Page 216 of Just One More Thing

We step onto The Green to cheers, whistles, and applause. Somebody sets off a single firework too close to an umbrella on the Tall Tales patio, and the damn thing takes off like Mary Poppins.

Mo laughs into my shoulder.

The screen at the edge of the lawn flickers to life, and photos begin cycling through.

Mo and me at seven, barefoot on the dock, legs covered in sand and bug bites, each missing a front tooth.

At ten, holding up a blue crab like it’s a trophy.

At fourteen, outside of Holey Moley, her in an apron, stuffing a doughnut in my face.

She leans into me as she watches and whispers, “We were babies.”

I kiss the top of her head.

A photo of us at sixteen fills the screen.

She’s laughing.

I’m looking at her the way I’ve been looking at her most of my life.

That hasn’t changed.

Then I hear Wayne.

“YOU’VE GOT TO BE SHITTIN’ ME!”

I turn.

There’s a white streak down his shoulder and half his sleeve.

French Fry glides overhead, squawking, proud of himself.

Bethany takes one look at Wayne and says, “He missed.”

Wayne stares at her. “He missed? Do you not see this?” He holds his arm out like evidence.

“He missed your head.”

Wayne points up at French Fry. “I’ll give you something to squawk about, you shit eating chicken with wings.”

“Wayne.”

“Yeah.”

“Chickens have wings,” Ryan says.

Wayne turns to him. “That, my friend, is commercialism. You know how small those things are. They’re not real chicken wings. And if chickens really had wings, why don’t you see any flying around? See any flying chickens lately?”

“I can’t,” Bethany says as she walks away.

Then French Fry swoops lower.

Too low.

Hank has been lying in the shade, pretending to be asleep with open eyes and a fake snore.

He launches.