Chapter Three
TUCKER
Iwake up before sunrise again, because my body knows. The comfort of the familiar is healing me in more ways than I can say. Being back on Hope Island, well, something in the air is filling all those dangerous gaps that opened up inside me while with Anthony.
Some people go to a church building filled with pews on Sunday mornings, but my church is the beach with the sound of the waves as the choir and the sun as the final prayer.
The air is muggy and warm as I step outside.
Grabbing a beach towel Dad laid out just for me, I plod through the dunes, enjoying the short walk to the water, barefoot and smiling.
The brine is stronger today, probably because of the storm that blew through overnight.
The storm also blew some good shells in, so after I carefully arrange the beach blanket on the slightly damp sand, I walk slowly to the shoreline to shell hunt.
I find a few good shells and squat to wash them in the foamy sea water.
I swipe my thumb over the black shell that caught my eye.
Everyone always grabs the white shells without any cracks.
Those are the perfect ones everyone wants.
But I’ve always been drawn to the black or gray seashells.
The shells that have a little crack in them, some tarnish that makes them look anything but perfect to another eye.
Not to me though. Those are the most wanted shells for my collection.
“Mornin’.”
Startled, I almost fall on my ass in the water but steady myself with a hand on the wet ground.
Looking to my left, I find a sweaty Charles paused and staring at me with a small amount of trepidation.
I’ve seen him around town since buying the guitar, but we delayed the first lesson, so I haven’t really spoken to him since.
He looks just about the same, but his smile seems sweeter this time.
I fight the flush that wants to sweep across my cheeks, clearing my throat.
“Good morning.”
Charles points at my hands. “What have you got there?”
“Shells,” I say with a small hint of shame.
Charles just grins and steps closer. “Can I see?”
What?
I hold my hand out like a toddler presenting their most favorite rocks. Charles looks them over, then uses his finger to press against the black one I was just admiring before he scared me shitless.
“That’s my favorite.” He holds his hand out to me in a clear invitation to help me stand, and I take it because I’m surely possessed by some sort of demon in his presence. “Are you waiting for the sunrise?”
“Yes.”
“Can I join you?”
“Why?” I ask before I can shut my damn mouth. This time the heat does rush to my face, and it blooms hotter when Charles stares back at me. “I mean, don’t you need to continue your run?”
“Nah. I’m cooling down now. Sunrise is coming soon.”
It is, if only by the way the horizon is turning deep orange, the sky lit up in pinks and purples that remind me of my favorite moments of my childhood.
We head back toward the blanket, but Charles stops with a gasp and bends over, only to present his hand back to me.
In it is a black shell that I’d missed earlier, this one with a few more cracks, but with a soft white inside that’s been worn with time.
It’s perfect. He holds it out for me to take, and I shake my head.
“That shell is meant for you since you found it.”
“Ah,” Charles says carefully, but with a lot of weight to the word. “That’s how it works? Finders keepers?”
“Yes.”
Charles chuckles and follows me the rest of the way to the blanket, where we settle side by side in comfortable silence.
I bring my knees up and wrap my arms around them, leaning my cheek against my knee as the sun slowly inches up.
Once fully over the horizon, I breathe the air in, listen to the soft waves and Charles breathing, and make my wish again.
When I glance over, Charles is leaning back on his hands, his legs in the wet sand, his eyes closed as he probably makes some sort of wish.
I wonder what a man like Charles would wish for. Probably world peace.
A moment later, he turns his head toward me and smiles.
Something weird and warm struggles to life inside me, but I shove it back down where it belongs.
I aim what I hope is a kind smile his way, and it must do its job because he just smiles wider and shoves to a stand.
He silently brushes his legs off, salutes me, then walks off in the direction he was going.
I watch him disappear on the horizon as the sun breaks farther into the sky.
The seagulls sing overhead, and the waves crash harder against the shore, and life goes on like it always has and always will.
I gather up the blanket and slip the shells into my sweatpants pocket before heading back toward the house.
I shake out the sand from the blanket, then leave my shoes by the back door.
The house is warm and quiet, smelling like cinnamon rolls when I step inside.
Dad and Pop are in the kitchen, whispering before turning their heads toward me.
Dad goes back to the oven, and Pop makes his way over to me.
He rests his big hands on my shoulders and squeezes hard.
“How was the sunrise?”
“Same as every other day,” I say dully.
Pop grunts at my tone. “No good shells?”
I drag my hand out of my pocket, pulling out the shells, and watch as he looks them over. He points out the same one Charles had. “I like that one.”
That same weird feeling from outside returns, maybe pride at someone else finding value in something that was worthless to others.
Maybe I’m not as alone as I’ve always thought.
The smell of cinnamon and icing pulls me toward the kitchen once Pop lets me go.
We both take a seat at the island, staring at Dad expectantly, which only makes him chuckle.
“Y’all are so bad,” Dad says as his shoulders shake.
“Feed us, please?” Pop begs as he dramatically leans forward on the counter as if he’s been starved for weeks. “We are so hungry.”
“I fed you last night.”
“That was so long ago!”
I bite my lip to stop my smile at their antics. Dad plates the cinnamon rolls and drizzles icing over the tops. He gives us both forks, but Pop and I exchange a he’s crazy sort of look before picking up the sticky buns with our hands.
“Neanderthals,” Dad says fondly, then digs into his with said fork.
Pop grunts loudly. “Good. Want more.”
Dad sighs affectionately and continues to delicately eat his cinnamon roll.
Sometimes I wonder how I was able to be swept into Anthony’s tide after having such a loving example here at home.
Maybe it doesn’t matter if there’s love around you, if you don’t believe you deserve it and don’t love yourself.
We finish our cinnamon rolls in peace, and I help Dad clean up in the kitchen.
Pop disappears out into the backyard, no doubt to work on a car in the garage.
“We’ve not done it in a while, because you’ve been home, but usually on Sundays we have a neighbor over for dinner. Is that okay?”
“Yeah, I can go out.”
Dad turns to me with an admonishing glare. “No, you’ll stay. It’s a gluten-free meal, and this is your home. You’ll stay for Sunday dinner tonight.”
“Fine.”
“Good.”
“I’m really bored.”
Dad presses his shoulder against mine in a comforting gesture. “I know. But you’re healing, my love. We don’t need you to run out and make a new life for yourself right now. We need you to rest and find yourself again.”
“I just feel—”
“If you say bad…” Dad interrupts with a patented frown.
“I know.”
“So, I’m going to make gluten-free pizza tonight on the pizza stone. Do you have plans for the day?”
“River is closing the shop early this afternoon so we can hang out.”
“Ah, River. He’s a good boy.”
“That’s not what you said when we were teens,” I point out with a gentle chuckle. Dad loves River, and did when he was younger too, but he’s always found River rambunctious and wild. I think River reminds Dad of himself in ways that make him uncomfortable. I’ve never pressed why.
“His parents suck.”
“I know.”
“Well, have fun with him. What’re you doing?”
“Never know with River.”
“’Sup, slut!” River shouts as he pulls into the driveway.
Pop sticks his head out from behind the engine of the car he’s working on. “Really, River?”
“Sorry, Mr. James.” River looks admonished, just to wink at me when Pop goes back to the car.
“Get in the car, slut,” River whispers this time.
I have to fight back my laugh before climbing into his Land Rover.
His parents always wanted him to drive something ostentatious and expensive, but River begged for an older Land Rover, and he’s been riding the wave of this car for the past decade.
“Where are we going?”
“Mainland” is all River says before turning up the radio.
His messy black curls blow in the breeze as he puts down the windows. He twists the dial on the radio, and classic rock fills the air. I rest my arm on the window lip and lean my head against it, feeling the salty air wash over my face as we take the bridge off the island.
We pull into the parking lot of the tourist trap mini golf we frequented as kids.
I snort out a laugh, which earns me a teasing grin from River.
My life would’ve been so much easier if we’d been able to fall in love.
I wonder where I’d be now if we had. But it never would’ve worked anyway, and life is about moving forward, not going back.
Our shoulders bump as we head toward the ticket stand.
The grumpy old man rolls his eyes at the sight of River, which tells me that River still comes for rounds of mini golf without me after all these years.
Something about that is familiar and sad all at the same time.
We grab our clubs and I pick a lime-green ball, while River picks a hot-pink one.