15. Emory
EMORY
Iwake up with the echo of a fire alarm lodged somewhere between my ears and the pit of my stomach. Which is ridiculous, because it wasn’t even loud. It was polite. A courtesy alarm. The kind that says, excuse me, there may or may not be smoke, but I’d hate for you to die uninformed.
It was the timing that was rude.
I stare at the ceiling, studying the popcorn pattern I memorized at ten. Florida is still there. The alien, if you squint, is too.
“This is temporary,” I whisper. My stomach flutters anyway.
Especially after last night. The brush of Jake’s arm at my waist. The slow, absent-minded drag of his thumb along my wrist. The way the space between us went quiet and charged. It felt like the air right before a summer storm.
Did we almost kiss?
No.
We did not.
And I absolutely, one hundred percent did not lean in first.
I roll over and shove my face into the pillow. “Arrgh,” I scream into cotton.
Very composed. Not at all dramatic.
I fling the covers back, grab my bkr from the nightstand, and take a long sip. My emotional support water bottle has witnessed worse spirals. It doesn’t judge. It hydrates and listens.
Downstairs, Holey Moley is already awake. The smell hits first—fried dough, sugar, and coffee strong enough to raise the dead. Frank stands at the rack, eating more than he’s boxing. Powdered sugar dusts his shirt like a confession.
“There she is,” Granny calls. “I was about to set off the fire alarm to wake you.”
I freeze mid-step.
How does she—
Someone walked in right before the alarm went off last night.
Shit.
I open my mouth. Close it. Reach for a doughnut hole instead and pop it in. Frank slides a pink box across the counter. “Delivery for Tall Tales.”
“I’ll take it,” I say instantly.
Fresh air feels necessary.
Coffee that isn’t sludge, essential.
Avoiding Granny’s interrogation, survival.
I step into the sunshine, where Blue Crab Bay is already fully awake and, apparently, emotionally invested in my business. I nearly collide with Miss Hattie steering The Salty Dog cart toward The Green.
“Well, if it isn’t Almost-a-Kiss-Donovan,” she chirps.
Oh good. We’re branding now.
“I did not almost kiss anyone.”
“Yesss, youuu diddd,” she sings. “Laura Jenkins saw you, told Elizabeth Shumacher, Elizabeth told her sister, her sister told me, and Gladys Kravitz filled in the blanks.”
“There were no blanks.”
“Hmm.” She pats my arm. “Sure there weren’t.” Then she wheels away, singing “Love Is in the Air.”
I make it five steps before Mrs. Kravitz materializes beside me like a jump scare in floral print. “He looked real torn up watching you leave,” she murmurs, shaking her head. “Mmmm. Shame. Toot. Toot.”
Someone makes a siren noise. Someone else makes exaggerated kissing sounds.
Town 1. Emory 0.
“I’m gonna need a bigger bkr,” I mumble.
By the time I reach the end of The Green, my jaw aches from clenching. Willard is on his bench. French Fry struts beside him like a feathered bodyguard. Chip sits at his feet, clutching a peanut with both hands, nibbling with purpose.
“Morning, Emory,” Willard says.
French Fry squawks in a judgmental tone. “I don’t need commentary from you,” I tell the bird.
He squawks again.
I sit carefully on the edge of the bench, mindful of fur, feathers, and my own unraveling. The box of doughnuts rests in my lap, warm through the cardboard.
“I did not almost kiss anyone,” I announce.
Willard takes a slow sip of coffee. “Didn’t say you did.”
“I’m just putting it on record.”
“Ah.” He sips again. “For the record.”
“Yes.”
He nods thoughtfully. “Records have a way of keeping themselves.”
I look down at the doughnut box in my lap. “I’m leaving soon,” I say, like that explains everything.
“So is the tide,” Willard replies. “Comes back anyway.”
The Point hums around us. Dogs tangling leashes. Kids wobbling on scooters. The same grim grinning jogger who always looks mid-regret. A woman outside Town Hall pretends to adjust a planter while absolutely eavesdropping.
“That felt pointed.”
“Just an observation.”
Chip attempts to drag a hot dog twice his size across the shell path. He makes it six inches before surrendering and eating it where he sits.
“I don’t want to complicate things.”
Willard studies the horizon. “Life’s already complicated. You just decide what parts you’re brave enough to keep.”
I stare harder at the box, waiting for glazed doughnuts to offer guidance.
Nothing.
“There was an alarm,” I say weakly.
French Fry makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like laughter.
“Town hasn’t had that much excitement since the raccoon got into the fireworks,” Willard says. “But what happened before the alarm?”
“Nothing.”
“Mmm.”
That mmm feels like a lie detector. I stand, lifting the box like a shield. “I should take these to Walt.”
Willard tips his hat. “Take your time.”
As I cross toward Tall Tales, the library door swings open, and Lainey Stillmore bursts out balancing three hardcovers against her chest and an iced tea the size of her head.
She spots me right away. “Oh my God. Emory Donovan!”
I laugh before she even reaches me. “Hi, Lainey.”
She shifts all three books into one arm and throws the other around me in a one-armed hug. “You’re actually here,” she says, pulling back to look at me.
Lainey and I were summer friends growing up.
She’s also the reason I spent one entire summer emotionally devastated the Harry Potter series was over.
“I’ve been meaning to come by Holey Moley,” she says. “But every time I walk in there, your grandmother wants to talk about what’s new in the quote whoopie books.”
“Oh no.”
“Oh yes.”
“Speaking of books, I see you’re still reading,” I say, nodding toward the stack in her arms.
She gasps softly. “Emory. I’m the town librarian now.”
I blink. “No you are not.”
“I am.” She lifts her tea proudly. “This is what success looks like.”
I laugh. “That is perfect for you.”
“I know.” She grins. “Come see me sometime. I’ll have you joining a book club before you walk out the door.”
We give one another one more sideways hug around her books and my doughnut box. “It’s really good to see you,” she says, softer this time.
“You too.”
I step inside Tall Tales, and every head turns.
Of course it’s packed.
Walt takes the box and hands me a fresh iced latte without asking. The cup reads:
TO LOVE IS TO BURN
I groan. “Seriously, Walt.”
He shrugs. “The spirit of Jane Austen.”
A teenager near the travel section calls out, “Hey, Emory, you give new meaning to smokin’ hot.”
A woman pops out from behind a shelf holding the newest Vi Keeland book. “Tommy, you mind your tongue or I’ll drag you straight to your mama.”
Someone stage-whispers, “She’s got the afterglow.”
“I have a latte,” I announce to no one and everyone. “That is the only glow currently happening.”
Nobody believes me.
I pivot and walk out before I actually combust.
The bell jingles behind me with the same cheerful audacity it had the day I ran out after Jake said my name in this exact shop. Honestly, Tall Tales’ bell may need to be investigated for emotional crimes.
I make it halfway back to Holey Moley when I hear him before I see him.
Heavy paws. Determined snort. Hank barrels into me, bandana crooked, jowls flapping like wind caught curtains. I drop to my knees automatically, latte somehow surviving thanks to reflexes I did not know I possessed. “Well, hello to you too.”
He snorts and licks my chin. “Thank you. I was missing exfoliation.”
He wiggles harder, all wrinkles and enthusiasm, and I sink both hands into his warm bulldog cheeks because apparently I’m helpless against this dog. “Where’s your dad?” I mumble into his wrinkled forehead.
“Right here.” Jake jogs up behind him, hair damp, sleeves pushed up.
My stomach does a little loop-de-loop.
“Sorry,” he says. “He saw you and—“
“I’m glad he did,” I say too fast.
Subtle, Emory. Real subtle.
Hank wedges himself between us, eyes locked on French Fry circling above. Jake rubs the back of his neck. “About last night—“
“Fire alarms, ” I cut in.
His mouth curves.
It’s a beautiful mouth.
Which isn’t relevant.
Except it’s deeply relevant.
“I didn’t leave because of you,” I say.
“I know.”
Of course he says that. Of course he makes it easy. “I mean, I did leave. Obviously. Physically. With my feet.”
His mouth twitches. “I noticed.”
“But not because I wanted to get away from you.”
There. The truth sits between us, small and exposed and much too serious for ten in the morning with a bulldog drooling on my foot.
“I’m glad you came over,” he says.
Hank’s head snaps toward The Green. I follow his line of sight just in time to see French Fry bounce across the grass, wings flapping, taunting him.
“Han—“ I start.
Too late.
Hank bolts.
Jake swears and takes off after him.
Halfway across The Green, he turns and shouts, “Don’t leave!”
Don’t leave.
I stand there watching Hank chase French Fry and Jake chase Hank, all three fully committed to chaos.
Hank looks like he’s half running and half hopping.
French Fry bobs just out of reach. Jake cuts across the grass with the speed of a man who has chased both footballs and bulldogs professionally, or close enough.
A laugh slips out of me before I can stop it. I cover my mouth and glance around.
The entire town has paused. Granny sits outside Holey Moley, looking delighted. Miss Hattie is frozen mid-mustard squeeze. Nobody at Lazy Larry’s cares about Larry right now. Walt stares from the patio mid-pour. Mrs. Kravitz is filming like she’s submitting footage to the nightly news.
Jake finally scoops Hank up. He kicks his legs like he’s still running. The seagull screams victory from a safe height.
Jake looks over at me and smiles the smile he used to give me. Before thank you ruined everything.
The noise fades. The staring fades. It’s just him looking at me like I’m not temporary.
Like I never was.
Jake jogs back over, Hank tucked against his chest. Hank’s tongue hangs out the side of his mouth, pleased with himself despite the fact that he has achieved absolutely nothing.
“You stayed,” Jake says.
His voice is quiet enough that it’s only for me.
I meet his eyes.
“I did.”