Page 148 of Just One More Thing

“And now,” she says more quietly, “it feels like one more thing is going back to normal.”

Normal.

Every piece of normal that slides back into place for her is one less reason to stay.

One less reason to stay with me.

“Normal’s overrated.”

That gets a small smile out of her. But it fades fast. She goes quiet again, and I let her.

We park in the shell lot and unload the groceries. As soon as we cross the footbridge onto The Point, Hank spots a ghost crab down near the beach and launches himself toward it.

“Don’t do it,” I shout, already setting the grocery bags down.

Mo shades her eyes. “What’s he doing?”

“Making poor decisions at full speed.”

The crab darts sideways.

Hank lunges after it, short bulldog legs pumping hard enough to rooster tail sand behind him. Then he spins around and comes barreling back toward us.

A pale ghost crab dangling from his lip.

He’s snorting and wiggling his entire back half proudly while the crab hangs there waving one furious claw like it has a complaint to file.

“Oh my God,” Mo says, laughing so hard she grabs my arm. “Jake! Jake, help him!”

Hank’s spinning in circles now. The crab refusing to let go. And above us, I spot French Fry circling. That’s the last thing I need right now.

“Good job, buddy. You caught a crab. Now let me get it.”

Mo bends forward laughing harder now, and I swear there’s nothing prettier than a woman laughing like that.

“Buddy, hold still. I can’t help you if you don’t hold still.”

He does not hold still.

I finally get hold of the crab’s shell and work the thing loose. It drops into the grass, rights itself, then scuttles away with the unmistakable confidence of something that feels victorious.

Hank lunges after it.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

“HANK. COOKIE.” He freezes instantly. Looks at me. Looks toward the crab. Then chooses the cookie because in the end he does have priorities.

Mo drops down beside him. “Hank, you poor baby. You got beat up by an hors d’oeuvre.”

“Come on,” I say, grabbing the grocery bags again. “Let’s make dinner before he starts another fight with something that has claws or wings.”

Inside, I set the bags on the counter while Mo starts unpacking groceries with the kind of focused efficiency that makes me want to lean against something and watch her.

The kitchen gets smaller in the best way with two people moving around inside it and Hank planted directly in the center like a snoring trip hazard.

Pasta is boiling.

Butter and cream melt in the skillet.