Page 3 of Just One More Thing

He’s here.

On The Point.

The sound of his name tugs loose memories I’ve spent ten years trying to keep stacked away and quiet. Bare feet on docks. Sunburned shoulders. Late nights stretching into early mornings.

A boy who made Blue Crab Bay feel smaller and bigger at the same time.

I swallow, trying to tamp down everything bubbling up, but it’s already there.

There was one moment. One single conversation my brain likes to keep in a locked drawer and then open for no reason at three in the morning.

I was terrified of breaking something.

I ended up shattering it anyway. And I never fixed it.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, making me jump. Apparently, I’m now one phone buzz away from leaving my body. I pull it out and see a text from Granny.

Where are you???

Just parked don’t move

I have a broken leg, Emory. I’m not exactly running marathons.

You’re also you

Fair.

I tuck my phone away and keep walking. The Point feels smaller than it used to. Or maybe I just forgot how tightly everything fits together here.

I make it seventeen steps before another burst of laughter floats across the water, closer this time. Somebody says something I can’t make out. Somebody else cheers. It sounds easy. The sound of people who belong here.

My steps slow without my permission.

“Don’t look,” I tell myself.

I focus on the details I know won’t hurt me. The creak of the bridge under my feet. The smell of salt and pluff mud. The glare of sunlight bouncing off the water, too bright to stare at directly.

This is temporary.

I repeat it like a promise.

My armor.

I reach the door to Holey Moley and pause. Through the glass, I can see movement.

Inside, something crashes, someone swears, and Granny’s voice cuts through it all. “For the love of butter, if you drop another tray?—”

I exhale.

“Here we go,” I mumble.

CHAPTER 2

JAKE

The Pinch of Tides glides easy toward the dock, the bay kicking back that deep gold from the last of the afternoon sun. The water’s calm enough I can feel the boat settle under my hands instead of fight me, and after a full day working crab pots, that counts as kindness.

Hank is sprawled on the bench beside me. Seventy pounds of English bulldog, wrinkles, bottom teeth, and a tongue hanging out one side of his mouth like a drunken sailor. He’s upside down, legs twitching every now and then, probably dreaming about the crabs I “accidentally” let tumble onto the boat deck instead of into the crate.