13. Emory
EMORY
It’s barely nine o’clock. Granny is asleep. The television feels too loud even muted, and I finished my book an hour ago, but I’ve been sitting here flipping back to the beginning and rereading the first chapter,
hoping it might magically rewrite itself.
It doesn’t.
I get up and wander to the window. The Knuckle is still open, glowing at the top of the dock.
I tell myself I’m just going for a walk. That’s all. Just air. Just movement. Just not sitting here wondering why my chest feels tight over something I supposedly made peace with ten years ago.
I change into jeans and a white tee. Swipe on mascara. Press on lip balm. I leave my hair down, even though I debate pulling it back twice, as if that’s the decision that’ll tip my life into calm or chaos.
Just walking, Emory.
I choose flip flops over boots. Because I may not keep walking.
I grab my bkr and shut the light off before I can renegotiate with myself. I move quietly down the stairs, avoiding creaky steps four and six, careful not to wake Granny, even though she could sleep through a marching band. Still, old habits die hard.
So do old nerves.
Outside, the night air wraps around me, warm and damp.
Crickets are singing. The waves lap gently at the seawall.
The sounds, the smell of salt, and the dampness carry me right back to childhood summers.
Late night swimming in the bay with Jake.
Our floats tied to the dock so the tide couldn’t steal us.
Him talking about football under a sky full of stars.
Me talking about having my own bakery one day.
What we didn’t dream was achieving those things apart.
The crushed shell path crunches under my flip flops, each step louder than it should be, as if it’s announcing my indecision as a public service announcement.
Angel. Devil. Same shoes.
I count thirty-four steps before I stop pretending I don’t know where I’m going. I take a quick inventory of my courage, which appears to be in limited supply and not currently available for backorder.
I could turn back.
I don’t.
Yay me.
The door to The Knuckle opens easily, hitting me with a smell familiar enough to make my stomach tighten. Seafood, citrus, and that specific garlicky butter the Wheelers have perfected into something that should be packaged in stores nationwide.
I don’t move. I just stand inside the doorway and let the place settle around me.
The wooden crab traps Jake’s granddad used hang from the beams, dark wood worn smooth by decades of hands.
Black and white photos line the walls. His granddad on a boat piled high with traps.
His dad grinning beside him, sleeves rolled up like he’s mid-story.
A much younger Jake on the dock. And me beside him.
We’re in swimsuits. Me in my tropical flower tankini and Jake in tropical board shorts.
We’re grinning with popsicle stains around our lips.
I can’t tell the color in black and white but probably grape.
His arm is slung around my shoulders like it belongs there.
Like it always has.
“You can sit where—Emory. Hi.”
I turn.
Plumber girl.
Bethany.
“Hi,” I say. “Sorry, I got lost in… this.” I wave vaguely at the walls, the photos, the decades of history staring back at me.
“It happens in here,” she says easily. “You want the dining room? Or the bar’s empty if you’d like to keep me company.”
“Is Jake—“ I stop myself before I say here.
“He had to be somewhere, but he should be back soon. Come sit.”
I follow her to the bar and slide onto a stool that feels exactly as I remember. Deep. Comfortable. Jake’s dad used to say drinks paid the bills, so people might as well be comfortable enough to stay awhile.
“What can I get you?” she asks. “Hungry? Thirsty?”
“I’ll take whatever beer you have on tap,” I say. “With a pickle on the side.”
Bethany grins, checks her watch, and nods. “Me too.”
“How about Shellring’s Oyster Cluster?”
“Sounds good to me.”
She sets down two frosted glasses of Cluster, and a pickle spear for each of us. Then she comes around the bar and sits beside me instead of across.
I like that.
“So,” she says, turning toward me. “You and Jake.”
I let out a breathy laugh. “You don’t waste time.”
“Life is short.”
I take a sip, then glance at the photo behind the bar—the one of Jake with his parents and granddad. He can’t be more than eight. Sunburned nose. Sand in his hair. Missing front tooth smile.
“I don’t know if there is a me and Jake,” I say carefully.
Bethany studies me for a long moment, then takes a sip of her own beer. “If you wanted there to be, there would.”
I plunk the pickle into my glass because that feels safer than responding.
“I’ve known Jake a long time,” she continues. “I’ve never seen him want anything the way he wants you.”
I don’t know what to do with that. I look down at the foam rising in my glass, hoping maybe it does.
It does not.
“Do you know what happened?” I ask instead.
“I know you broke his heart,” she says gently. “I don’t know how.”
“It wasn’t intentional.” I leave it there. I don’t say I panicked. I don’t say I was twenty and scared and didn’t trust happiness. I don’t say that I’ve spent ten years building a life where I never had to face that kind of vulnerability again.
“There’s no rule that says you can’t start again,” she says. “If you both want to.”
I open my mouth to respond when the door thuds open.
Hank trots in first, his tags jingling together in his own personal theme music, followed by Jake. He stops when he sees me.
Just stops.
His eyes widen, and there’s something in them that isn’t their usual bright blue. Something quieter. A sadness. But then he smiles.
“This is a surprise.”
“I was going to jump out of a cake,” I say. “But I couldn’t find a pan big enough.”
He laughs, which makes me breathe a little easier. Bethany slides off her stool.
“I’ll start closing,” she says. “You two behave.”
“I’ve got it,” Jake says. “Head on home.”
“You sure?”
“I am.”
She squeezes my arm as she passes. “Coffee sometime? Or another beer?”
“I’d like that. A lot.”
Jake watches her go, then looks back at me. “Should I be worried?”
“No. Why?”
“Because you and Bethany were talking.”
“We’re just two girls having a beer. You’re safe.”
He studies me for a moment, then he lets it go.
“So,” he says. “What brings you here? Miss me?”
“Maybe.”
His smile softens. “I’m really glad you’re here. Come to the kitchen with me?”
The kitchen is quiet. Jake moves through it easily, the space belonging to him in a way that has nothing to do with paperwork or ownership. He pulls ingredients from the fridge without thinking.
“You hungry?”
“Always.”
“Good.”
The pan heats. Butter melts and starts to sizzle. Hank settles between us, flopping down, officially off the clock. Jake adds a hunk of fish to the pan.
I lean against the counter, watching Jake’s hands. I remember those hands bandaging scraped knees. Fixing bike chains. Braiding my hair when Granny was too busy and I’d refused to let anyone else touch it.
He was terrible at it. Created something that was more knot than braid. But he tried every time without complaint.
He reaches past me for something. His arm brushes my waist.
Barely a touch.
Still, I feel the warmth of his forearm through the thin cotton of my shirt. My body notices before my brain can issue an official statement. Heat quickly slips low, and I suddenly become very invested in whatever he was reaching for.
“Sorry,” he says.
“It’s fine.”
He doesn’t move right away.
Neither do I.
The kitchen seems to pull tighter around us. Butter hisses in the pan. The fan hums overhead. Hank lets out a soft snore.
Jake turns slowly.
I tilt my head up.
He’s close enough now that I can see the faint scar near his jaw where I accidentally hooked him while casting a line when we were eight. The crease between his brows when he’s thinking too hard. The tiny shift in his throat when he swallows.
His hand lifts.
Hesitates.
Then his thumb grazes my wrist.
Every thought I have carefully arranged in the last ten years scatters like startled birds.
My heart is pounding so loud, I’m sure he can hear it.
He leans in. Just a fraction. Enough that I feel his breath. I feel the heat of him and the place where his thumb is still touching my skin. Enough that I forget what year it is.
I lean in too.
“Whoops.”
We jump apart like we’ve been caught committing a crime.
An older woman stands half inside the kitchen, eyes wide, one hand still on the swinging door. “I didn’t see anything. Sorry to interrupt.”
She vanishes.
Then the fire alarm shrieks.
“Damn it,” Jake mutters, grabbing a towel and waving it at the ceiling. Hank barks once, deeply offended by the noise and possibly by the lack of professionalism.
The pan hisses behind us. Something seafood, butter, and garlic is definitely giving up. Jake kills the burner and moves the pan off the heat. He flips on the fan, opens the back door, and steps aside while cool night air rushes through the kitchen.
Neither of us says anything.
He drags a hand over the back of his neck. He’s being so careful all of a sudden. Careful with the stove. Careful with the air between us.
Careful with me.
“Well,” he says, not looking at me, “that’s my cue to ruin dinner.”
I laugh, a little breathless. “I think it was trying to go out in a blaze of glory.”
That gets a smile out of him. He finally looks at me with the undeniable awareness that something just happened, and neither of us gets to pretend otherwise.
“I should probably head home,” I say.
His gaze stays on mine before he nods. “Yeah.” Then, quieter, “It’s late.”
He walks me to the back door.
At the threshold, I stop.
So does he.
The night outside is cool and quiet, but I can still feel the heat of the kitchen at my back. The smell of garlic. The shrill echo of the alarm. The place on my wrist where his thumb touched me like it meant something.
“Good night, Mo,” he says. His voice is a little less steady than it was a minute ago.
“Night, Jake.” I step out onto the deck, then glance back before I can help myself. He’s still standing there in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame, watching me go.
My whole body feels unsteady in a way that has nothing to do with being startled. It’s not that he almost kissed me.
It’s that I leaned in.