Page 18 of Just One More Thing

I close the box and tuck in the flap carefully, like I’m sealing up a peace offering. Then I grab my bkr and pretend my hands aren’t shaking.

“Love you. I’ll be back soon.”

“I’ll be here,” Granny says, with an undertone of duh.

I head out with the pink box balanced against my hip and my bkr in the other hand.

Lazy Larry’s is already in full swing. The bell clangs, and somebody yells, “Larry is so lazy?—“

The crowd answers, “HOW LAZY IS HE?”

I don’t slow down enough to hear just how lazy Larry is today. I pass Tall Tales, and Willard comes into view, on his bench, watching the town. I lift the bkr in a small wave since my hands are full.

He tips his hat and gives me a thumbs-up. I glance at the bench beside him, expecting to see Chip. No Chip.

I keep walking.

Jake’s boat is tied up at the dock.

My stomach does one hard flip. He’s here. Which is good. That is, in fact, the entire reason I came.

Also, he’s here.

Do I go to the boathouse? The restaurant? The kitchen entrance? The answer is probably don’t overthink it, which is unfortunate because overthinking is one of my core strengths. Possibly my strongest. If there were awards, I would have a shelf.

A fresh wave of nerves rolls through me, half nausea, half excitement. I squeeze the doughnut box too hard and cave in one side.

“Good job, dipshit,” I mumble.

What if he won’t talk to me?

I wouldn’t blame him. The other day I slipped past him like a coward. But I need him to know it wasn’t because of him.

It’s me.

Which is the most cliché sentence in the English language and still, annoyingly, accurate.

Come on, Emory.

You can do this.

You need to do this.

I glance back over my shoulder. Willard is still watching me. He nods toward The Knuckle. His way of nudging me along.

Fine.

It takes me eleven steps to cross the short bridge connecting the restaurant to The Point. It’s midmorning, still before lunch service, and I walk in through the front door. The lights are off. Chairs are flipped upside down on tables. Condiment trays line the bar, empty and waiting.

Jake and I used to refill the salt shakers in the summers. Line up the ketchup bottles and malt vinegar just so. His dad would toss us a couple bucks when we helped, and his mom would slip us a few more when his dad wasn’t looking.

I can feel them here.

And I feel the ache of knowing they’re gone.

I keep walking toward the kitchen like a woman who has absolutely not considered turning around twelve separate times already.

Then I hear voices.