Chapter 5 Salt and Second chances

The week after the bonfire feels off, like the air itself is holding its breath.

Everywhere I go, something reminds me of them

-Noah's quiet steadiness or Eli's easy laugh-and the sea keeps tugging at both names.

Bellharbor's yearly summer festival is almost here, and the town hums with it. Strings of lights hang over Main Street, and the smell of salt taffy and grilled corn drift from the boardwalk. I tell myself I'll stay busy, stay neutral, stay fine.

But it seems fate doesn't listen.

That morning I'm sweeping sand from the porch when I hear tires crunch on gravel. A familiar blue pickup pulls up by the gate. Noah steps out, wet hair, toolbox in hand.

"You still haven't fixed that loose shutter," he says with a half-smile. "I could hear it banging last night from the docks."

I laugh softly. "I didn't know sound could travel that far."

"Some things do."

He says it easily, but it lands heavy.

He goes up the steps, slips past me, and starts tightening the rusty hinge. The smell of sawdust

and sea air fills the space between us. I try not to notice how natural it feels to have him here, sleeves rolled up, focus steady.

"You didn't have to come,

" I say.

"I know."

He looks at me, sun flashing in his eyes. "But you used to hate the noise. Said it made the house feel lonely."

The memory hits before I can stop it: me at sixteen, on that same porch, whining about the wind. Him promising to fix it "next summer." Next summer turned into four years.

When he's done, he wipes his hands on a rag and leans on the railing. "There. Quiet again."

"Thanks"" | whisper.

He nods, then looks toward the horizon. "Are you going to the festival tonight?"

"I wasn't planning to."

"You should," he says. "It still has the best view of fireworks on the coast."

Before I can answer, his phone buzzes. He checks the screen, frowns, then pockets it.

"I'll see you around, Ella."

And just like that, he's gone-leaving the porch

neat, the shutter quiet, and my heart racing.

By late afternoon the town shines with color.

Stalls line the beach road, kids zip by with melting popsicles, and music fills the air. I tell myself I'm just passing through, not staying.

But then a voice rises above the noise:

"There you are, sketchbook girl."

Eli.

He runs a booth full of surf gear and handmade jewelry, sun-bleached hair, a shirt opened enough to look casual. He waves me over.

"Thought you disappeared," he says. "You owe me a test of that bracelet's luck."

"Still wearing it," I reply, showing my wrist.

"Then it works."

He grins, handing me a cup of shaved ice. "On the house."

I take it, smiling despite myself. "Bribery?"

"Hospitality."

His eyes soften. "Stay a while?"

So I do.

We wander between stalls, trying everything

salted caramel fudge, tried dough, lemonade that turns our tongues blue. Eli knows everyone, tossing jokes like seashells, and every laugh he earns makes the night feel lighter.

When a band starts near the pier, he takes my hand. "Come on."

"Eli, I don't dance."

"Everyone dances here."

Before I can protest, he twirls me under the string lights. The boards creak, the crowd sways, and for the first time all summer, I don't think about anything heavy. Just the rhythm, the air, the warmth of his fingers on mine.

He leans close, voice low so only I hear. "See?

Not so hard to breathe."

I open my mouth to answer, but a flash of blue in the crowd stops me-Noah, near the edge of the pier, watching. Not angry. Just there.

Eli follows my gaze. "That's him, isn't it?"

I don't answer.

He nods slowly, then releases my hand, letting the music fill the space between us.

"Go talk to him," he says softly. "You'll hate yourself if you don't."

But when I turn back, Noah's already walking away into the dark curve of the shoreline.

The music fades as I walk along the curve of the shore. All the laughter, fireworks, and racket vanish, leaving only the sea and the quiet sound of waves brushing the sand.

Noah's silhouette stands out, his shoulders to the wind and his hands tucked in his pockets.

The moon makes his outline glow silver.

"You've always been awful at sneaking away," I say softly.

He turns, a half-smile shadowing his face. "And you were never good at letting go."

We're a few steps apart, the tide creeping closer.

"Eli's a good guy," he says after a moment. "He makes you laugh."

"You sound surprised."

"Maybe I am." He looks down, kicks at the wet sand. "I forgot what your laugh sounded like."

The blunt honesty stings in a way that's both good and bad. I step nearer, arms folded. "Why did you watch us like that?"

"Because I wanted to remember what it felt like before I ruined it," he says plainly. "Before I let everything slip through my fingers."

"You didn't ruin everything," | tell him.

"I did enough." He glances up. "When my mom

died, I stopped believing in anything soft. I thought pushing people away meant I wouldn't lose them."

The waves rise, foaming at our feet. I don't know what to say, so I just listen.

"I kept thinking I'd come back when I was better," he goes on. "When I was someone you could love without getting hurt. But I don't know if that person exists."

I swallow hard. "You don't have to be better, Noah. You just have to be here."

He laughs once-raw and quiet-and shakes his head. "You make it sound easy."

"It isn't," | admit. "But nothing real ever is."

The silence feels alive. The sea, the sky, and the thump in my throat seem to blend.

He reaches out and brushes a strand of hair from my face. "I never stopped loving you, Emmanuella. Even when I tried to tell myself I had."

My breath catches. The world narrows to the warmth of his hand and the roar of the tide.

I should step back. I don't.

I whisper, "You left, Noah. You can't just come

back and act like that's simple."

"I'm not saying it's simple," he says. "I'm saying it's true."

Words hang between us, heavy as salt in the air.

Behind the dunes, fireworks bloom-gold, red, white-and their reflections scatter across the water. For a moment it looks like the whole sky is on fire.

Noah studies me, colors flashing in his eyes. "Tell me you feel nothing and I'll walk away."

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

Because I can't.

He nods, as if he expected that. "Then I guess I'll stay a little longer."

He begins walking back toward town, leaving me with the echo of his words and the roar of the ocean.

When I finally reach the boardwalk again, the festival is nearly done. Lanterns sway in the breeze, smoke drifts from the last of the fireworks.

Eli is packing up his booth. He looks up and smiles softly, knowingly.

"Hey"" he says. "You found him."

"Yeah."

He studies my face, kind eyes. "And?"

"I don't know yet," I say honestly. "But I think something's changing."

Eli nods, shoulders easing. "Then let it happen.

The tide always does."

He says good night with a steady touch on my shoulder-calm and warm-and goes down the street.

I stand there until the lights go out, the sea still whispering behind me.

That night, in bed, I can still hear both voices-Noah's confession, heavy with memory.

Eli's quiet patience, light as salt spray.

Two kinds of love.

Two ways of being seen.

Somewhere between them, me-learning that maybe love isn't about choosing one tide over the other, but about standing in the water without losing.