Page 2 of Just One More Thing

“This is temporary, and temporary is your specialty.”

I’ve built my adult life around it. Apartments I never fully unpacked. Relationships I kept light. Cities that felt exciting but never quite fit.

A life with just enough loneliness to call it independence.

“It’s just a few weeks, right?” I ask my bkr water bottle.

It doesn’t answer.

Rude.

I pull into the shell parking lot and sit there, looking at The Point through the windshield, needing a few breaths. Because once I cross that bridge, I’m not passing through anymore.

I’m back.

I open the door and immediately get hit with the sound of waves lapping against the seawall. The buoy bell clanging faintly in the distance. Seagulls squawking overhead, loud and nosy, already gossiping.

I close my eyes and breathe in the salt air, letting the sun hit my skin. Something in me loosens. The water has always done that. Smoothed the sharp edges. Made everything feel a little easier to carry.

Laughter drifts across the bay. Sound travels funny out here, sneaking up on you like a side mirror warning that objects arecloser than they appear. Blue Crab Bay laughter has a specific cadence. Loud. Unfiltered. Usually followed by unsolicited advice or a casserole.

I grab my suitcase and bkr and head toward the pedestrian bridge, flip flops crunching on crushed shell. The Point is close enough now that I can make out people moving along the docks. Couples strolling the loop with coffees in hand. An elderly man sitting on a bench, feeding a squirrel and talking to it like this is completely normal.

He pauses mid-conversation when he notices me watching. He smiles and tips his hat, unashamed.

Plop.

I stop so fast my suitcase bumps into the back of my ankle.

“Did that?—”

I look over my shoulder.

Fresh seagull poop sits inches from my foot.

Close enough to feel personal.

“You missed me!” I yell up at the bird.

It squawks back, unapologetic. I’m fairly certain there’s a curse word buried in that sound.

I laugh because what else is there to do? This place has always had impeccable timing.

Holey Moley sits exactly where it has for thirty-five years. The sign out front looks freshly painted, the pink just a shade brighter than I remember. Granny’s doing, obviously. Subtlety has never been her strong suit.

The chalkboard near the door advertises HOT DOUGHNUTS in handwriting I could pick out of a lineup.

I picture Granny behind the counter bossing everyone around like nothing has changed. Flour-dusted countertops. Doughnut boxes stacked crooked. Sugar in places where it doesn’t belong. I imagine her seeing me and pretending not to cry while absolutely crying.

That thought makes me feel guilty for being so focused on what being back will do to me. I’m here for her. Not whatever else this town stirs up.

The reminder steadies me right up until a familiar voice carries across the water.

Then someone shouts, “Sure thing, Jake!”

His name has been echoing in my head since the moment I crossed the town line.

I don’t look. I don’t need to. The reality slams into me all the same.