7. Jack #2
“No fucking way. Stay the night at least. Sloane had an interview this morning for the Herald, but you know she’s going to want to see you. And you’re off the ice for two weeks.”
I don’t argue. Not sure I have the energy to head back to Boston anyway.
After breakfast, I walk with Ethan down to the docks so he can head out and haul traps.
It’s early yet, but Main Street is already full of familiar faces as they head to the diner and the coffee shop.
I tuck my ball cap down low, my head still throbbing.
The damn sunlight isn’t helping. It’s cooler on the sidewalk.
Main Street is a collection of boutiques and shops huddled tightly together, squat buildings with clapboard siding, hand-drawn chalk signs by their brightly painted front doors, and overflowing flower boxes. I’ll never get tired of the salt air.
I think everyone assumes I never want to come back, or maybe I’m too busy now. And while I have a life that keeps me on the road or in Boston for most of the year, Merritt Point will always be home.
Then I round the corner and see it.
It’s jarring every time. Still, the hole in the ground where my family’s restaurant used to stand.
Ethan notices me pause. “Doesn’t get any easier.”
A lot of things in life don’t. I think I’m finally learning that.
“It’s just different.”
“Let’s go,” my dad bellows from the boat. He’s loading bait bags onto the deck.
The harbor’s quieter this time of year. Just a few boats rocking in their slips and the gulls making a racket overhead.
“You look like hell, Jack,” he says by way of greeting.
Richie Murphy was never known to mince words. It’s straight-Boston. All gruff, no R’s, and a wicked sense of humor.
“You should see the other guy.” When my dad doesn’t laugh, I scuff my boot over the weathered dock boards. “Good morning to you too.”
He straightens, his round belly filling out his Red Sox T-shirt beneath a pair of bright-orange Grundéns. He adjusts his gray plaid scally cap, then dives back into work with a sigh. “Your mother’s worried sick. You call her yet?”
“I texted her this morning.”
“Doesn’t count.” He runs his hand across his sharp, Irish nose. “What are you doing out here anyway? Shouldn’t you be in bed?”
“It’s a five-minute walk, Dad. I’m fine.”
“Uh-huh.” He doesn’t look convinced. “Ethan, tell your brother to take a nap.”
“I’ve got the bags, Dad. Go start her up.” Ethan adjusts his hat and glares at me. “When has Jack ever listened to me?”
“Fair point.” That deep belly laugh of my dad’s booms, breaking the quiet of the harbor before he starts up the lobster boat.
“Where’s Brooks?” I feel a little weird being left on the dock. True, it’s a five-minute walk, but I don’t trust my body to handle being on the water or hauling traps with my brother today.
“Busy,” Ethan says, quickly.
Brooks is Ethan’s best friend, and between helping out on the lobster boat and painting houses, he might as well be another Murphy sibling. Annie sure annoys him enough for that to be true.
My dad walks back, his hands on his hips as he gazes up at me on the dock. “Go rest, son. We’ll see you for dinner tonight. Mom’s making shepherd’s pie.”
It might be one of my least favorite dishes my mom makes outside of her tuna noodle casserole. Still, I force a smile, ignoring the pang in my chest as my dad struggles with one of the lines. “I’ll be there.”
He gives me one more look, the kind that says he’s not buying my “I’m fine” act, before he shuffles back and turns on the radio.
Aerosmith and seagulls are all I can hear before he and Ethan start yelling at each other over the noise, slowly guiding the boat out. It’s a dance they do together a lot.
Another thing I mostly missed out on.
I stand there for a minute as the boat heads out into the harbor, the horizon a smudgy line of pale blue and gray.
I sit down, resting against the railing, and let my feet swing over the edge.
When I was little, I’d watch the sun dance over the murky water sloshing against the docks, searching for schools of silversides.
The team’s on their way to St. Louis, and I don’t know what to do with myself. I guess check in with Heather, maybe grab a coffee.
That’s when I spot it, not far down the street from where the Merritt’s Catch Lobster Co. stood.
A wide window decorated in ghosts made of book pages, little heart cutouts made in each, the two larger ones holding bouquets of fake roses.
A heart garland is draped across the top of the arched window, lined with white Christmas lights.
In each corner, stacks of pumpkins with bright pink and orange bows tied around each stem.
And to the left, a bright, bubblegum-pink door.
The Salty Romantic.
I should keep walking. Head back to Ethan’s, take a nap, and respond to everyone’s texts. But my feet are already moving toward the entrance flanked with giant pots of bright-orange mums.
When I step inside, a small bell overhead rings.
I stuff my hands into my pockets and watch as Izzy helps a customer on the far side of the small shop.
She throws her head back and laughs, and something inside my chest squeezes.
I don’t sit with it, because if I do, I’ll turn around.
And I came here for a reason, even if I’m pretending I didn’t.
She does a double-take when she spots me, her eyes widening before her expression shutters, and she spins her back toward me. Her hair is down as always, tied in an orange bow. She’s wearing a boxy gray T-shirt over a satin floral skirt and sneakers.
I wind slowly through the stacks, pretending to browse. There’s a line at the register, three people deep. Izzy darts between answering questions, ringing them up, and handing out bookmarks with little bows on them. She’s flushed, chatty, and absolutely in her element.
I hover near a display of monster romances, trying not to grin at the shelf of very interesting silicone toys displayed beside them. Tentacles? A thrusting wolf dildo? Dragon tongue?
Izzy catches me looking and shoots me a glare so sharp I toss my hands up and spin, delighted to find a whole section of hockey romances. I grab one and flip open to a random page, ignoring the way I can feel her stare burn into my back.
“Just go ask him,” a voice hisses behind me.
Fuck. I’m not in the mood for this today.
“Excuse me, can you sign this?” A younger woman with short brown curls holds out a book and a pen. “I’m a huge fan.”
“Love hockey?” I sound like an asshole, I know it.
Still, her smile breaks out into a full grin, and she sighs. “The Breakers are going to the Cup this season. I know it.”
“That’s the goal.” I hand back her pen and book, already turning my body toward her because I know what’s next.
“A quick selfie?”
I grin, and my cheek aches from last night. Shit, I’m not exactly dressed for this today. Don’t think there’s a picture of me in glasses anywhere on the internet. I’ve made sure of that.
The other customers in the store whisper, and before long, there’s a short line waiting for me to chat. Izzy, meanwhile, is roughly stuffing bookmarks into books on a crowded display.
Customers trickle out until it’s just the two of us alone in the shop. Izzy walks back behind the front counter and leans against it. “Why are you here?”
I scratch my cheek, then immediately wince. Right, black eyes, bruised cheek. My thin, gold-wired glasses slide down my nose, and I shove them up quickly. God, I hate these things. Bruises I can handle. The glasses? Different story.
“Why are you here, Jack?” she repeats.
I yank off my hat and run my hand through my hair. “Went for a walk.”
“Glasses?”
I nod. “Trying to go incognito.”
“Because that worked so well for you just now?” The corner of her mouth lifts. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I slept on my brother’s couch.”
Izzy snorts. “Being Mr. Tough Guy is hard, isn’t it?”
I know she’s teasing, but there’s a hint of sincerity there too.
“Been busy today?”
Her cheeks instantly turn red. She swipes her shaggy black bangs out of her eyes. “Yes. And a lot of questions about that photo of us…”
A couple walks in, and she rushes off to help them, leaving me standing there.
My pulse won’t settle, and my stupid glasses keep sliding down my nose.
I’m half convinced the only reason I visited this morning was because being near her makes everything else feel less loud.
Dragon dildos aside, the bookshop feels warm and a touch magical—like Izzy—and I just want to get to know her.
Though I’m pretty sure she hates that idea.
It’s probably a bad idea. But I love bad ideas.
When she’s finished, she folds her arms. “So?”
“You know,” I say, leaning back against a pink shelf, “if people already think we’re together, we should just take advantage of that.”
She pauses, confusion melting into a half laugh. “What?”
“You know, I think being with me brings business to your store. And being with you would make me seem a little more approachable.”
“Less of a fuckboy,” she says, eyebrows lifting. “Maybe someone who doesn’t have their head up their ass?”
“Why does everyone keep saying that?” I mutter.
She laughs and throws her hands up. “Sometimes the truth hurts, bub.”
I chuckle.
“Yeah, well…” My gaze drifts to the Mr. Darcy bobblehead in the window. He gives me his judgmental little nod, and I hate how seen I feel by a piece of plastic.
She turns away to straighten a display, and for the first time all morning, I let myself admit wanting her help feels like wanting her. Before I lose my nerve, I push off the pink bookshelf and walk up to the counter and plant my hands across the marble top.
“I have a proposal for you.”