Page 91 of Island Girl

“Maybe.” He didn't sound convinced, but he didn't dismiss it either. “Your music does something to me. I don't know how to explain it. When you play, I feel things I've been trying not to feel for a long time. It's painful. But it's also…” He searched for the word. “Necessary. Like lancing a wound.”

“I don't know if that's a compliment or not.”

“It's the highest compliment I know how to give.” He finished his Coke and set the glass down. “I should go. It's late.”

“You're coming back? Tomorrow?”

“Yeah. I think so.” He stood up, reaching for his wallet.

“It's on the house,” Merritt said. “The Coke.”

“Then put it toward someone else's tab. Someone who needs it more than me.”

He walked to the door, then stopped and turned back.

“Thank you,” he said. “For not being angry at me. Even when I gave you every reason to.”

“That's what this place does. That's what Crocker built. A place where people can fall apart and put themselves back together, one night at a time.”

Ray nodded slowly, something flickering across his face. And then he smiled again. “One night at a time. I can do that.”

Then he was gone, the door swinging shut behind him, leaving Merritt alone in the quiet bar.

She picked up his empty glass and washed it, her mind turning over everything he'd said. He'd ordered a Coke. Not Jameson. A Coke.

It was a small thing. A tiny shift. But sometimes that's how healing started. Not with grand gestures or dramatic transformations,but with small choices, made one at a time, adding up to something bigger than any single moment.

The door to the back opened and Justin came out, a clipboard in his hand. He looked around the empty bar, then at Merritt.

“Was that Ray?”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

“He apologized. Ordered a Coke. Said he's considering getting help.” She dried her hands on a towel. “I think he might actually be okay. Eventually.”

Justin set down the clipboard and came to stand beside her. “That's good. That's really good.”

“It is.”

They stood there together, side by side, not touching, not needing to. Friends. Just friends.

But even friends could share a moment of hope. And right now, that was exactly what they needed.

CHAPTER 29

Aweek passed, and the world kept turning.

Ray came into Shorebirds every night, just like before. But everything else had changed. He didn't sit in his corner anymore. He sat at the bar, on the same stool he'd chosen that first night back, and he ordered a Coke and a cheeseburger instead of a glass of whiskey he'd never touch.

The first time he'd done it, Merritt had nearly dropped the glass she was holding. The second time, she'd smiled. By the end of the week, it had become routine. Ray at the bar. Coke and a cheeseburger. Sometimes fries on the side.

He didn't talk much, but that was okay. He was there. He was eating. He was present in a way he hadn't been before, his eyes tracking the room instead of staring at some fixed point in the distance.

Paula had told Merritt, quietly, one afternoon when Ray wasn't around, that he'd started going to the VA. He drove the thirty-three miles to the Lee County VA and sat in a room with other veterans talking about the things he'd been carrying for sixteen years. He didn't share details, and Paula didn't ask for them. It was enough to know he was trying.

“He's different,” Paula had said, her voice careful, like she was afraid to jinx it. “Not fixed. Not even close. But different. Like something that was locked up tight has started to loosen.”