Page 199 of Just One More Thing

He’s now in the front seat providing commentary on every turn, speed limit, and lane choice like a man who has never once operated a vehicle with appropriate caution.

“You’re riding the center line.”

“Wayne, I swear to God.”

“I’m just saying. The line is there for a reason.”

“The line is about to be your chalk outline.”

Ryan is asleep again in the third row with Hank draped across his lap. Neither one has moved since the highway.

The two-lane road narrows, and the pines and oaks close in on both sides, thick and dark and familiar. I know this stretch by feel. The slight curve before the bridge. The way the road dips near the marina turnoff. The smell that changes when you get close enough—salt and pluff mud and something green that doesn’t have a name but means you’re almost there.

The oaks arch overhead. Spanish moss catches in the headlights as we pass through the columns. Huey is there waiting on us, big blue claws wrapped around the town sign.

WELCOME TO BLUE CRAB BAY

Population 1,244

Let’s hope that will soon be 1,245.

Mo leans forward between the seats, looking through the windshield at the sign, and something crosses her face she doesn’t try to hide.

“Hi, Huey,” she says quietly.

Bethany pulls into the crushed shell lot and kills the engine.

We wake Ryan. Hank requires more negotiation. He looks at me with the deep betrayal of a bulldog who was told the car ride was temporary and has now decided the third row is his permanent residence.

“Come on, buddy.” He refuses to move.

Ryan hoists Hank out of the back like a solid sandbag with dangling legs. Hank grumbles and grunts about it.

“You’re welcome,” Ryan tells him.

I grab our bags from the back. Mo reaches for one, and I shake my head. “I got it.”

“I’m capable of carrying a bag, Jake.”

“I know.” I take her outstretched hand and kiss the top.

Wayne grabs his and Ryan’s because Ryan is carrying Hank’s travel bed and go-bag. In addition to being Hank’s godfather, he’s also now Hank’s full-time concierge.

I take Mo’s hand as we cross the footbridge. The water is black beneath us, and you can barely hear our footsteps over the sound of crickets. It’s the time of year they turn the volume up. But I can feel the boards creak in the same rhythm I’ve felt a thousand times coming home.

I slow when we reach the middle.

The brass plaque catching the faint light from the lamp at the far end.

In memoriam of Tammy and Steve Wheeler

Mo doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t have to. She just tightens her hand around mine.

I run my thumb across her knuckles.

Then I keep walking.

We come around the bend, and I hear it before I see it.