Thomas

The highway curves around the final bend, and Harbour Point unfolds before me like a forgotten photograph. The water glitters beneath the late summer afternoon sun, the same impossible blue I’ve described in a dozen fictional worlds but never quite captured.

My hands tighten around the steering wheel. Fifteen years since I left, swearing I’d never look back.

I slow as the “Welcome to Harbour Point” sign appears—freshly painted but the same weathered driftwood frame. Population four thousand nine hundred and eighty-two. Down three hundred from when I left. The familiarity hits like an undertow, pulling at something I’ve kept submerged for years.

“You’re just here to write,” I remind myself, voice hollow in the rental car’s interior. Eight weeks to finish Captain Elian’s fifth adventure or face my editor’s wrath and my own failure. Eight weeks in the town I fled, where memories wait around every corner.

Main Street has changed, yet somehow hasn’t. The hardware store where my father bought fishing tackle is now a boutique selling coastal-themed home goods. The diner remains, though its faded blue awning has been replaced with a sleek black one. New businesses with trendy logos occupy old storefronts, but the bones of the place—the narrow streets, the view of the Harbour, the salt-weathered charm—remain stubbornly intact.

I pass Whitman High School, and my throat tightens. The football field where I never belonged. The science lab where I excelled. The library with the hidden corner where Oliver and I…

My mind skitters away from the memory like a startled crab.

“You’re really leaving?” Oliver’s voice had cracked, his eyes fixed on the horizon rather than my face.

We sat on our beach, the hidden cove beneath the north cliffs where we’d spent countless afternoons and evenings. Where we’d first kissed twelve months earlier, terrified and exhilarated.

“Full scholarship to UCLA.” The acceptance letter had arrived that morning, making real what had only been theoretical. “It’s my chance, Ollie.”

“I know.” His fingers traced patterns in the sand between us, deliberately not touching mine. “I’m happy for you.”

The lie hung between us, as tangible as the salt spray.

“You could apply for spring admission,” I suggested, already knowing it was impossible. Oliver’s father was sick. His family needed him here. The bookstore was struggling.

“Sure.” Another lie.

I reached for his hand then, but he pulled away, standing abruptly. “We should get back before someone notices we’re gone.”

That night, alone in my bedroom, I made a promise to myself: I would never return to Harbour Point. This town was too small for what I wanted to become. Too small for what I felt for Oliver Chen.

The rental cottage appears exactly as advertised—a weathered blue clapboard perched on the bluff overlooking North Beach. My editor Vera found it, insisting isolation would help me focus. “No distractions, just you and your imagination,” she’d said, not knowing she was sending me back to the one place guaranteed to distract me.

I park and sit motionless, watching waves crash against the shore below. From here, I can see the curve of the coastline, the jutting rocks that hide the small cove where Oliver and I escaped the town’s watchful eyes. Our secret place.

My chest constricts. Is he still here? Married, probably. Kids, maybe. The thought brings a hollow ache with it that I’ve never fully extinguished.

The cottage key feels heavy in my palm as I finally exit the car. The realtor said someone would stock the kitchen basics. Six weeks of solitude stretches before me—just what I need to resurrect Captain Elian from the creative limbo where I’ve stranded her.

Inside, the cottage is all weathered wood and faded blue fabrics. Bookshelves line one wall, filled with well worn paperbacks left by previous occupants—beach reads and mysteries, their spines cracked from summer hands. The kitchen is small but updated, and beyond it, sliding glass doors open to a deck overlooking the water.

I drag my suitcase to the bedroom, unpack mechanically. Clothes in drawers. Toiletries in the bathroom. Laptop on the desk positioned to face the ocean view.

The last item in my bag is a framed review of my first novel, yellowed now. “Thomas Winters brings fresh energy to space opera with Captain Elian’s debut adventure. His authentic emotional landscape elevates what could have been standard genre fare into something truly special and memorable.”

I place it beside my laptop, then extract the folded newspaper clipping I keep inside my computer case—the review of the fourth and most recent book in the Captain Elian series. I smooth it flat, though I know the words by heart.

“Winters’ latest Elian adventure delivers the normal expected action for the series but feels increasingly hollow and shallow, as if the author has lost connection to the emotional core that made his early work resonate with the reader.”

Hollow. Shallow. The words haunt me. My editor calls weekly now, her voice tight with forced optimism. “How’s the new manuscript coming, Thomas?” The answer is always the same: slowly. Painfully. Sometimes not at all.

I open my laptop and stare at the document titled “Elian5_draft.” Thirty-eight pages of false starts and dead ends. My protagonist, once so vibrant in my mind, has become a stranger. The cursor blinks accusingly.

“What’s this one about?” Oliver had asked, lying beside me on our beach, sand sticking to his bare shoulders. He held my notebook, reading the story I’d been too nervous to show anyone else.

“Just something stupid. A space explorer who finds these ancient ruins and—”

“It’s not stupid.” His eyes, serious behind his glasses, met mine. “You made me see it, Tommy. This planet that doesn’t exist—I can see it.”

Later, I’d name my protagonist’s ship after him, a reference to the literal translation of Oliver’s name. The Horizon, sleek and faithful, carrying Captain Elian through the stars. My readers never knew the significance, but with each book, I’d imagined him somewhere reading it, recognizing the tribute.

I close the laptop. Outside, the sun sinks toward the horizon, painting the water gold. The same view that inspired my first stories, the ones I scribbled in notebooks and only showed to Oliver.

Standing, I move to the sliding door and step onto the deck. The wind carries the scent of salt and pine, so familiar my body remembers it before my conscious mind can process the sensory input. I breathe deeply, letting Harbour Point fill my lungs again.

Below, the beach stretches empty in both directions. Tourist season hasn’t started yet—another reason my agent thought this timing perfect. In the distance, I can just make out the rocks that hide our cove. Fifteen years, and I still think of it as “ours.”

I wonder if the hollow feeling the reviewer identified began the moment I drove away from this town. From him. If Captain Elian’s adventures grew emptier as I pushed the memories further down, denied the parts of myself I’d discovered here.

My phone vibrates in my pocket—my agent checking in. Again. The third time this week. I silence it without looking. Tomorrow I’ll reassure her that the change of scenery is working, that words are flowing again. Another necessary lie to keep Vera and the publisher at bay while they await the manuscript that’s now four months overdue.

The truth is, I’ve returned to Harbour Point carrying the same secret I left with: I am still in love with Oliver Chen, the boy I left behind. And I have no idea what I’ll do if I see him again.

The sunset blazes fully now, the sky a canvas of orange and pink. In my novels, Captain Elian watches alien sunsets on distant worlds, always searching for something just beyond reach. I created her, but somehow never recognized we share the same restless hunger.

Maybe the critic was right. Maybe I’ve lost connection to something essential.

I return inside as darkness falls, the cottage suddenly too quiet. On the desk, my laptop waits, the unfinished fledgling manuscript a digital ghost. I open it again, scroll to where I abandoned my heroine in mid-adventure.

The cursor flashes. Once, twice, three times.

I begin to type.

Captain Elian stood at the viewport, watching the familiar planet grow larger. Fifteen years since she’d fled, promising never to return. But some orbits, once established, prove impossible to escape.

The words seem to come easier than they have in a long time. They’re not good words, necessarily, but words nonetheless. I already know I’ll likely delete them tomorrow, but for tonight, they’re enough to break the silence.

Outside, waves crash against the shore of Harbour Point, the rhythm as familiar as my own heartbeat. I’ve come home, though I never meant to. Now I have to discover if anything remains of what I left behind.

Thomas

I wake with a jolt, lifting my face off of the hard wood tabletop, to see the cursor still blinking on my screen. The words I wrote last night swim before my bleary eyes. Captain Elian returning home—subtle, Thomas. Real subtle.

Coffee. I need coffee.

After a quick shower, I pull on jeans and a button-down, then catch myself fussing with my hair in the mirror. Ridiculous. I’m just going into town for caffeine and maybe some groceries. Not to see anyone in particular.

The lie falls flat even in my own mind.

I know exactly where I’m going. Harbour Books. The thought of seeing Oliver again after all this time sends my heart racing like I’m twenty again. Pathetic. I’m a grown man, a published author, for Christ’s sake. I’ve done book tours and television interviews. I’ve signed books for lines of people stretching out the door. I met Oprah.

So why does the thought of walking into one small-town bookstore terrify me?

I grab my keys and head out, the morning air crisp against my face. My generic rental car feels too conspicuous as I drive down Main Street, like everyone must know I’m back. The logical part of my brain knows this isn’t true—most people wouldn’t recognize me anyway—but anxiety rarely listens to logic.

When I reach Harbour Books, I drive past it twice before finding the courage to park. The storefront has changed. Gone is the faded blue paint and simple sign I remember. The building has been renovated with a modern glass facade, though the bones of the old Victorian structure remain. A new sign hangs above the door: “Harbour Books & Café” in elegant lettering. The display windows showcase colourful new releases and a chalkboard advertising today’s coffee specials.

It’s beautiful. Successful-looking. Nothing like the struggling rundown shop I remember from fifteen years ago when Oliver’s father owned it and they struggled to make ends meet.

I sit in my car, hands gripping the steering wheel. This is stupid. I’m just going in for a book to get my creative juices flowing. Maybe a coffee. Completely normal.

I finally force myself out of the car and approach the entrance. Through the windows, I can see comfortable seating areas, customers browsing shelves. It’s busy but not crowded. The perfect small-town bookstore atmosphere.

My hand hesitates on the door handle. What if he’s not even here? What if he sold the place years ago? What if—

The door opens suddenly as a woman exits, nearly colliding with me.

“Sorry!” she says, stepping aside.

“My fault,” I mumble, and before I can reconsider, I step inside.

A bell chimes softly overhead. The interior is even more impressive than the facade suggested—exposed brick walls, wooden shelves stretching to the ceiling, a small café area in one corner. The smell of books and coffee mingles in the air. Several customers browse quietly, a few seated in plush chairs with books open in their laps.

I drift toward the nearest shelf, pretending to browse while my eyes scan for Oliver. Maybe he’s not working today. Maybe—

“I’ll be right with you.”

The voice comes from behind the counter, and though it’s deeper than I remember, I’d know it anywhere. My stomach drops as a figure emerges from the back room, arms full of books.

Oliver.

He looks up, and the moment stretches between us. The books in his arms tilt dangerously as he freezes, recognition dawning on his face.

He’s different—of course he is. His jet black hair now has a hint of threads of silver at the temples. He’s filled out, no longer the lanky teenager I remember. He wears glasses with thicker frames than before, and a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up reveals forearms dusted with dark hair. He looks good, just how I imagined he would look when we were teenagers and deeply in love. A simple gold band gleams on his right hand—not his left, I notice immediately.

“Thomas?” His voice is quiet, controlled.

I manage a smile that feels stiff on my face. “Hi, Oliver.”

He sets the books down carefully, methodically, buying time. I watch his hands—still elegant, still familiar despite the years between us.

“I didn’t know you were in town.” His tone is neutral. Professional.

“Just got in yesterday. I’m renting a place out on North Beach for a few months.” I shove my hands in my pockets, unsure what to do with them. “Working on a new book.”

He nods, maintaining the counter between us like a fortress wall. “That’s… that’s great.”

A customer approaches with a question, and Oliver turns to her with visible relief etched across his face. I wander away, giving him space, pretending to be absorbed in the poetry section while my heart hammers in my chest.

The store is beautifully organized, with handwritten recommendation cards tucked into selected titles. I recognize Oliver’s handwriting on some of them—still the same neat, precise script.

When I make my way around to the science fiction section, I stop short. It’s not just any science fiction section—it’s prominent, positioned near the front of the store, with an entire display dedicated to space exploration novels. And there, facing outward on the top shelf, all four of my Captain Elian books in a row. Even the collector’s edition of the first novel with the alternative cover art.

My throat tightens. He’s read them all. He must have.

“Find something interesting?”

I turn to see Oliver standing a few feet away, hands clasped tightly behind his back. The professional bookseller stance.

“Nice selection,” I manage.

“Science fiction sells well.” His tone is matter-of-fact. “Your books especially.”

“I’m flattered.”

An awkward silence stretches between us. There’s so much I want to say, but none of it appropriate for this moment, this place, with customers browsing nearby.

“So,” I gesture around, “you run Harbour Books now?”

He nods, something like pride briefly animating his features. “My dad passed ten years ago and left the place to me. We renovated five years back.”

“It’s beautiful. You’ve done an amazing job.”

“Thank you.” He adjusts his glasses, a gesture so familiar it aches. “It’s been a labour of love.”

Another customer calls for assistance, but Oliver ignores them for a moment.

“I should probably—”

“Of course,” I say quickly. “Don’t let me keep you.”

He hesitates, then says, “We get a shipment of new releases on Thursdays if you’re looking for something to read while you’re in town.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

He turns to go, then stops. “Actually, I should warn you—my daughter works here after school. She’s a huge fan of Captain Elian. If she realizes who you are, she’ll talk your ear off about space exploration.”

The word “daughter” hits me like a physical blow. “Your daughter?”

“Lily. She’s thirteen.” His expression softens slightly. “Too smart for her own good and obsessed with your books.”

“I’d be happy to meet her,” I say automatically, mind still reeling. Daughter. Oliver has a daughter. Which means—

“You’re married?” The question slips out before I can stop it.

Something shutters in his eyes. “Yes, her name was Sarah.”

“Oh, I didn’t know,” I say, meaning it despite the shock still reverberating through me.

“No reason you would.” His tone is gentle but final. He glances toward the customer still waiting. “I should get back to work.”

“Right. Of course.”

He nods politely and walks away, leaving me standing in front of my own books, feeling like I’ve been hit by a meteor. Oliver was married. Has a daughter. Built a life here while I’ve been—what? Chasing success? Running away?

My phone vibrates in my pocket, shattering the moment. I glance at the screen and my stomach sinks. Vera. Of course she’d call now.

“I need to take this,” I mutter to no one in particular, already heading for the door.

The bell jingles as I step outside into the morning air, leaning against the brick exterior of Harbour Books.

“Vera, hi—”

“Thomas, darling, please tell me you’ve written something worth reading.” Her voice cuts through pleasantries with surgical precision. “The publisher called me this morning, and I had to pretend I knew what was happening with your manuscript.”

I run a hand through my hair, pacing a small circle on the sidewalk. “It’s going well, actually. I’ve got a solid outline and the first three chapters are practically done.”

The lie tastes bitter. I have exactly two paragraphs written, and they’re terrible.

“I call bullshit.” Vera doesn’t miss a beat. “You’ve been saying the same thing for months. What’s really happening?”

“I just needed a change of scenery. That’s why I’m here. The words are coming now, I promise.”

“Thomas.” Her voice softens slightly. “You’re not just my favourite client, you’re my friend. But I need to be clear—this isn’t a vacation. You’re six months past your deadline. The publisher is talking about activating the breach clause in your contract.”

My blood runs cold. “They wouldn’t.”

“They absolutely would. Four books is a complete series in their eyes. They’d happily slap ‘The Complete Captain Elian Saga’ on a box set and call it a day.”

I close my eyes, leaning my head back against the brick. “I just need more time.”

“You don’t have more time. You have eight weeks. That’s all I could negotiate. Eight weeks for a complete manuscript, fully edited, or they pull the plug. They’re fed up with your stalling.”

“Vera—”

“Eight weeks, Thomas. And I need something within two weeks to show them you’re actually working on it and taking this seriously. Even a chapter. Something.”

“Okay, you’ll have it,” I promise, knowing I’m digging myself deeper.

“Good. I’m always rooting for you, you know. Now go write and make me some money!” She hangs up before I can respond.

I stare at my phone, my reflection in the black screen looking pale and haunted. Eight weeks. Captain Elian deserves better than whatever rushed garbage I could produce in eight weeks.

The bell jingles again as I push back into the bookstore, searching for Oliver among the shelves. I need to finish our conversation, even if I’m not sure what to say next.

I select a random paperback from the shelf, needing something to do with my hands. Oliver helps the waiting customer, his manner professional and warm. I watch him from the corner of my eye, noting how he moves through the space he’s created, confident and at ease.

When I approach the counter to pay, it’s with the desperate hope he might suggest getting coffee, catching up properly. But he rings up my purchase efficiently, our fingers carefully avoiding contact when he hands me my change.

“Enjoy your stay in Harbour Point,” he says, the same thing he probably says to every tourist.

“Thanks.” I wait a beat too long. “The store really is wonderful, Oliver.”

Something flickers in his eyes—pain? Regret? But it’s gone before I can name it.

“Have a good day, Thomas.”

The bell chimes as I exit, the sound cheerful and oblivious to the weight in my chest. Outside, I realize I don’t even know what book I bought. I glance down at the cover—a romance novel. Of course.

I walk back to my car slowly, the invitation to catch up conspicuously absent. Not that I deserved one. What did I expect? That he’d welcome me with open arms after I left him behind? That he’d been waiting all these years?

He hasn’t been waiting. He built a life—a beautiful one from the looks of it. A marriage. A child. A successful business. While I’ve been writing about fictional adventures, Oliver has been living a real life.

I sit in my car, staring at the storefront of Harbour Books & Café. Through the window, I can see Oliver helping another customer, smiling in a way he hadn’t smiled at me.

The hollow feeling expands inside me. I start the car and drive away, the romance novel sitting accusingly on the passenger seat beside me.

Lily

I’m shelving the new shipment of fantasy novels when I overhear two women talking by the science fiction section. Their voices carry across the store even though they’re trying to whisper.

“I swear it was him. Thomas Winters, in the flesh, buying coffee at The Daily Grind.”

“No way. What would he be doing in Harbour Point?”

“Writing, probably. My cousin works at the rental agency and said someone famous took the North Beach cottage for the summer.”

I freeze, a hardcover halfway to the shelf. Thomas Winters? The Thomas Winters? Author of the Captain Elian space adventures and basically the reason I survived middle school?

“I heard he’s working on the fifth book,” the first woman continues. “About time. It’s been what, three years since the last one?”

“Four. And that ending! I need to know if Captain Elian survives the wormhole.”

I slide the book into place and casually drift closer, pretending to straighten the nearby display.

“Did you talk to him?” the second woman asks.

“Are you kidding? I froze. Just stared like a bumbling idiot until he left.”

Dad emerges from the stockroom with another box of books. He sets it down near me and gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze.

“Almost done, Lily? We can grab lunch after this shipment’s shelved.”

“Sure, Dad.” I wait until he returns to the back before abandoning all pretense of work and moving directly to the women. “Excuse me, did you say Thomas Winters is in town?”

They exchange glances, and the taller one nods. “Saw him myself this morning.”

“Do you know where he’s staying?”

“Lily.” Dad’s stern voice comes from behind me, startling all three of us. “Let’s not pester our customers.”

The women assure him it’s fine, but Dad gives me that look—the one that says we’ll talk later—before returning to inventory.

“Sorry,” I tell them. “I’m just a huge fan.”

“North Beach cottages,” the shorter woman whispers. “The blue one with the white trim.”

I thank them and return to shelving, my mind racing with possibilities.

As soon as Dad disappears into his office for his afternoon accounting, I slip behind the checkout counter and grab my laptop. Thomas Winters in Harbour Point? This requires immediate investigation.

I pull up his official author website first. The “About” page has the basics—bestselling science fiction author, winner of the Nebula Award for his second Captain Elian novel, currently working on book five in the series. There’s a professional photo of him looking constipated in a black turtleneck.

The tour schedule shows nothing for Harbour Point. In fact, there are no appearances scheduled at all for the next six months. Interesting.

I switch to social media and scroll through his sparse posts. Nothing about Harbour Point, but three days ago he posted a photo of a sunset over water with the caption: “New view, same stars. #writinglife”

Could that be our beach?

I dive deeper, searching “Thomas Winters Harbour Point” and click through several pages of results. A local newspaper article from fifteen years ago catches my eye: “Local Student Wins National Young Writers Award.” The grainy photo shows a much younger Thomas accepting a trophy.

Wait. He’s from here?

More searches lead me to his high school graduation announcement in the Harbour Point Gazette. Thomas Winters, valedictorian, heading to UCLA on a creative writing scholarship.

I lean back in the chair, processing this information. My favorite author grew up in my hometown, and now he’s back. And Dad never mentioned knowing him, even though they must have been in high school around the same time.

Dad has always prominently displayed Thomas’s novels in the bookstore. I assumed it was because they sell well, but now I wonder if there’s more to it.

I check the time—3:15. Dad won’t need me until closing at six. Plenty of time for a little expedition.

The walk to North Beach takes twenty minutes from downtown. I clutch my well-worn copy of “Captain Elian and the Rings of Persea” against my chest, its cover creased from countless readings. The book falls open naturally to my favourite passage, where Elian discovers the ancient star maps hidden within the rings.

The cottages appear ahead, a neat row of colourful buildings facing the water. The blue one with white trim sits at the far end, slightly separated from the others. A silver rental car is parked in the driveway.

My heart pounds as I approach the door. What if he’s not home? What if he is home but doesn’t want to be bothered? What if he’s nothing like I imagined?

Too late to turn back now. I knock before I can change my mind.

Footsteps approach, and the door swings open. Thomas Winters stands before me, looking different from his author photo. He’s taller than I expected, with dark-rimmed glasses and hair that’s slightly dishevelled. He wears a faded t-shirt with “Whitman High Debate Team” printed across the front.

His eyebrows lift in surprise. “Hello?”

“Hi. I’m Lily.” I thrust my book forward. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I heard you were in town, and I’m your biggest fan, and I was wondering if you might sign my book?”

The words tumble out in a rush. I take a deep breath and try again. “I’m Lily. I love your books.”

His expression softens from confusion to amusement. “Well, Lily, it’s nice to meet you. How did you find me?”

“Research. And eavesdropping, if I’m being honest.”

He laughs—a genuine laugh that crinkles the corners of his eyes—and steps back from the doorway. “You’d better come in, then. Any fan dedicated enough to track me down deserves at least a signature.”

The cottage interior is simple but cozy, with large windows overlooking the beach. What captures my attention, though, is the workspace set up in the corner—a laptop surrounded by stacks of notes, reference books, and hand-drawn star charts.

“You’re working on book five,” I excitedly blurt out.

He follows my gaze to the desk and sighs. “Trying to, anyway.”

“Does Captain Elian escape the Cygnus Void? Because that ending was cruel, leaving readers hanging like that.”

“You’ve read all four books?” He sounds genuinely surprised.

“Multiple times. I’ve also written three fan theories about how the quantum displacement might interact with the Persean technology to create a stable wormhole exit.”

He stares at me for a long moment. “How old are you again?”

“Thirteen.”

“And you understand quantum displacement theory?”

I shrug. “The basics. I’ve been reading about theoretical physics since I was ten.”

He gestures to the couch. “Please, sit. I’d love to hear these theories.”

I perch on the edge of the cushion, suddenly nervous now that he’s taking me seriously. “Well, in book three, you established that Persean technology responds to thought patterns, right? And in book four, when Captain Elian entered the void, her consciousness began separating from her physical form.”

Thomas sits across from me, nodding slowly.

“So my theory is that her fragmented consciousness could act as multiple anchor points across dimensions, creating a network that stabilizes the wormhole from collapse.” I pause, watching his face. “Am I close?”

His mouth drops open slightly. “That’s… remarkably insightful.”

I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face. “Really? Because I have more ideas about how the Ring Keepers might be involved.”

“I’d love to hear them.” He leans forward, genuinely interested. “But first, let me sign your book.”

As he writes in my copy, I notice his handwriting—neat but with flourishes on certain letters. He hands it back with a smile.

“Thank you.” I open to the inscription: “To Lily—the brightest star in the Harbour Point sky. Keep theorizing. —Thomas Winters”

“Now,” he says, “tell me more about these Ring Keepers.”

I launch into my theory, gesturing with my hands the way I do when excited. “The Ring Keepers were introduced as antagonists, but their motivation has always been preservation, not destruction. What if they recognized the danger of the void before anyone else? What if they’ve been trying to prevent catastrophic dimensional collapse all along?”

Thomas watches me with an intensity that would be unnerving if it weren’t so validating. When I pause for breath, he says, “You remind me of someone.”

“Who?”

He shakes his head slightly. “Just… someone I used to know. You have the same way of talking with your whole body when you’re passionate about something.”

I tilt my head, studying him. “You mean my dad?”

His expression freezes. “Your dad?”

“Oliver Chen. He owns Harbour Books.”

Thomas sits very still. “Oliver is your father?”

“Yeah. Did you know him?”

“We went to high school together.” His voice sounds careful, measured. “He mentioned he had a daughter when I saw him the other day at the bookstore.”

“He doesn’t talk much about the past.” I trace the embossed lettering on my book cover. “Especially not since Mom died.”

The room grows quiet. I didn’t mean to mention Mom—it just slipped out.

“I’m sorry,” Thomas says softly. “When did she pass?”

“Three years ago. Cancer.” I don’t elaborate. I’ve learned that adults get uncomfortable when I talk about Mom’s death matter-of-factly, but that’s just how I’ve learned to process it. “Dad took it hard. He tries to hide it, but I can tell.”

Thomas nods, his eyes reflecting a sadness that seems deeper than just sympathy for a stranger. “Grief changes people.”

“Did you know my mom too? Sarah Chen?”

“No, I… I left Harbour Point right after graduation. I didn’t keep in touch with many people from here.”

Something in his tone makes me wonder if there’s more to the story, but I don’t push. Instead, I redirect to safer territory.

“Can I ask about the Stellar Concordance? In book two, you mentioned seventeen member species, but you’ve only described twelve so far.”

Thomas smiles, clearly relieved by the change of subject. “Very observant. The others will appear in future books.”

“Including book five?”

He nods, leaning back in his chair. “You know, most readers don’t catch those details.”

“I make charts. And maps. I’ve been trying to recreate the Elian universe based on the star coordinates you include in the chapter headings.”

His eyebrows rise. “You decoded those? They’re actual astronomical coordinates.”

“I know! That’s how I figured out the Persean homeworld is in the Pleiades cluster.”

Thomas laughs, shaking his head in amazement. “You’re extraordinary, Lily Chen.”

The way he says my full name makes me pause. There’s something in his voice—a kind of wistfulness that doesn’t make sense for someone who’s just met me.

“How long will you be in Harbour Point?” I ask.

“The summer, at least. Until I finish this book.”

I gather my courage. “Would it be okay if I came back sometime? I have more theories, and questions about the xenolinguistics in chapter seven of the third book.”

He smiles, and it reaches his eyes. “I’d like that. But maybe check with your father first? I don’t want him to worry about where you’re going.”

“Sure.” I clutch my signed book to my chest. “Thank you for talking with me. Most adults don’t take me seriously when I get into the serious science stuff.”

“Their loss.” He stands as I do. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Lily.”

At the door, I turn back. “Mr. Winters?”

“Thomas, please.”

“Thomas. The character of Captain Elian—she never gives up, even when everything seems impossible. That helped me a lot, after Mom died.”

His expression softens. “I’m glad.”

“I think…” I hesitate, then decide to be brave like Captain Elian. “I think Dad could use some of that never-give-up spirit too. He pretends he’s fine, but he’s lonely.”

Thomas’s face does something complicated—a mix of emotions I can’t quite read. “Sometimes people need time to find their way back to themselves.”

“Maybe. Or maybe they just need someone to show them the way.” I smile. “See you around, Thomas.”

As I walk away from the cottage, I can’t help feeling like I’ve stumbled onto something important—a connection between my favourite author and my dad that neither of them has told me about. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned from Captain Elian, it’s that unexplored connections always lead to the most interesting discoveries.

Thomas

I stare at the blank document on my laptop screen, the cursor accusingly blinking. Three hours, and I’ve written exactly seventeen words—all of which I’ve deleted and rewritten at least a dozen times.

“Captain Elian gazed at the twin moons of Altara Prime, knowing the galactic rebellion had begun.”

It’s not terrible. But it’s not right either. Nothing about this book feels right. I push back from the desk and pace across the cottage’s worn wooden floors. The windows frame a perfect view of the ocean, waves crashing against the shore in rhythmic certainty—unlike the chaotic mess inside my head.

I sit back down, fingers hovering over the keyboard. The words should come. They always have before. Four bestsellers, and now… nothing.

I type: “Oliver.”

I stare at the name on the screen. Delete it. Type it again.

“Oliver Chen stands behind the counter of Harbour Books, his fingers tracing the spine of a novel he’s read three times but still finds something new in.”

The words flow suddenly, unexpectedly. This isn’t Captain Elian exploring the outer reaches of the galaxy. This is something else entirely.

“His eyes—those deep brown eyes that seem to hold entire universes—scan the store with quiet pride. The reading nook in the corner where children gather for story time. The carefully curated staff picks display. The small café where locals linger over coffee and conversation. All of it bearing his imprint, his vision.”

My fingers fly across the keyboard now, no hesitation.

“When he smiles—rare but worth waiting for—it transforms his face. The serious bookstore owner momentarily replaced by the boy who once pointed at constellations and dreamed of impossibilities. The boy who believed in me before I believed in myself.”

I stop typing, my breath catching. This isn’t my manuscript. This is… something else. Something dangerous. Something true.

I save the file without thinking, naming it “Oliver.docx” and close my laptop. The cottage suddenly feels too small, the walls closing in with memories I’ve done my best to keep locked away for fifteen years.

The first time I truly saw Oliver Chen, I was hiding.

It was a Friday night in October of my sophomore year. I’d discovered that Mr. Chen, the owner of Harbour Books, sometimes left the back door unlocked when he took out the evening trash. I’d never stolen anything—would never have considered it—but I’d discovered something far more valuable than merchandise: a safe place.

Home wasn’t safe, not with my father’s unpredictable moods and heavy hands. The school library closed at four, the town library at six. But Harbour Books had a science fiction section tucked into the back corner, partially hidden by a tall bookshelf, with a worn armchair that nobody seemed to use.

I’d slip in after closing, find my hidden corner, and read by the dim security light until Mr. Chen arrived to open the next morning. Then I’d pretend I’d just come in early, buy a cheap paperback with whatever money I’d managed to scrimp and save, and leave before he could start asking questions.

That particular Friday, I’d brought my notebook. I wasn’t just reading science fiction anymore—I was writing it. Terrible, derivative stories about space explorers and alien worlds, but they were mine. My escape from reality.

I didn’t hear him approach. One moment I was alone in my corner, scribbling furiously about Captain Elian’s first encounter with the crystalline beings of Proxima Centauri, and the next—

“We’re closed.”

I jumped, my notebook falling to the floor. Standing before me was a boy about my age, with dark hair that fell across his forehead and serious eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses.

“I—I’m sorry,” I stammered, scrambling to gather my things. “I didn’t—I’ll go—”

“You’re Thomas Winters.” Not a question. “We have English together. Mrs. Patterson’s class.”

I paused, finally looking at him properly. Oliver Chen. Quiet, smart Oliver who sat two rows ahead of me, who always had the right answer but never volunteered it unless called upon.

“Yeah,” I managed. “You’re Oliver.”

He nodded, then glanced at my fallen notebook, pages splayed open. Before I could stop him, he bent down and picked it up, eyes scanning the page.

My face burned with shame. No one had ever read my stories. No one.

“Is this yours?” he asked, still looking at the page.

I nodded, unable to speak, waiting for the mockery. The laughter. The inevitable judgment.

“This is good,” he said quietly.

I blinked, certain I’d misheard. “What?”

“This description of the crystalline beings. How they refract light differently based on their emotions.” He looked up at me, those serious eyes suddenly alive with interest. “I’ve never thought about aliens communicating that way before.”

The tension in my shoulders eased slightly. “You… like science fiction?”

A small smile—the first I’d ever seen from him. “My dad owns a bookstore. I like everything, even the romance dad says I’m too young to read.”

He handed the notebook back to me, then glanced around as if suddenly remembering where we were. “How did you get in here? We closed two hours ago.”

The shame returned, hot and heavy in my chest. “The back door was unlocked. I’m sorry. I wasn’t stealing anything, I swear. I just… needed somewhere to go.”

Something in his expression shifted, understanding replacing suspicion. “You come here a lot after hours, don’t you? Dad thought he was going crazy, finding books moved around in the morning.”

I looked at the floor. “I always put them back exactly where I found them.”

“Except for that copy of Dune that ended up in the Romance section last month.”

I winced. “That was an accident. It was dark.”

To my surprise, Oliver laughed. Not mockingly—a genuine laugh that transformed his serious face into something beautiful. “Come on,” he said, gesturing for me to follow him.

I hesitated, clutching my notebook to my chest. “Am I in trouble?”

He shook his head. “No. But if you’re going to keep breaking in, you should at least have better light to read by.”

I followed him through the darkened store, past shelves of books that loomed like friendly giants in the dim light. He led me to a door marked “Staff Only” and opened it, revealing a small room with a desk, a mini-fridge, and a comfortable-looking couch beneath a window.

“Dad’s office,” Oliver explained. “He won’t be back until morning. You can stay here if you want. The light’s better, and there’s sodas in the fridge.”

I stood frozen in the doorway, unable to comprehend this unexpected kindness. “Why would you… I mean, you don’t even know me.”

Oliver shrugged, suddenly looking embarrassed. “I know what it’s like to need a safe place.” He gestured to my notebook. “And I want to know what happens next. With the crystalline beings.”

Something warm unfurled in my chest, something I didn’t have a name for yet. “You really want to read my story?”

He nodded, that small smile returning. “Only if you want to share it.”

I hesitated only briefly before handing him the notebook. “It’s not finished.”

“The best stories never really are,” he said, settling onto the couch and opening to the first page.

I stood awkwardly for a moment before joining him, leaving careful space between us. As he read, I watched his face, the way his expressions changed, the small nods of appreciation, the raised eyebrows at plot twists. No one had ever looked at my words that way before.

When he finished the available pages, he looked up at me with those serious, wonderful eyes. “You’re really good. Like, really good.”

“You’re just being nice.”

He shook his head firmly. “I read everything, remember? I know good writing when I see it.” He handed the notebook back. “You should finish it.”

“I will,” I promised. “I have ideas for where it goes next.”

Oliver leaned back against the couch cushions, looking at me with curiosity. “How did you get interested in space stuff?”

I shrugged. “I’ve always liked looking at the stars. They make me feel…” I trailed off, embarrassed to admit the truth.

“Less alone?” he suggested quietly.

I looked at him, startled by his perception. “Yeah. Exactly. Like, there’s so much out there, so many possibilities. It can’t all be… like here.”

“What’s wrong with here?” he asked, but his tone suggested he already knew the answer.

I stared at my hands. “My dad drinks. A lot. And when he drinks, he gets… mean.”

Oliver was quiet for a moment. “My mom left when I was eight. Just… disappeared. Dad doesn’t talk about it, but I think she couldn’t handle having a family. Having me.”

The confession hung between us, a shared vulnerability that felt both terrifying and exhilarating.

“That’s why I like the stars too,” Oliver continued, moving to the window and looking up at the night sky. “All those possibilities. All those other worlds where things might be different.”

I joined him at the window, our shoulders almost touching. “Do you ever wish you could just… go? Leave everything behind and start over somewhere else?”

“All the time,” he admitted. “But then I think about my dad, working so hard to keep this place going, to give me a good life. And I think maybe… maybe this is where I’m supposed to be. For now.”

I looked at his profile, illuminated by moonlight streaming through the window. The straight nose, the serious mouth that occasionally yielded the most wonderful smile, the eyes that seemed to see right through me.

“Maybe some people are like stars,” I said without thinking. “They’re exactly where they’re supposed to be, creating constellations with the people around them.”

Oliver turned to me, our faces suddenly close. “And what about you, Thomas Winters? Are you where you’re supposed to be?”

In that moment, standing in the back office of Harbour Books with this boy I barely knew but somehow understood me, I felt something click into place. A recognition. A possibility.

“Right now?” I whispered. “Yeah. I think I am.”

His smile then—shy but real—outshone every star in the sky.

The memory fades, leaving me standing at the cottage window, staring at the same stars we once named together. Fifteen years later, and I can still feel the electricity of that first real conversation, the moment when my lonely universe suddenly expanded to include another person.

I return to my laptop and open the document I’d started. “Oliver.docx” glows on the screen, a digital confession of feelings I’ve never fully put into words.

My editor wants the next Captain Elian adventure. The fans are waiting for their hero to continue exploring the galaxy.

But the story that’s burning to be told isn’t about distant planets or alien civilizations. It’s about a boy who found another boy hiding in a bookstore after hours. About stars and possibilities. About roads not taken and words left unsaid.

I begin to type again, the words flowing like they haven’t in months. Not my contracted manuscript, not the story I’m supposed to be writing.

But maybe—just maybe—the story I need to tell.

Oliver

The house settles into silence after Lily goes to bed. Her footsteps pad down the hallway, followed by the click of her bedroom door. I listen for a moment longer, making sure she’s actually turning in rather than sneaking onto her e-reader to read under the covers.

No light spills from beneath her door. Good. She needs her sleep.

I pour myself a finger of whisky—the bottle Sarah’s brother gave me last Christmas that I rarely touch—and wander into my study. The small room tucked behind the kitchen holds most of my personal books, the ones I don’t keep downstairs in the store. A half-moon spills silver light through the window, illuminating the shelves that line three walls from floor to ceiling.

The whisky burns pleasantly as I sink into my leather chair, the one indulgence I allowed myself after Sarah died. It still smells new despite three years of me sitting here, often just staring at the wall, trying to figure out what comes next. For me. For Lily.

My eyes drift to the bottom shelf of the bookcase directly across from me. The cardboard box has sat untouched for years, pushed far back against the wall. I’ve never had the courage to look through it, not really. Not properly.

But tonight feels different. Maybe it’s because Thomas is back in town. Maybe it’s because Lily came home bubbling with excitement about meeting her favourite author, completely unaware of who he once was to me.

“He knew you in high school, Dad!” she’d said, eyes wide with wonder. “Why didn’t you ever tell me you went to school with Thomas Winters?”

I’d shrugged, kept my voice neutral. “We weren’t close.”

The lie had tasted bitter on my tongue.

I set my glass down and cross to the shelf, kneeling to pull the box forward. A thin layer of dust coats the top, and I brush it away before lifting the lid.

Inside are the pieces of a life I’d packed away. Graduation tassel. A few photos from high school. The small shell collection from the hidden cove. And beneath it all, a manila folder tied with a faded blue ribbon.

My hands shake slightly as I untie it.

The folder contains clippings—literary magazines, small press publications, a few printouts from online journals. All containing Thomas’s early work, before the novels, before Captain Elian became a household name among science fiction readers.

I flip through them chronologically, watching his writing evolve from clumsy teenage metaphors to the confident voice that would eventually capture thousands of readers. I remember how he used to read his stories to me, how his face would light up when I responded to a particular line or character.

Near the bottom of the stack, I find it. The first real publication, in a literary magazine that had seemed so prestigious at the time. “Distant Lights” by Thomas Winters. A short story about a boy who builds a telescope to watch for aliens but instead discovers the constellations of human connection in his own backyard.

I run my fingers over the printed page, remembering how he’d burst into the bookstore waving the acceptance letter, how we’d celebrated behind the astronomy section with kisses that tasted of possibility.

When my copy arrived in the mail, he’d already inscribed it. I turn to the title page now, and there it is, just as I remember:

For O—who taught me to see the stars even on cloudy nights.

And beside the inscription, drawn in blue ink that has faded slightly over the years: the constellation Orion. My constellation, he’d called it. Strong and steady in the winter sky.

“Damn it, Thomas,” I whisper to the empty room.

I flip the magazine closed and press it against my chest for a moment, allowing myself to remember. The way his hand felt in mine. The sound of his laugh echoing in the empty bookstore after hours. The plans we’d made, whispered between kisses in that hidden cove where no one could find us.

Plans that fell apart when he left for college and I stayed behind, too afraid to follow, too afraid to be who I really was.

I reach for my whisky and drain it in one swallow.

After Thomas left, I’d made my choices. Pushed down those feelings. Met Sarah in the nearby community college. Built a life that made sense to everyone, including my traditional Chinese father who never would have understood a son who loved another boy.

Sarah had been kind, beautiful, smart. I’d loved her—not with the consuming fire I’d felt for Thomas, but with a steady warmth that grew over time. She gave me Lily, the greatest gift of my life. I never regretted marrying her, even if late at night, I longed for roads not taken.

When she got sick, everything else fell away. Nothing mattered except taking care of her, then taking care of Lily after she was gone. I haven’t had time to think about who I am, what I want. Haven’t allowed myself that luxury.

But now Thomas is back, and the feelings I’ve kept buried are surfacing like air bubbles in water.

I pull out my phone and find myself scrolling to his contact information. The bookstore keeps records for author events, and I’d added his number to my phone just yesterday, telling myself it was purely professional.

My thumb hovers over his name. What would I even say? Hey, remember when we were seventeen and head over heels in love but I was too scared to choose you?

I toss the phone onto the desk and turn back to the box. Beneath the folder of Thomas’s stories, I find a stack of photographs. Most are from high school—drama club performances, debate team competitions, graduation.

And then I find one I’d forgotten about. Thomas and me at the beach, sitting close together on a blanket, our shoulders touching. His head is turned toward me, caught mid-laugh, while I’m looking at the camera with a small smile. Anyone who saw it would think we were just friends, but I remember the moment. How his hand was covering mine just out of frame. How my heart felt too big for my chest.

We were so young. So full of possibility.

I flip the photo over. On the back, in Thomas’s messy handwriting: O & T, North Beach, July 2009.

Two months before he left for college. One month before everything fell apart.

I set the photo aside and continue digging. At the very bottom of the box, I find a small, worn notebook. Thomas’s notebook, the one he carried everywhere senior year, scribbling ideas for stories. He must have left it behind, or maybe given it to me. I can’t remember now.

I open it carefully, the binding cracked with age. Inside are fragments of stories, character sketches, bits of dialogue. And scattered throughout, little notes addressed to me.

O—what if Captain Elian discovers a planet where time moves backward?

O—do you think this character name works?

O—I love you. In case I haven’t said it enough today.

My chest tightens. I close the notebook and put it back in the box, along with everything else except the published story. That, I set aside on my desk.

I pour another finger of whisky and carry it to the window. The night is clear, stars scattered across the sky like diamonds on black velvet. Somewhere across town, Thomas is looking at these same stars. Maybe even thinking of me.

My phone sits on the desk, silent and accusing.

I should call him. Clear the air. At the very least, thank him for being kind to Lily today.

But what would come after that? Awkward reminiscing? Painful acknowledgement of what we lost? Or worse—what if the connection is still there, humming between us like a live wire? What then?

I have Lily to think about. The bookstore. The life I’ve built here.

Thomas is only in town temporarily, working on his book. Then he’ll leave again, back to his real life in New York or wherever successful authors live these days. And I’ll still be here, picking up the pieces of whatever this brief re-connection breaks loose in me.

No. Better to keep things as they are. Professional. Distant. Safe.

I down the rest of my whisky and set the glass in the sink on my way to my bedroom. As I pass Lily’s room, I pause, listening to her soft, even breathing. She deserves stability. Certainty. Not a father suddenly questioning everything about himself because his high school sweetheart showed up after fifteen years.

In my bedroom, I change for sleep and slide under the covers, but rest doesn’t come. Instead, I stare at the ceiling, thinking about Thomas’s face when he walked into the bookstore yesterday. The flash of recognition, of pain, of something else I couldn’t name. The careful way he’d asked about my life, as if testing the boundaries of what was safe to discuss.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand—a text message. I reach for it, squinting at the sudden brightness of the screen.

It’s from Lily: Forgot to say goodnight. Love you, Dad.

I smile in the darkness. Love you too. Now go to sleep.

Three dots appear, then: Mr. Winters invited me to visit again tomorrow. He’s going to show me how he plans his books. Is that okay?

My thumb hovers over the keyboard. I should tell her no. Create distance. Protect us both from whatever complicated emotions Thomas’s presence stirs up.

But Lily loves his books. She’s been talking about Captain Elian for years. And Thomas was kind enough to entertain her questions today.

That’s fine. Be home for dinner.

Thanks Dad! Goodnight for real this time.

I set the phone down and close my eyes, but sleep remains elusive. In the darkness, I see Thomas’s face as it was at seventeen—bright with ambition and love—overlaid with the man who walked into my bookstore yesterday, carrying the weight of fifteen years between us.

I won’t call him. I won’t seek him out. But I can’t stop Lily from visiting, from forming her own connection to the author she admires.

And if that means our paths cross again… well, I’ll just have to remember that the past is past, and some stars burn too brightly to orbit for long.

Oliver

I watch Lily push her broccoli around her plate, barely containing her excitement. She’s been like this since she got home—vibrating with energy, her words tumbling out so fast I can hardly keep up.

“And then Mr. Winters showed me his storyboard for the whole series! He has these character sheets with details that never even made it into the books.” She stabs a piece of chicken. “Did you know Captain Elian has a scar on her shoulder from when she was ten and fell out of a tree on her home planet? It’s never mentioned in the books, but Mr. Winters says it affects how she carries himself.”

“That’s interesting,” I say, trying to sound appropriately impressed while keeping my emotions in check. It’s strange hearing Thomas’s name spoken so casually in my home, like he belongs here. “You seem to have had a good time.”

“The best! He answered all my questions about the Varian Nebula and why the physics works the way it does in his universe.” She takes a quick bite, chews hurriedly. “And guess what? The spaceship—the Horizon—it’s named after someone real!”

My fork freezes halfway to my mouth. “Is that so?”

“Yeah! He wouldn’t tell me who, though. Said it was personal.” She narrows her eyes at me. “Dad, you went to school with him, right? Do you know who it’s named after?”

I set my fork down carefully. “Thomas and I weren’t close friends, Lily. Just classmates.”

The lie tastes bitter. I take a sip of water to wash it away.

“Well, anyway, he showed me his writing process. He has this whole ritual where he makes tea and lights this special candle and puts on instrumental music.” She leans forward. “But he’s stuck on this book. Really stuck. He says it’s not working the way the others did.”

“Writing can be difficult,” I offer neutrally, though my mind races with memories of Thomas hunched over notebooks, scribbling furiously, then reading passages aloud to me under starlight.

“I had an idea,” Lily says, her voice taking on that tone she uses when she’s about to suggest something she thinks I might resist. “What if we hosted an author event at the store? For Mr. Winters?”

I blink at her. “An author event?”

“Yeah! We could advertise it in the paper and on social media. I bet people would come from all over the coast to meet him.” Her eyes light up. “We could sell his books—I checked, and we only have three copies left of Beyond the Varian Nebula—and maybe do a reading and Q&A.”

“Lily…”

“It would be great for business, Dad.” She’s using her reasonable voice now. “You’re always saying we need to attract new customers to compete with the online stores. This would bring people in who might never have visited otherwise.”

She’s not wrong. Author events are good for business. We hosted Madeline Chen last year—no relation, despite sharing a last name—and sold more cookbooks in one day than we had in the previous six months.

But Thomas isn’t Madeline Chen. Thomas is…complicated.

“I’ll think about it,” I say, buying time.

“Dad.” Lily gives me her most serious look. “Mr. Winters is famous. Like, really famous. And he’s right here in Harbour Point! It would be weird if our bookstore didn’t host an event.”

I sigh. She’s right again. It would look strange if we ignored the presence of a bestselling author in our small town, especially one with local roots.

“Besides,” she adds, her voice softening, “I think he’s lonely.”

“Lonely?” I look up sharply.

She nods. “He has this big empty cottage and he’s just there by himself, writing. Or trying to. No visitors except me.” She pushes her plate away. “I think he could use some friends.”

The thought of Thomas alone in that cottage by the beach, struggling with his writing, creates an ache in my chest I don’t want to examine too closely.

“Fine,” I concede. “I’ll call him after dinner and see if he’s interested.”

Lily’s face lights up like I’ve just given her the best gift imaginable. “Really? You will?”

“Yes, but I’m not promising anything. He might be too busy, or not interested in doing public events.”

“He’ll say yes,” she says with her usual complete confidence. “I know he will.”

After dinner, Lily helps clear the table, humming to herself. I watch her move around the kitchen with an ease that reminds me of Sarah. The same efficient movements, the same little smile when she’s pleased with herself.

Sarah would know what to do about Thomas. She always had a knack for navigating complicated situations with grace. But Sarah isn’t here, and I’m left making these decisions alone.

Later, after Lily’s gone to bed, I sit at my desk with my phone in hand. Thomas’s number is written on a scrap of paper—Lily gave it to me “just in case.” My finger hovers over the keypad.

This is ridiculous. I’m a grown man, a business owner. I can make a simple professional call to a local author about an event that would benefit my store. There’s nothing personal about it.

Except everything with Thomas has always been personal.

I dial before I can talk myself out of it. The phone rings once, twice, three times. I’m about to hang up when he answers.

“Hello?” His voice is deeper than I remember, rough around the edges. Like he hasn’t used it much today.

“Thomas? It’s…it’s Oliver. Chen.” I wince at my awkwardness.

A pause. “Oliver.” He says my name like he’s testing the weight of it. “Is everything okay? Is Lily alright?”

“Yes, she’s fine. She’s great, actually.” I clear my throat. “She had a good time with you today. Thank you for being so generous with your time.”

“She’s a remarkable kid. Smart as a whip. You must be very proud.”

“I am.” I stare at the photo of Lily on my desk, taken last summer at the beach. “Listen, I’m calling because—well, Lily had an idea. About the bookstore.”

“Oh?”

“We host author events sometimes. Readings, signings, that sort of thing. And since you’re in town…” I trail off, suddenly uncertain.

“You want me to do an author event at Harbour Books?” Thomas sounds surprised, but not displeased.

“If you’re interested. No pressure. I know you’re here to work on your book, and I don’t want to impose—”

“I’d love to,” he cuts in. “Really, Oliver. It would be my pleasure.”

I blink, caught off guard by his easy acceptance. “Great. That’s…great. We could do it next week, maybe? Give us time to advertise?”

“Next week works for me. Whatever day is best for you.”

“Thursday evening? Around seven?”

“Thursday at seven it is.” There’s a smile in his voice now. “It’ll be nice to see the store in action again.”

“Thank you.” I fidget with a pen on my desk.

A beat of silence stretches between us, laden with unspoken words.

“Oliver,” Thomas says finally, his voice softer. “I know this is probably awkward for you. Having me back in town, spending time with Lily. If you’re uncomfortable with any of it—”

“It’s fine,” I interrupt, not ready to have this conversation. “Really. Lily enjoys your company, and the event will be good for the store.”

“Okay.” He doesn’t sound entirely convinced. “But if that changes—”

“It won’t.” I take a deep breath. “So, Thursday at seven. We usually do a reading, then a Q&A, followed by the signing. Does that work for you?”

“Perfect.” Another pause. “It’ll be good to see you, Oliver. Properly, I mean. Not just a quick hello in the store.”

My heart does something complicated in my chest. “Yes, well. I should probably go over some details with you before the event. Maybe you could come by the store earlier on Thursday? We close at five before evening events to set up.”

“I’ll be there at five,” he says. “Goodnight, Oliver.”

“Goodnight, Thomas.”

I hang up and set the phone down carefully, as if it might explode. What am I doing? Inviting Thomas into my space, creating an opportunity to be alone with him. It’s asking for trouble.

But it’s just business, I tell myself. A professional courtesy. Nothing more.

Thomas

The line goes dead. I stare at my phone, the screen dimming, then turning black. The silence in my rental cottage suddenly feels oppressive.

“What the hell did I just agree to?” I mutter to the empty room.

I drop the phone onto the couch and pace across the hardwood floor, running my fingers through my hair. The reality of what I’ve just committed to crashes over me like a wave. In two days, I’ll be standing in Harbour Books—Oliver’s space—surrounded by people expecting me to be Thomas Winters, celebrated author. Meanwhile, I’ll be fighting to keep my eyes off the one person in the room who knows I’m just Tommy, the boy who used to hide among his shelves.

My heart hammers against my ribs. I haven’t done a reading in over a year, not since book four came out. My publisher stopped pushing for appearances when it became clear I was struggling with the next instalment. And now I’ve agreed to do one in the most emotionally complicated venue possible.

“Shit, shit, shit.”

I grab my laptop and open a new document, trying to outline what I’ll read. Nothing from the current manuscript—it’s too raw, too real, too much about the man who’ll be standing five feet away from me. Maybe something from book three? The rescue mission to Proxima Centauri was always a crowd-pleaser.

My fingers hover over the keys, but instead of typing notes for the reading, I find myself searching through old files. I scroll past drafts and outlines until I find a folder simply labeled “HC” – Harbour Cove. I hesitate before clicking it open.

Inside are dozens of documents dating back to my freshman year of college. Journal entries. Abandoned letters. Fragments of stories where the protagonist always somehow resembled a quiet, thoughtful Chinese-American boy with careful hands and eyes that crinkled when he laughed.

I click on one dated August 17, fifteen years ago. The night before I left for college. The last time Oliver and I were truly alone together.

The moon hangs low over the water, casting a silver path across the dark surface. It’s almost midnight, and the hidden cove feels like it exists outside of time—our private universe.

Oliver sits beside me on the blanket we’ve spread across the sand, our shoulders touching. We haven’t spoken in several minutes. What is there to say? Tomorrow I leave for Berkeley, five thousand kilometres away. He stays here to help his father run the bookstore.

“I could defer,” I say suddenly, breaking the silence. “Take a gap year.”

Oliver turns to me, moonlight catching in his dark eyes. “No, you can’t.”

“Why not? Plenty of people take gap years.”

“Because you’d resent me for it.” His voice is soft but certain. “Maybe not right away, but eventually.”

I want to argue, but the truth of his words stings. I’ve dreamed of Berkeley since sophomore year, of studying creative writing there, of finally escaping the suffocating smallness of Harbour Point.

“We could try long distance,” I suggest, though we’ve had this conversation before.

Oliver looks out at the water. “Tommy… you know why we can’t.”

I do know. His father doesn’t know he’s gay. No one does except me. Oliver isn’t ready to come out, not in this town, not with his traditional family expectations. A long-distance relationship would mean phone calls he couldn’t take at home, explanations for why he’s saving money for plane tickets, lies upon lies upon lies.

“I’ll come back for you,” I say, the words bursting from some desperate place inside me. “After college. Four years. I’ll come back and—”

“Don’t.” He cuts me off, his voice breaking. “Don’t make promises we both know you can’t keep.”

I turn his face toward mine, needing him to see my sincerity. “I mean it, Ollie. Four years. I’ll be back.”

His eyes shine with unshed tears. “You’re meant for bigger things than this town, Tommy. We both know that.”

I kiss him then, pouring everything I can’t say into it. His hands come up to frame my face, thumbs brushing over my cheekbones. When we finally break apart, both breathing hard, I rest my forehead against his.

“I love you,” I whisper. It’s the first time I’ve said it out loud.

Oliver’s eyes close, pain flashing across his features. “I love you too,” he whispers back. “That’s why I can’t ask you to come back.”

I slam the laptop closed, my breath coming too fast. Fifteen years, and the memory still cuts like glass.

I didn’t go back after four years. By then, I’d sold my first novel and was deep into writing the second. Book tours, conventions, a life I’d only dreamed of was suddenly mine. And Oliver… according to Lily, he married a woman named Sarah about fourteen years ago.

“Fuck,” I mutter, pushing away from the desk.

I need air. Grabbing a light jacket, I step outside onto the porch of the rental cottage. The night is clear, stars scattered across the sky like spilled salt. Down below, I can just make out the curve of the shoreline, the hidden cove invisible from this angle but present in my mind.

How am I supposed to stand in front of a crowd in Oliver’s bookstore and pretend we’re just old classmates? How do I read from books that, in so many ways, were written for him?

Captain Elian, my protagonist, was always part Oliver—thoughtful, principled, carrying the weight of responsibility on her shoulders. The spaceship The Horizon was named for what Oliver once told me about his name: “Chen means dawn or daybreak in Chinese—the horizon where the sun rises.” I wove pieces of him into every page, and now I have to pretend it was all just imagination.

I pull out my phone and scroll to my agent’s number. One call and I could cancel. Claim writer’s block, illness, anything. But my thumb hovers over the screen without pressing call.

Cancelling would mean running away again. It would mean letting Oliver believe I came back to Harbour Point without any thought of him, that I could be in the same town and not want to see him. It would mean denying myself even this small connection to the person who first believed in my stories.