Frank Gagliano
The night air was cool, the kind of chill that seeped into your bones if you stood still too long. The lighthouse on the far end of the pier cast its sweeping beam across the dark water, illuminating the jagged rocks below for a brief moment before darkness reclaimed them. I kept my gaze on the waves, watching them crash against the shore, pretending for a moment that I was anywhere else but here.
But the rattle of the barrel being dragged across the worn wooden planks brought me back to reality. The work wasn't done yet. I sighed, irritation creeping into my chest. I wanted this finished, wrapped up, so I could get home to Kyle. He'd probably still be hunched over his textbooks, too engrossed in his new term stuff to even notice how late it was. I was grateful for that—grateful that he didn't ask too many questions about what kept me out so late.