12. Jake
JAKE
“Come on, Hank. Let’s go get the guys.” He lifts his head off the rug with the look of a bulldog who had a plan for this morning, and none of it involved movement.
“Bandana?” I ask, because bulldogs always need to think they’re running us.
I hold out a few options. He takes his time. Sniffs each one. Sniffs them again. Then finally noses the blueberry. “Didn’t even know we owned that one.”
I didn’t buy most of these. Somewhere along the way, my bulldog curated an accessory collection, and I stopped questioning it.
I slide it over his head, clip on the harness, grab the leash, and we walk onto the dock. The screen door slams behind us.
I’ll never fix it.
That sound is my childhood.
Summer mornings. Mom hollering that we were letting the air out. Dad laughing, whatever we were doing was worth Mom hollering. Me running out the door because there was something waiting I didn’t want to miss.
Hank snorts and trots ahead, dragging his leash, already scanning the skies for French Fry.
We head toward Tall Tales, waving at Willard on his bench and calling good morning to the handful of people already out and about. Blue Crab Bay doesn’t really wake up all at once. It yawns. Gets coffee. Starts talking before it’s fully conscious.
Hank spots French Fry near Willard’s feet.
The gull starts pacing back and forth. Each time he stops, he turns in our direction, raises his wings, and squawks. It reminds me of the targets in a carnival game.
Hank lunges.
“No, sir,” I say, stepping on his leash to stop him. “You are not starting a turf war before coffee.”
French Fry doesn’t even have the decency to look rattled. He just stands there, smug as hell. “C’mon, Hank. Walt’s got better options than bird.”
Inside Tall Tales, the bell over the door jingles. Walt looks up from the espresso machine and nods at Hank like he’s a regular with a standing order.
“Morning.”
“Morning, Walt.”
I step up to the counter. “Americano. One for me. One with two sugars. And whatever comes with extra caramel.”
“You thirsty today?”
“My buddies are in town, and we’re taking the boat out. But I’ve got to get their asses vertical first. This should help.”
“I live to serve,” he says, bending to hand Hank his Lick n’ Crunch cookie. Hank takes it with the solemn gratitude of a bulldog who has never once expected less than devotion from the world.
Walt watches him chew. “Saw you at the dunk tank with Emory last night.”
I keep my face neutral. “That so?”
“Whole town saw you. That was something.” He wipes down the steam wand, then glances at me again. “Also saw you throwing like you never left.”
I lean one hip against the counter. Hank finishes his cookie and immediately checks the floor for evidence of a second one. He settles for crumbs.
Walt says, “Ever think about going back?”
For a second, I just look at him. There are some questions that don’t hit as questions. They hit like somebody quietly opening a door you keep pretending is nailed shut.
“Walt,” I say, quieter now, “I think about it every day. Every damn day.” I shake my head once. “I thought football was my whole life.”
He waits.
“Turns out it’s just part of it.”
Walt studies me the same way he studies a shelf before he decides where a book belongs. “You notice things when you’re ready,” he says finally.
Then he slides the drinks into a cardboard tray and hands it over with a nod that ends the conversation without making it heavy. Maybe that’s a skill you earn with age. Knowing when to stop talking.
“Thanks, Walt.”
“See you later, Jake. Hank.”
I turn to push the door open with my back and walk right into someone stepping inside.
Mo.
The tray tilts in my hand. I catch it before disaster happens.
She smells like sugar and cinnamon and something citrus I can’t place. Her hair’s pulled up, a few strands have come loose around her face. And just that fast, she makes the morning better.
“Good morning, pretty lady,” I say.
Her mouth twitches. “I haven’t decided if I’m speaking to you yet.” Then she looks down and points at Hank. “Or you.”
Hank pops up on his back legs, paws batting at her hips.
“Suck up,” I tell him.
“I can’t stay mad at you, Hank,” she says, squatting to wrap her arms around his thick neck.
“What about me?”
She looks up at me from under her lashes. “Well…”
We both laugh. That’s the part that gets me. How natural it is now to stand this close and smile at each other as if we didn’t spend ten years being the hardest thing in each other’s lives.
“I’m heading to the Snooze to get the guys,” I say. “Have a good day, Mo.”
“You too, Jake.”
I push outside and take a few steps before I glance back over my shoulder.
She’s doing the same.
We both pretend we weren’t.
Huey and the Snooze sits on the far side of the pedestrian bridge.
There are no cars on The Point. The crushed shell lot serves as parking for everybody, and the rest we do on foot or by boat.
It’s one of the things I’ve always loved about this place.
Life here makes people cross paths whether they planned to or not.
The wooden bridge creaks under our steps. I slow without meaning to when I pass the plaque.
In memoriam of Tammy and Steve Wheeler
I keep moving.
I always do.
Inside the Snooze, I barely make it in the door before I hear it.
The rumble.
Then the grumble.
“I don’t give a hoot who you are, Jake Wheeler. You know you can’t bring that dog in here.”
“Morning, Mrs. Walker. If you gave him a chance, you’d love him.”
“Ain’t never loved a dog other than the man I married, and I never will.”
“Do you let kids in here?”
“Of course I do. What kinda stupid—“
“Well, Hank’s my kid.”
She opens her mouth to argue as I hustle Hank into the elevator. “And he’s better behaved than most,” I call as the doors close. “Get back he—“
Ryan’s door on the second floor opens before I knock. He takes one look at the tray and nods. “Ah. Coffee. Americano?”
“Of course. Two sugars.”
He takes his cup and squats to Hank. “Morning, sunshine. Did you have good sleeps?” Hank stretches on his back legs and gives Ryan a hug, which knocks Ryan straight back on his ass.
“Damn,” Ryan says from the carpet. “We need Hank on our defensive line.”
“You seen Sleeping Beauty yet?” I ask.
“No. Heard him snoring through drywall all night though.”
“Still rock-paper-scissors for who shares a room with him?”
“Rookies got him last season. Initiation.”
We laugh, and it’s immediate, the kind of familiarity that only comes from too many years of knowing exactly what kind of idiots your friends are.
Ryan takes a sip of coffee and studies me over the lid. “You sleep any?”
I shrug. “Tossed and turned.”
“That new?”
I give myself a second before answering. “Since she came back.”
Ryan just looks at me.
“Buddy,” he says after a beat, “that started when she left.”
“Yeah.” I sigh. “Probably.”
The truth of that settles between us without either of us messing with it.
“We still fishing today?” he asks.
“That’s the plan.”
“Good.” He steps back and jerks his chin toward the hallway. “Let’s wake him.”
An hour later—after Wayne fluffs, puffs, moisturizes, and contemplates at least three shirt options—we head back toward The Point.
“Doughnuts,” Wayne announces, already halfway through the Holey Moley door before the sentence is out of his mouth.
Ryan looks at me.
I nod. “I’ll be fine.” He gives me a look that says he doesn’t fully believe that but respects the lie anyway. “I’ll grab sandwiches next door,” he says.
Inside, Wayne is already charming Maddy. Old man Humphrey’s at his usual corner table. Mrs. Kravitz is stationed by the window, pretending not to listen while clearly listening to everything. Frank is boxing doughnuts, with powdered sugar on his shirt and guilt nowhere on his face.
Mo looks up from the kitchen.
For a flash, I’m sixteen again. She’s dusted in flour before sunrise, arguing with Maddy about cinnamon ratios and laughing at something I missed because I was too busy looking at her.
“Good morning, Jake,” Maddy says, eyes flicking between me and Mo.
“Morning.”
“What are you boys up to today?”
“Fishing.”
“That’ll be fun,” Mo says, wiping her hands on a towel.
“Emory, you should come,” Wayne says immediately.
“Oh no,” Maddy says calmly. “I’m not naming names, but did you hear what happened to the girl who went fishing with two guys?”
Wayne leans in like he’s about to receive state secrets. “What happened?”
“She got a red snapper,” Maddy says, straight-faced.
Humphrey hmphs. Mrs. Kravitz gasps. Frank chokes on a laugh.
“Granny!” Mo says, bright red.
I close my eyes and laugh.
“Wheeler, I love your people,” Wayne says.
Mo comes around from the kitchen. “Good morning. Again.”
“What’s your best seller?” Wayne asks.
“The one that sells,” Maddy replies without missing a beat.
“How about a variety,” I tell Mo.
She reaches for a pink box and starts filling it. Glazed, Old-fashioned. Crullers. My favorites, added without asking, her hand remembering before either of us has to say a word. When she reaches for the chocolate, she pauses and looks at me.
I smile and nod. “For courage.”
She grins. Because I remember.
She walks around the counter, hands me the box, then crouches to scruff Hank and give him a cookie.
“I see you’ve been advised on filling the tank of Hank.”
Mo rises, steps closer, and without warning bumps her hip into mine, knocking me lightly against the inner-tube-lined wall.
It isn’t hard. Doesn’t need to be. My whole body registers it like a memory I forgot I still had.
“What was that for?” I ask.
“Old times’ sake.”
I look down before she can see what that does to me. So she remembers that too.
We used to do it all the time. Shoulder checks. Hip chucks. Bouncing off each other because the world was softer if the other one was in it. Maddy never stopped us. Said she enjoyed the sound of us laughing.
I can still hear it. The old version. Us ricocheting through summers as if we had nowhere else we were ever going to be.
I reset my grip on the box. “Ryan’s next door. I should go rescue him. He has no idea what he’s walking into.”
“You let him walk into Lazy Larry’s blind? You’re awful.”
“I did and I am.” I turn toward Wayne. “Come on, princess. Here’s your pink box.”
The outdoor tables at Lazy Larry’s are all full and all chanting. “HOW LAZY IS HE?”
Ryan stands wide eyed near the walk up counter like he’s stumbled into the Twilight Zone.
He has.
“Larry is so lazy that the only workout he does is diddly squat!” The place erupts.
When an order’s ready, they ring a bell and shout through the pick up window, “Larry is so lazy…” “How lazy is he?” the whole crowd answers.
Meredith supplies the punchline from behind the counter as both employment and performance art.
Ryan ordered the This Ain’t New York Pork: shredded pork, collard greens, onion straws, barbecue sauce on a bun. For Wayne The Perky Turkey: sweet-tea brined turkey, baby Swiss, crushed potato chips.
I get The Jake Fake. Fried bologna, American cheese, spicy brown mustard, pickle, thick toast.
Wayne stares at the menu board, then at me. “They named a sandwich after you?”
I take the sack from Meredith. “They did.”
“I love this town,” he says.
“Same,” Ryan says, grinning now.
They’d both been here before, but not long enough for the town to start making sense.
We step back out into the sun with a sack of sandwiches, a pink box of doughnuts, and Wayne repeating “How lazy is he?” to himself like it’s a code he’s trying to crack.
We head toward the dock.
A boat day.
My boys beside me.
It hits me that I didn’t realize how much I needed this until they showed up. The noise. The familiarity. The way Ryan says the truth and Wayne says everything else.
I ease The Pinch of Tides away from the dock, idling through the no-wake zone while Wayne talks too loud and Ryan settles into the bow with Hank.
I take the last sip of my coffee. Walt’s handwriting curves across the side.
TRUST THE TIMING OF YOUR LIFE
I look at it before crumpling the cup and setting it inside a bag.
Then I turn us toward open water.