Chapter Nine. After All
Chapter Nine
AFTER ALL
For the second time that day, Cam made the walk to Burton Street—this time with Reggie and Danny. With the sun fully out, it was easier to appreciate the historic district’s charm, from the distinctly New England architecture to the variety of shops and restaurants that screamed coastal small town.
There was the redbrick post office, the family-owned pet store Belly Rub, and Café Tupelo, the coffee shop–bakery hybrid with muraled windows and wind chimes by the entrance.
Lines already looped in front of Ballyhass Confections, known for their fresh fudge and saltwater taffy, and Red Maple Creamery, the old-fashioned ice cream parlor with checkerboard floors and red-topped stools.
Cam also spotted Brush Stroke, a stationery and art supply shop with colorful journals and locally designed greeting cards lining the storefront.
Burton Street felt like a movie set, the sort of place requiring a tram ride to experience.
As Cam and Danny explored the street on foot, Reggie ran ahead of them off leash, stopping every few feet to make sure he hadn’t lost them.
Danny would encourage him on, whistling and jumping forward, as if he was going to break into a run.
Reggie loved the game, wagging his tail so frantically she was afraid he’d injure himself.
But once they started going in and out of stores, Danny leashed him, throwing Reggie pets and praise as they walked as one unit.
Cam loved watching them together. The new role of dog dad fit Danny well, and every interaction between the pair made it crystal clear how much he loved Reggie. He’d always wanted a dog. Something they bonded over was their lonely childhoods, without any siblings or pets to spend time with.
She wasn’t the slightest bit surprised when he adopted Reggie, and every picture he sent her was bittersweet. Because as happy as she was for him, it reminded her how a pet didn’t fit into her own budget.
“You’re so good with him,” she said. “It’s like he’s always been with you.”
“It feels like he has. He’s an official member of the family.” Danny tossed him a treat, grinning. “He’s on our Chrismukkah card.”
“As he should be. I wish ours had a dog. Instead, I’m posed in front of an Elf on a Shelf and a Mensch on a Bench.” Her mother insisted on displaying the creepy plush dolls on the mantel back home. “They take center stage, eclipsing even the tree and the wax-coated menorah.”
“Sounds like you need a letter opener to shovel out the wax.”
“Now why would we do that? It’s like scraping away memories.”
“What color candles?”
“For like, a decade, flashy silver. Followed by multicolor, which I hate. Doesn’t match any holiday aesthetic.”
He laughed. “More fun than plain white. My parents do the monochrome shtick. White candles, white lights. Extends to the tree, too. All the ornaments are matching beige.” He shuddered. “Less life than a graveyard.”
His words were a reminder that he was one of the few people in her life who understood growing up interfaith. Being a little bit of both.
Her father was the religious one of her parents, meaning she’d been baptized, confirmed, the whole nine yards in the Catholic church.
And yet so much of her identity had been shaped by her Jewish mother and her Jewish extended family.
Danny’s parents were pretty secular, embracing religion as a culture versus a belief system.
He followed suit, never being pushed into rites of either religion. No baptism, no bar mitzvah.
But he knew the distinct smell of burning incense during mass, whenever he was dragged to the heathen churchgoing days of Christmas Eve and Easter.
He knew the required consumption of noodle kugel during family get-togethers, grimacing through every taste of raisin.
He knew the excitement of waking up on Christmas morning to a tree overflowing with ribbon-wrapped gifts.
He knew the joy of defeating his cousins in a game of dreidel and collecting the glittering gold gelt and the sweet chocolate hidden within the foil.
The dual upbringing was both a blessing and a curse, and having Danny to trade experiences with made the identity crisis easier to process.
Because no one could really be half a religion, and yet as a child, it was the label that made sense to her.
Photos of her parents getting married with a priest and a rabbi made sense to her.
Celebrating Christmas and Hanukkah made sense to her.
Knowing the Lord’s Prayer and the first Hanukkah blessing made sense to her.
It made sense to him, too.
“Speaking of graveyards,” he continued, directing her towards the ice cream parlor, “the first time I went to Red Maple, I thought I’d died it was so fucking good. If you trust me, you gotta get a flavor I recommend. No room for argument.”
“That’s a lot of blind trust,” she said. “You eat literally anything. You have the least picky palate and the strongest spice tolerance.”
His smirk proved he wore her words like a badge of pride. “Hell yeah. I still have my T-shirt from Rooster’s Row.”
“I’m not surprised. You’ve never let Drew live it down.”
Rooster’s Row was the local dive bar by Adams, known for their loose relationship with fake IDs and their hot wings challenge.
Anyone who could eat ten chicken wings in their famous Clucking Hot sauce was awarded a T-shirt and a picture on the Wall of Fame.
Sophomore year, Cam joined the guys to attempt it—Morgan bailing, as she was in her brief vegan phase—and all four of them were convinced Danny would be the first one to tap out.
But it was only him and Drew who got to the halfway point.
By wing seven, Cam remembered Drew legitimately crying from the burn, begging Morgan to order him a milkshake and to take the plate away.
Ultimately, it was a red-faced, sauce-stained Danny to eat all ten wings, teary-eyed but grinning when his picture was taken.
He wiggled his eyebrows playfully. “Because you all underestimated me.” He stumbled a bit then, his smile dulling. “You guys always underestimated me.”
The shift was sudden, and her mouth grew dry. “Danny—”
“I recommend the blackberry pie flavor,” he interrupted as they approached Red Maple Creamery.
He waved to the chalkboard sign out front, advertising the flavors of the day.
“It’s made in-house, and there’s chunks of sugary, buttery pie crust inside.
It’s my favorite. But if you want something more traditional, their mint chocolate chip is out of this world. ”
She nodded along, hoping she masked her frown.
He always dropped serious topics with a shrug and a smile.
It was typical Danny behavior, up there with him ordering a two-scoop cone and paying extra for whipped cream and strawberries for Reggie.
Taking his recommendation, she ordered the blackberry pie flavor, and didn’t argue when he paid.
They ate as they walked, with Danny pointing out every store and restaurant. The minute they were in direct sunlight, he slipped on a pair of aviators, mouthing at his cone like it was the only food he’d ever eat again.
It was oddly distracting, and when he glanced at her, licking a bit of ice cream from the corner of his mouth, she quickly looked away.
“It’s not much,” he said quietly, watching a family pass, a box of pastries from Café Tupelo in hand.
“But it’s become home. Sure, gas can get expensive, and the winter is fucking cold, but …
I like it here. It’s close to my parents and …
I don’t know. Every day, I wake up with the beach in my backyard. I can’t think of anything better.”
“Neither can I.”
Yet, nine months ago, before she and Morgan left their dreamy post-college apartment, she thought the greatest thing in the world was an eight-minute walk to Whole Foods.
When she finished her ice cream, he guided them along a rocky path until they hit a stretch of beachside pavement primarily occupied by cyclists. “Review first, beach second,” he said, waving to the water, just out of reach. “So, what can you recommend off the menu? Are there any May specials?”
Her attention strayed to the glittering blue water. “A pop quiz? That’s not fair.”
“What do you think tomorrow will be like? We can’t predict who’ll come through the door or what questions they’ll ask. You gotta be prepared. I’m lobbing it across the plate right now.” He lunged, pitching an imaginary baseball. “You gotta hit these easy ones out of the park.”
Rolling with his imaginary game, she mimed swinging a bat. He whistled, spinning his head around while pointing to the sky. “Look at it go!” he cried. “You could hear that one off the bat.”
She shoved him, hiding her smile. “You’re honestly so annoying.”
“Thank you, Camille. As always, your words touch me.” He clutched both hands to his chest to demonstrate. “But I’ll get more annoying until you get the hang of things. I love my customers, but some of them are fucking nightmares. I just want you prepared.”
Knowing he was right, she straightened her shoulders and approached his pop quiz like she did her many years of schooling.
“Okay. May specials. There’s four.” He waved her on, and she held up her hand, clenched in a fist. “The Old Bay mac ’n’ cheese”—she lifted a finger—“the shrimp tacos…” With only two fingers up, she drew a blank.
“You ate it yesterday,” he hinted.
“Oh! The strawberry shortcake cookies. And then … the homemade strawberry limeade, virgin or mixed.”
“Damn, still so smart,” he teased. “But I’ve got more. What’s on Beau’s Burger? What are our six signature cocktails? What sides do we offer?”