CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. Value & Volition

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Nestled along the edge of the sea, on the outer bends of the Capes, somewhere amidst the small seaside town is an establishment that is a blend of vintage kitsch and sophisticated beachside relaxation. It's called The Brew House, Restaurant & Lounge.

Its wood-paneled walls are adorned with nautical artwork—paintings of caravels, lighthouses, and rippling waves. The soulful hum of a jukebox playing doo-wop and rock 'n' roll fills the air, complementing the rhythmic crash of the waves just outside of the thinly-plastered walls.

The dim lighting gives everything a golden glow, casting long shadows across the polished, dark mahogany bar-top. Behind it, bartenders in crisp white shirts and bow ties effortlessly mix drinks—crafting everything from gin martinis to bright, fizzy cocktails with colorful umbrellas. The long bar is dotted with glassware, as patrons sip on cocktails and chat, the ice clinking in glasses.

The lounge area is cozy and inviting, with mismatched upholstered chairs, some in soft pastels, others in earthy tones, all arranged around low tables. Velvet curtains frame the windows, but they're often drawn back to let the cool sea breeze filter in, mixing with the scent of saltwater. The floor is checkerboard tile, worn smooth by decades of foot traffic, yet still vibrant with the memories of generations who've gathered here.

A group of friends, diverse in every sense, sit around a corner booth, laughing as they share stories. There are six of them in total.

There is Cassidy, the organizer, and Ettie, of course, at his side. Lorna sits across from Cassidy, hand tucked beneath her chin, and red lips curled delightedly as Cassidy speaks, his voice warm and inviting, drawing the eyes of everyone seated at the table.

Gideon Sutherland claps his best friend on the back, his lips stretched wide in a grin that reveals a full set of bright, white teeth that blind even in the dim lighting. The sound of the man's laughter, resonant and hearty, bounces off the paneled walls and spills over into the ongoing conversation. His joy is contagious, despite his daily persecution at the mere sight of his darker complexion.

           Cynthia Freemont relishes in his presence the most, her heart having been fed considerably by the man's tender devotion, which had been confessed to her only in the quiet, hush of the night when everything was still and there was no one to bear witness. For if they did, Gideon's light would surely be ripped from the here and now.

            It is why she maintains a close distance to him when able, much like now, tucked into his side, while his arm is slung loosely around the back of her chair. It is a subtle possession, one she delights in.

            Cassidy also extended an invitation to Killian, because he just simply could not resist himself. He could not possibly have a grand time on the town amongst friends without the writer in tow.

           There was also a part of him that took pleasure in being seen with him, even if their relation was unbeknownst to onlookers. They knew, which was enough for him. It would have to be.

            The group of friends are welcomed like family, and the conversations flow freely across every subject, from politics to love, from the latest Hollywood gossip to local happenings.

            There's a distinct sense of community, a feeling that all are welcome, regardless of who they are. The crowd, a mix of races, ages, and genders, carries a relaxed, open-minded energy. In this coastal lounge, you're not just a visitor—you're part of a wider world that accepts, celebrates, and listens.

            In the background, a pianist plays easygoing standards on a grand piano tucked near the stage, though the live band is getting ready to perform later in the evening. The crowd is a tapestry of people, all enjoying the sense of belonging, and the quiet hum of shared human connection, underlined by the waves crashing just beyond the door.

Cassidy steers the direction of the conversation. Killian's eyes flash, enamored by the man's confidence. He had never bore witness to it, had never seen his lover so comforted in the company of others. He decided, just then, that he adored every person surrounding the table's edge for making Cassidy feel so at ease.

Gideon's attention redirects, curiosity ebbing his focus to shift toward the Englishman. Killian's presence was subtle, Gideon thought, his poise imbued with the weight of his reputation.

As the conversation swirled around the room, he drew closer to this figure of literary renown. He watched the way the writer carried himself, the effortless grace of his speech when he decided to join in on the discussion, and the knowing glint in his eyes that spoke of a life deeply lived and reflected upon.

When their conversation finally aligned, Gideon could not help but express his admiration. "I've just finished Petulant Tides," he said, his voice sincere, reverence lacing every word.

"It's a masterpiece, truly. The way you wove the complexities of emotion into the tides of the sea . . . it resonates deeply."

He allowed himself a moment of silence, savoring the weight of this exchange, honoring not just the writer's latest work but the man himself—the artist whose words seemed to transcend the page.

            Killian smile is a genuine one as it stretches across his freshly sun-kissed skin. He nods curtly and takes a small sip from his choice of beverage—a glass of iced tea, "You are far too kind, Mr. Sutherland."

Lorna takes the moment to break apart from the focal conversation, her lips parting as she leans into Cassidy a bit, just enough to ensure their private exchange remains unnoticed by the others.

Her body tilts toward him unwittingly, a mellow smile playing on her face, and her fingers gently graze his arm, as if to draw his attention or confirm his presence.

The laughter and chatter from the group seems to fade into the background, leaving only the soft hum of her voice as she speaks, her words meant only for him.

"It feels like I haven't saw you in ages," she pauses and lowers her eyes only briefly, her fingertips slipping into the space between his linen shirt and his freckled skin. "Killian was a darling to pull you away from your father. Charles can be quite, well, ill-mannered."

Cassidy empties his throat, his smile a rather hesitant one. He spins the gold signet ring adorning his thumb, a gift from his uncle when he had blossomed into eighteen.

Lorna, noting Cassidy's unforeseen subdued nature, shifts in her seat and meets his eye with a dazzling gleam. "I waited by your room for you, but you never showed. Why did you disappear like that? I thought we . . . I thought you wanted to—"

Cassidy meets her expectant, yet reluctant eye. He's smiling softly, though his eyes are quite distant. He leans forward in his seat, his chin dipped so as to keep the exchange between just the two of them, but Killian is all too aware of their hushed chatter.

He continues to speak casually with his developing acquaintances, his words mechanical on his tongue, mind somewhere else entirely. His laughter, a beat too late. His responses, a bit too brief. His posture is relaxed, but the edge of his jaw tenses, and his chest tightens, as Lorna's fingertips graze Cassidy's honeyed skin.

He offers smiles that don't quite reach his steely blue eyes. He nods along while the undercurrent of his mind thrashes against the brigades of envy that bloom faintly along the enclosure, like a bruise that hasn't quite fully formed.

His heart unravels at the sight, but he maintains for now, because he must.

Cassidy's voice evacuates between his lips under the guise of a hush, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to leave you waiting, sincerely." He shifts in his seat, his eyes wandering about, as well as his fingertips.

They begin to dance along the oak tabletop, "It's just that sometimes . . . I get caught up with things. Other things." He pauses, his tongue gliding along his lower lip, hesitating. Lorna tracks the movement, commits it to memory, and even smiles fondly over it.

Cassidy offers the woman a reassuring laugh, something warm and gentle. It makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. His fingers glide from the table to her elbow. His thumb swipes along the skin there, "You know how it is. Life gets in the way."

Lorna sighs wistfully, "I just don't understand. You never leave. It's always just . . . us." She lowers her doe-eyed gaze, her scarlet nails nervously tugging at the fabric along the hem of her dress. She tugs her lip between her pearled rows of teeth before speaking again.

"You make me feel like I'm the most important thing in the world, Cass. But then, when I wait . . . it's like you forget. It's like I'm just another shadow in the hallway. A ring of the phone from a caller grown bored."

Cassidy swallows at the audacious admission. He runs a hand through his sun-streaked hair, tugging at the roots to steady himself.

Before he is able to utter a word, Lorna says, her eyes pinning him in a makeshift box he can't seem to find the exit to: "Do you only call upon me when you're bored, Cass?"

Cassidy's eyes avert as her voice taps against his eardrums, darting around the room aimlessly and yet still managing to avoid Killian's altogether, for if he caught a glimpse of the man, he would surely shatter—unraveling and confessing his secret to the woman he had once planned to call his wife.

He inhales sharply, as if to steel himself, then he attaches his hands to hers, lacing their fingers calmly, while his insides shake and clatter.

"Lorna, you're not just a shadow. You know that. And I surely hope you don't believe I ring you out of boredom. I-I value . . . what we have. I value what we have built, and the peace your presence brings me. I just . . . I think I get overwhelmed sometimes."

He looks at her, his smile forced but gentle, masking something deeper. He laughs a self-deprecating laugh, "I'm not the easiest person to understand."

Lorna, bewildered, tilts her head slightly. Her grip on his hands consolidate. "You're the easiest person I know, Cass. You do understand me. And I know you feel something, too . . . don't you?"

He pauses for much longer this time. Suddenly, he feels the weight of watchful eyes, a subtle pressure that digs into his collarbones, sending chills down his spine. He is familiar with the feeling, with those set of gentle eyes.

When he glances over, their eyes meet, and he drowns there for a moment under Killian's molten stare. Time feels suspended, everything untouchable.

Cassidy's breath catches in his throat. Everything about the exchange feels eclectically charged, and although it only lasts a passing moment, he is unable to shake the feeling that something has shifted between them.

He turns back to Lorna then with a subtle, almost imperceptible shift in his posture. "Of course, I feel something, Lorna. I'd be lying if I said I didn't."

He leans back slightly, his voice steady but distant. He selfishly prepares himself for the imminent blow, inwardly maddened that he is incapable of providing the same comfort to her, "I just . . . I just think . . . I'm not the man you think I am. I can't be what you want me to be."

She slumps back slightly, like his words physically struck her. Her expression mirrors hurt for an instant, her visage faltering before she straightens, a gentle smile returning to her face, "You say that, but you are the man I want, Cassidy. I-I see the way you look at me. The way you smile when I'm near. Don't tell me I'm only imagining things."

He sighs quietly, withdrawing a hand to curl around the back of his neck, his fingers tightening in the tension. His other hand remains in hers. The pad of her thumb strokes his knuckles, clinging as her presumed future fades around them.

"You're not imagining it, Lorna. But sometimes, the things we want aren't always what's best for us." He draws a deep breath, his eyes softening along their oceanic edges, tides of sadness swirling within them. "I would never want to bring you harm, sweetheart. That's the last thing I'd ever intend."

The weight of his words are heavy in her chest. Her smile borders on watery, her voice carrying a slight tremble, but she keeps her disappointment at bay, "Cass . . . please, Cass."

He screws his eyes shut, his hand retreating from hers decisively, "If you'll excuse me. I-I'm terribly sorry." He's on his feet now and scrambling about. Metal scrapes against tile. Everyone's eyes flit over to him, "I shouldn't have . . . would you, uh, please, excuse me."

And then he is gone, leaving a shadow of linen and devastation in his wake.

It reminds him of his father.

The comparison nearly kills him. He dashes toward a nearby hallway, one that he knows leads to the restrooms. He moves with a hurried grace, each stride longer than the last, as if his body is aware of where to go, while his mind lingers in a cloud of confusion and anguish.

His thoughts spiral like an endless chasm, unfocused and chaotic, an abyss he cannot seem to pull himself out of. His heart beats like a wild drum, erratic and loud, thrumming in his chest, yet he is too absorbed in his turmoil to perceive it.

The rhythm of his feet is automatic, pounding the ground with a force that seems disconnected from the rest of him, as though his body is functioning on its own volition.

There's simply no awareness of his surroundings, no sense of the path beneath him—he is merely carried forward, a figure lost in motion, chasing something he can neither name nor understand.

He slams his shoulder against the door labeled: Men. He seeks solace there, allowing his emotions to flow out of him like a ravenous and murky river.

It is only seconds later that he finds himself within the arms of another. Vanilla and wood pulp, and something unexpected, something citrusy. Cologne, perhaps?

The sound of Killian's voice touches his ears, "You are going to be just fine, Cassidy. If only you would breathe a full breath, and tame that erratic-beating heart of yours."

Cassidy's breaths are labored, but he is able to latch himself to the man with irrefutable ease. His care guides him out of his daze, grounds him to the stained checkered tile beneath them.

"Steady now," Killian murmurs against the crown of his head. Cassidy tightens his grip at the man's elbow. His fingertips struggle against the fabric of his lightweight button-up, quaking to and fro. "Follow my breaths, Cass."

And so he did, and eventually he was able to grasp reality once more. By then, Killian had pulled away from him only slightly, so that he was able to take hold of his jaw. With his forehead leant against his, an easy smile spread across his lips.

"See, just fi—"

Killian's words taper off as Cassidy's lips meld to his. The kiss does not last, but it remains charged with an unexpected intensity that absorbs the pair. Once again, they are immersed in a world where they are the only two in existence. A stillness that entraps their souls, and renders them breathless.

But the squeak of a hinge catapults them back to earth. However, the damage is evident by the slip of Cassidy's tongue.

"Lorna, wait! I—"