2. The Air at the Edge of Home
The Air at the Edge of Home
The flight to Tampa was short. Too short.
The air outside was thick. Suffocating.
Florida heat wrapped around her the second the automatic doors slid open, clinging to her skin like memory. Salt, sunblock, jet fuel. The air smelled like summers spent barefoot on hot pavement, like boat rides at dusk and bakery deliveries at dawn. Jenna’s first deep breath almost undid her.
Even after ten years away, she remembered this exact feeling. It’s that mix of salt and humidity and something electric underneath, as if the ocean were close enough to touch. The air itself was so distinctly Tampa that Jenna felt something like homesickness swell inside her.
She followed the crowd toward the rental counters, her bag knocking against her hip. Smack, smack, smack. Tourists chattered about beach days and dinner reservations, children in flip-flops slapping across the tile. Thwack, thwack, thwack. The sounds felt impossibly alive. Unbearable.
At the counter, she handed over her license and nodded through the instructions. The clerk smiled, bright and oblivious.
“Enjoy your stay, Ms. Hart.”
Jenna took the keys without answering.
Outside, the evening light poured over the parking lot: hazy, orange, and endless. She slid into the rental, a white SUV that smelled of coconut air freshener, and pulled out of the garage.
The drive north was muscle memory.
As the bridge wrapped like a ribbon over the bay, a flash of memory hit.
Long summer evenings when she and Brooks rode their bikes across this same stretch with their tires humming against the concrete path.
The air always smelled like salt and warm tar, the sun beating down hard enough to sting their shoulders.
They’d race each other halfway, the breeze whipping at their shirts, gulls swooping low over the guardrail, and Brooks grinning on a bike that had gotten too small after his last growth spurt, thrilled he could finally beat his big sister at something.
When the tide was high and the wind was right, the waves slapped against the rocks and sprayed up over the trail, soaking their legs and the handlebars.
Brooks would shout, “Loser does the dishes!” and pedal faster, grinning like he could outpace the ocean itself.
By the time they turned back toward Bayview Park, their clothes clung to their skin, and their shoes squished with every push of the pedals.
It shouldn’t have been cold—it was Florida—but the rush of wind would make her teeth chatter despite the summer sun and the sweat on their brows. They’d ride the last few miles in silence, shivering and laughing, their bikes throwing tiny arcs of salt water with every spin of the wheels.
Sometimes their mom would be waiting at the trailhead, shaking her head before they even reached her. She would pretend to be mad about the wet clothes, knowing she hadn’t packed extras for this nonsense, but everyone knew she stopped expecting dry seats and well-behaved kids years ago.
Grace would hand them towels, her smirk saying everything, that mix of relief and glee you feel when your siblings are in trouble and you’re not.
Those days usually ended the same way, with hot showers, dry shorts, and home-cooked dinners while their mom complained about the sand in the laundry room.
Grace would steal the last roll, Brooks would make a face, and Jenna would just feel the warmth of it all, the comfort of belonging, of everything in its place.
Now, as the bridge leveled out and the sunset flared over the bay, she realized it was the same water, the same wind, only the laughter was gone.
By the time she crossed into Pinellas County, the salt in the air was so thick she could almost taste it.
Traffic crawled as she reached Clearwater, summer evening, beach traffic, and brake lights stretching ahead in an endless red line. But she didn’t care. The slow crawl gave her time to look, time to think.
She turned north onto Alt 19, and the water opened up on her left, a wide sheet of molten light beside the road.
She rolled the window all the way down, and warm air poured in, heavy with ocean and exhaust and the sweetness of fried food from the beachside shacks. Somewhere nearby, a radio played Tom Petty a little too loudly, the sound floating across the breeze.
Through Dunedin, the memories shifted, warmer, slower, bathed in sunlight.
Jenna sat at the red light where U.S. 19 becomes Bayshore Boulevard and meets Causeway Boulevard. Outside the windshield, the brick sign reading Welcome to Dunedin Causeway caught the light just so, and for a moment, she wasn’t there at all.
Sunday afternoons after church had always led here.
Their dad was at the wheel, still in his dress shirt with the sleeves rolled, and their mom humming along with the radio as Grace and Brooks argued over who got the last donut from the fellowship table.
The car always smelled faintly of sunscreen and sugar glaze.
Jenna sat in the middle of her siblings, pretending to be annoyed at their bickering.
They’d park along the Dunedin Causeway, the same stretch of sand that divided the Gulf from St. Joseph Sound, and unpack everything from the trunk: a cooler, towels, buckets, and even Grace’s stubborn determination to make the perfect drip castle.
Jenna could still see her sister crouched in the sand, hair sticking to her forehead, and water dripping through her fingers as she built towers and bridges that the tide always stole away.
Brooks, of course, couldn’t sit still. He’d wade out waist-deep, kicking at the little swells rolling in from passing boats, laughing as the water slapped against his chest.
Their father would stand on the shore tossing a football toward Brooks, who lingered waist-deep in the surf, more focused on the spiral coming toward him than the water around him. Their mother would shout constant warnings about sharks, convinced the distraction would get him eaten alive someday.
Jenna tried to be everywhere at once, helping Grace with her castles, chasing Brooks into the surf, trying to catch pieces of all of them before the afternoon slipped away.
When the sky began to turn orange, their dad would gather everyone for a last walk down the shore, their feet sinking into the wet sand as the water foamed at their ankles.
They’d stop for ice cream on the way home, all sunburnt and exhausted, Grace licking hers too slowly until it melted down her wrist.
It was ordinary, unremarkable even. But as Jenna stared at the sign, the memory hit with the weight of something sacred. Back then, it had felt like life would always circle back to days like that: warm, salt-stung, and whole.
A horn blared behind her. The light had turned green. Jenna blinked, eased her foot onto the gas, and the moment slipped away like the tide.
As the road bent inland around Sutherland Bayou, familiar neighborhoods blurred past beneath the glow of streetlights.
She passed Casa Ludovico, its patio lights spilling warmly onto the sidewalk, and for a moment she could almost see the stadium lights rising behind it.
The smell of popcorn and wet grass hung thick in the air.
Jenna could still feel the chill of the aluminum bleachers through her jeans, Grace beside her in a Spongers sweatshirt two sizes too big, both of them yelling until their voices went raw.
Brooks had been a defensive end, all energy and stubbornness.
He’d played like every down mattered, like every snap might change something.
That night, that game, was the one everyone still talked about for years after.
The Spongers versus the Hurricanes, the local rivalry that filled the stands and split families for the night.
She could see it like it was happening again: the Hurricanes driving hard downfield, the crowd restless, the noise a pulse in her ears.
Then the snap, the quarterback stepping back, and Brooks breaking through the line.
He hit like lightning, knocking the ball loose, the crowd gasping before it even hit the turf.
For half a heartbeat, he froze, almost confused, then scooped it up and ran.
The stands erupted. Coaches shouting, band horns blaring, students spilling from the bleachers as he crossed the goal line for his first and only touchdown. The final seconds bled off the clock, and the Spongers took the win. 21–17.
Afterward, Brooks had stood under the lights, helmet tucked under his arm, cheeks flushed and grinning so hard that his mouthguard nearly fell out.
Grace had jumped the fence and thrown her arms around him despite the mud covering him from head to toe.
Jenna had watched them both from a safe distance away, laughing until her throat ached.
Now, passing through Palm Harbor, the memory unspooled in the flicker of passing headlights. The stadium was still there, she knew, with the same field and the same scoreboard, but the people who had made it matter were gone.
By the time she reached the south edge of Tarpon Springs, the sun was sliding down, staining the clouds gold and rose.
She should’ve turned off on Athens Street, should’ve headed straight toward Grace’s house, Grandma’s old house. But instead, her hands moved before she could stop them, turning left onto MLK and letting the road pull her toward the water.
She turned onto Whitcomb Blvd, where the houses sat low to the ground, solid block and stubborn, their walls bearing the subtle scars of too many hurricane seasons.
She slowed as she neared Spring Bayou, the water still and glassy in the fading light.
Ducks cut small ripples across the surface, and the church bells at St. Nicholas echoed softly from somewhere beyond the trees.
Nothing about it had changed. Not the wooden benches by the shore, not the kids tossing bread at the ducks, not the way the air shimmered gold before dusk.