedic. He was rebuilding himself into someone he could be proud of, and I endlessly admired him for it.
“I just keep thinking about the final exam,” he admitted, tapping the intimidating stack of books. “It’s one thing to know it in here. It’s another to know it when someone’s life is on the line.”
“You’ve got this,” I repeated, my conviction seeping into my voice. “You’re the guy who runs into burning buildings, Ben. A test isn’t going to stop you.”
He shot me a grateful look. We sat in comfortable silence, him sipping his coffee, me watching the Friday night crowd thin out. These quiet pockets of connection anchored the Coleridge siblings when the rest of the world tried to pull us apart.
Hours later, I locked the doors behind the last staff member and walked out into the humid Florida night. The streets of Dove Key were peaceful, sleeping under the soft glow of ornamental streetlights. The air carried the scent of salt from the marina and the heavy perfume offlowering baskets. My footsteps were the only sound, a steady rhythm on the pavement as I made my way home.
My place was a modest two-bedroom cottage a few blocks from the resort, painted a muted gray with crisp white trim and a dark blue door. Inside, the cool air was still. I flipped on a switch, and the living room was bathed in soft light. Polished hardwood floors gleamed. Two comfortable leather armchairs sat at right angles to the sofa. On the shelves, my books were aligned by height, their spines forming a neat, unbroken line. The kitchen, visible through the doorway, was spotless, its stainless-steel surfaces reflecting the dim light.
This was my ritual. My decompression. I went to the small kegerator in my kitchen and pulled the tap, filling a chilled pint glass with my award-winning Tidal Hops IPA. With a few taps on my phone, the iconic opening guitar riff of Tom Petty’s “Free Fallin’” filled the quiet house, the sound rich and full from the surround sound system.
Beer in hand, I settled into my chair by the front window and looked out at the empty street. This was contentment, the satisfying hum of a life running smoothly. Not loneliness—it was peace. The reward for hard work, a life built on my own terms and beholden to no one.
I took a long, slow sip of my beer, letting the crisp flavor wash over my tongue. The music swelled in familiar comfort.
Tessa.
Her name flickered through my mind, a rogue spark in my carefully controlled environment. A flash of dark-red hair, the way her green eyes used to light up when she was excited about some new species of fish she’d never seen before.
