Page 42 of Just One More Thing

He has.

“Larry is so lazy that the only workout he does is diddly squat!” The place erupts.

When an order’s ready, they ring a bell and shout through the pick up window, “Larry is so lazy…” “How lazy is he?” the whole crowd answers.

Meredith supplies the punchline from behind the counter as both employment and performance art.

Ryan ordered theThis Ain’t New York Pork:shredded pork, collard greens, onion straws, barbecue sauce on a bun. For WayneThe Perky Turkey:sweet-tea brined turkey, baby Swiss, crushed potato chips.

I getThe Jake Fake. Fried bologna, American cheese, spicy brown mustard, pickle, thick toast.

Wayne stares at the menu board, then at me. “They named a sandwich after you?”

I take the sack from Meredith. “They did.”

“I love this town,” he says.

“Same,” Ryan says, grinning now.

They’d both been here before, but not long enough for the town to start making sense.

We step back out into the sun with a sack of sandwiches, a pink box of doughnuts, and Wayne repeating “How lazy is he?” to himself like it’s a code he’s trying to crack.

We head toward the dock.

A boat day.

My boys beside me.

It hits me that I didn’t realize how much I needed this until they showed up. The noise. The familiarity. The way Ryan says the truth and Wayne says everything else.

I ease The Pinch of Tides away from the dock, idling through the no-wake zone while Wayne talks too loud and Ryan settles into the bow with Hank.

I take the last sip of my coffee. Walt’s handwriting curves across the side.

TRUST THE TIMING OF YOUR LIFE

I look at it before crumpling the cup and setting it inside a bag.

Then I turn us toward open water.

CHAPTER 13

EMORY

It’s barely nine o’clock. Granny is asleep. The television feels too loud even muted, and I finished my book an hour ago, but I’ve been sitting here flipping back to the beginning and rereading the first chapter,

hoping it might magically rewrite itself.

It doesn’t.

I get up and wander to the window. The Knuckle is still open, glowing at the top of the dock.

I tell myself I’m just going for a walk. That’s all. Just air. Just movement. Just not sitting here wondering why my chest feels tight over something I supposedly made peace with ten years ago.

I change into jeans and a white tee. Swipe on mascara. Press on lip balm. I leave my hair down, even though I debate pulling it back twice, as if that’s the decision that’ll tip my life into calm or chaos.

Just walking, Emory.