Page 51 of Just One More Thing

Someone walked in right before the alarm went off last night.

Shit.

I open my mouth. Close it. Reach for a doughnut hole instead and pop it in. Frank slides a pink box across the counter. “Delivery for Tall Tales.”

“I’ll take it,” I say instantly.

Fresh air feels necessary.

Coffee that isn’t sludge, essential.

Avoiding Granny’s interrogation, survival.

I step into the sunshine, where Blue Crab Bay is already fully awake and, apparently, emotionally invested in my business. I nearly collide with Miss Hattie steering The Salty Dog cart toward The Green.

“Well, if it isn’t Almost-a-Kiss-Donovan,” she chirps.

Oh good. We’re branding now.

“I did not almost kiss anyone.”

“Yesss, youuu diddd,” she sings. “Laura Jenkins saw you, told Elizabeth Shumacher, Elizabeth told her sister, her sister told me, and Gladys Kravitz filled in the blanks.”

“There were no blanks.”

“Hmm.” She pats my arm. “Sure there weren’t.” Then she wheels away, singing “Love Is in the Air.”

I make it five steps before Mrs. Kravitz materializes beside me like a jump scare in floral print. “He looked real torn up watching you leave,” she murmurs, shaking her head. “Mmmm. Shame. Toot. Toot.”

Someone makes a siren noise. Someone else makes exaggerated kissing sounds.

Town 1. Emory 0.

“I’m gonna need a bigger bkr,” I mumble.

By the time I reach the end of The Green, my jaw aches from clenching. Willard is on his bench. French Fry struts beside him like a feathered bodyguard. Chip sits at his feet, clutching a peanut with both hands, nibbling with purpose.

“Morning, Emory,” Willard says.

French Fry squawks in a judgmental tone. “I don’t need commentary from you,” I tell the bird.

He squawks again.

I sit carefully on the edge of the bench, mindful of fur, feathers, and my own unraveling. The box of doughnuts rests in my lap, warm through the cardboard.

“I did not almost kiss anyone,” I announce.

Willard takes a slow sip of coffee. “Didn’t say you did.”

“I’m just putting it on record.”

“Ah.” He sips again. “For the record.”

“Yes.”

He nods thoughtfully. “Records have a way of keeping themselves.”

I look down at the doughnut box in my lap. “I’m leaving soon,” I say, like that explains everything.