The One I Should Hate

Episode two

Wilson waited until Brittany disappeared upstairs before speaking again.

“So,” he said carefully, lowering himself into one of the kitchen chairs, “you going to explain what she’s doing here?”

Randy snorted as he folded his newspaper beneath one arm. “Last time I checked, this was still our house. We don’t need permission to hire a manager.”

Maria sliced into the pumpkin pie with practiced ease. “Don’t start growling the second you arrive, Wilson.”

“I’m not growling.”

“You always growl when you’re upset,” she said.

Wilson leaned back with a sigh and rubbed the sore spot along his ribs where Brittany’s knee had connected. The woman was still hit by a freight train. He honestly hadn’t seen that coming.

Then again, Brittany Harper had always been dangerous in ways most people missed.

“You could’ve used the front door,” Randy muttered.

“The spare key wasn’t there.”

“That’s because Brittany moved it after some teenagers tried sneaking around the porch last month.”

Wilson blinked. “She changed the hiding place?”

“Unlike some people,” Randy said pointedly, “she actually thinks ahead.”

Wilson almost smiled despite himself.

That sounded exactly like Brittany.

Maria placed a thick slice of pie in front of him and slid over a fork. “Eat before your grandfather decides to interrogate you.”

“I’m not interrogating him.”

“You interrogate everybody.”

Randy grumbled something under his breath while Wilson took a bite. The pie was still warm in the middle, cinnamon and nutmeg hitting him with a wave of childhood memories so sudden it almost hurt.

For a second, he was seventeen again.

Bonfires on the beach. Football games under cold Friday night lights. Brittany was laughing beside him in the passenger seat of his rusty pickup truck.

Before everything fell apart.

Wilson set down his fork.

“You still didn’t answer my question.”

Maria exchanged a glance with Randy before speaking more softly. “She came here at the end of summer. Needed work. Needed someplace stable for her and the boy.”

Wilson’s eyes lifted immediately. “The kid’s hers?”

“Yes.”

He stared toward the staircase without meaning to.

The boy had Brittany’s eyes. He realized that now.

Same cautious look.

Same stubborn chin.

Something uncomfortable twisted low in his chest.

“And her husband?” he asked.

Silence settled briefly over the kitchen.

Finally, Randy pulled out a chair and sat down heavily. “Gone.”

Wilson frowned. “Gone how?”

“Divorce,” Maria answered gently.

He looked away at once, strangely unsettled by the information. Brittany divorced? Somehow he’d always imagined her life turning out perfect after he left Bandon. Perfect husband. Perfect family. Perfect little future far away from him.

Instead, she was back here working night shifts at an old inn and attacking unexpected visitors with household furniture.

Life was strange.

“She doesn’t talk much about it,” Maria continued. “And we don’t pry.”

Wilson nodded slowly.

Neither did he.

Not after the mistakes he’d made.

Randy pointed his fork at him. “Now your turn. What are you really doing back?”

Wilson forced a casual shrug. “Needed a break.”

“From?”

“Work.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting tonight.”

Randy narrowed his eyes, unconvinced.

Wilson understood why. He’d built a reputation over the years for showing up only long enough to disappear again. Quick visits. Excuses. Half-finished conversations.

But this trip was different.

This time he hadn’t come home because he wanted to.

He’d come because somebody had been following him for the past three weeks.

And after what happened in San Francisco, Bandon was the only place left that still felt safe.

Upstairs, a floorboard creaked.

Wilson glanced toward the ceiling instinctively, picturing Brittany getting her son back to bed.

A strange tension tightened across his shoulders.

Seeing her again had shaken him more than he cared to admit.

She looked older now, of course. More guarded. Stronger somehow. Life had sharpened the softness she used to carry in her eyes.

But she was still Brittany.

Still the girl who used to sit beside him on the cliffs above the ocean talking about escaping their tiny town together.

Still the girl he’d once loved enough to destroy.

Maria interrupted his thoughts by setting a second slice of pie in front of him.

“You’re staring at the ceiling,” she observed.

Wilson grabbed his fork again. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous hobby.”

Randy barked out a laugh.

For the first time since climbing through that kitchen window, Wilson felt some of the tension leave his body.

Then footsteps sounded softly on the staircase again.

Brittany reappeared wearing jeans and a faded sweatshirt now, her damp fingers combed through freshly washed hair. She stopped the moment she saw Wilson still sitting there.

The warmth that had filled the kitchen cooled instantly.

Wilson rose automatically.

Brittany crossed her arms. “You’re still here.”

“Pretty sure my grandparents live here too.”

Randy muttered, “Round two,” beneath his breath.

Maria elbowed him sharply.

Wilson ignored both of them, keeping his eyes on Brittany.

Up close, he noticed faint exhaustion beneath her eyes. The kind that comes from carrying too much responsibility alone.

“You broke my window,” she said.

“You broke my ribs.”

“You climbed into the house like a criminal.”

“The key was missing.”

“You could’ve knocked.”

“At two in the morning? You would’ve attacked me anyway.”

A reluctant spark flickered in her eyes before she quickly smothered it.

Wilson noticed.

And suddenly remembered exactly why forgetting Brittany had never been possible.

Maria carried the empty pie plate to the sink while Wilson leaned back in his chair, absently rubbing the bruise forming beneath his ribs.

“She does all that by herself?” he asked.

Maria nodded proudly. “More than that, honestly. Brittany practically keeps this place running.”

Randy grunted in agreement. “Without her, we’d probably have shut the inn down by Christmas.”

Wilson glanced toward the staircase again before he could stop himself.

It was difficult reconciling the woman upstairs with the girl he remembered. Back then, Brittany had been restless, impatient to leave Bandon behind. She used to sketch designs in the margins of her school notebooks and talk about opening an art studio somewhere warm and exciting.

Now she was here managing reservations, fixing staffing problems, and raising a child alone.

Life had clearly not gone the way she planned.

“What happened to her husband?” Wilson asked quietly.

Maria hesitated while drying her hands on a towel. “That’s Brittany’s story to tell.”

Which meant it was bad.

Wilson knew that tone.