27. Emory
EMORY
We’re halfway to Tug-A-Shore when the crowd makes a collective noise.
I turn just in time to see a pack of dogs plow directly into the lemonade stand.
A pug and a French bulldog grab the last of the cookies in a coordinated heist. The basset hound comes stumbling behind them, tripping over his own ears, while a yellow labrador sticks his entire head into the cooler.
“NO!” a twelve-year old shrieks, already far too late.
The lab emerges dripping pink. Strawberry lemonade streams down his face and neck.
For one suspended second, the entire crowd freezes.
Then—
He shakes.
An arc of pink sugar water sprays across the first three rows of folding chairs. Miss Hattie takes it directly to the face. She peels her glasses off, wipes them with the bottom of her shirt, and yells, “Worth it!” The crowd erupts laughing.
The basset hound somehow hooks the spigot with his paw, and suddenly strawberry lemonade is pouring freely down the folding table like a pink waterfall. He lumbers over and drinks directly from the cascading stream. A beagle darts underneath and reappears dragging a bag of ice twice his size.
Meanwhile Hank—who has been watching this entire situation with profound moral judgment—decides chaos looks fun.
He lumbers forward with the speed of a determined ottoman and barrels directly into the ice bag.
The plastic splits.
Ice rockets across the shell path.
The lab attempts to flee the scene of the crime, loses traction on melting ice, and slides directly into Ryan’s legs. Ryan barely rocks backward before calmly scooping the pink stained retriever up mid-slide.
“Time-out,” he says, tucking the dog under one arm.
The crowd applauds.
The lemonade kid looks seconds away from crying. “It’s okay,” Jake says, already moving. He rights the cooler, catches the empty cookie tray before it hits the ground, and starts mopping lemonade with a stack of napkins somebody hands him.
The little girl behind the stand sniffles while the lab licks lemonade off her cheek. “That tickles,” she says giggling. Then she wraps both arms around the dog’s neck. “It’s okay, boy. We were almost sold out anyway.”
Mrs. Kravitz raises her scoring paddle.
“Five,” she announces.
Hank, now fully emotionally invested in the disaster, claims a single ice cube as his prize and trots proudly toward the shade.
Wayne points dramatically at the pug. “That one’s the ringleader.”
The pug wags his curled tail faster.
Jake slides his hand around my waist and steers me gently out of the splash zone. “Still having fun?” he asks quietly.
My hair smells like fish. The air smells like lemons. Hank is upside down beneath an oak tree snoring with an ice cube slowly melting beside his face.
“This is the best day of my life.”
Jake laughs under his breath and presses a quick kiss to my forehead. “Does that mean you’re up for some more?”
“I’m up.”
His mouth twitches. “I think that’s my line.”
Heat flushes straight to my face and other parts. I roll my eyes and smack him lightly in the stomach. “You can be such a boy.”
We reach Tug-A-Shore where I discover the event is essentially a rope, a john boat, and a fundamental misunderstanding of my own competitive instincts.
One partner sits in the boat. The other stays on shore and pulls. The boat partner contributes nothing except emotional commentary and body weight.
Naturally, I choose boat.
I regret boat almost immediately.
In the lane beside us, Wayne stands on shore gripping his rope with the haunted expression of a man realizing too late that agreeing to substitute for “anyone who needs a partner” was a catastrophic decision.
Because seated comfortably in his boat like she’s lounging in a bubble bath is Thelma Robinson.
Thelma Robinson, who according to Jake, attempted to seduce Wayne at Dock Lights by groping his bicep with both hands and informing him she wanted to see what else he had that’d take two hands to wrap around.
She lowers her sunglasses to the tip of her nose and openly ogles him.
“Wayne,” Ryan calls from the sideline, already laughing, “how’d this happen?”
“Bethany happened,” Wayne says hollowly. “Bethany.”
The official raises his flag. “Are both teams ready?”
“I’m always ready,” Thelma purrs, adjusting her sun hat. Then she looks directly at Wayne. “You ready, sugar?”
Wayne slowly turns toward Ryan. “I’m gonna need you to stay exactly where you are. Do not leave me alone with her.”
The whistle blows.
Jake plants his feet at the water’s edge and wraps both hands around the rope. And good lord. He’s standing there pulling me toward him looking so hot he should come with a warning label.
The rope snaps taut. The boat lurches forward hard enough that I grab both sides. “I’m having regrets!” I yell.
Jake laughs and pulls harder, genuinely enjoying himself.
From the next lane, Thelma sighs dramatically. “Oh my. That’s quite a grip you’ve got, Wayne.”
Wayne makes a sound that is not a word.
“I do love the way you tug,” she continues. “This rhythm. The back and the forth, why I’m—“
“DO NOT FINISH THAT SENTENCE,” Wayne shouts.
Ryan has fully turned away at this point, shoulders shaking.
“She’s doing it on purpose!” Wayne yells to no one. “She’s... she’s commenting on my—“
“SHUT UP AND TUG, WANKER,” Bethany hollers from the scoring table.
Jake pulls again, steady and strong, like the distance between us is something he intends to close with his bare hands.
It’s a rope, Emory. Stop projecting onto rope.
“I’m almost there, Wayne,” Thelma calls dramatically. “Don’t stop now.”
Wayne whispers something that looks suspiciously like prayer.
Our boat hits the shore first.
Jake reaches for me as I climb over the bow. One hand closes around mine while his other settles automatically at my waist to steady me.
His hand stays there.
Granny’s pencil freezes mid-notation. Mrs. Kravitz raises her scoring paddle again. The crowd makes that pleased little murmur people make when they feel publicly vindicated.
“That was significantly less romantic than I imagined,” I tell him.
He tilts his head. “Which part?”
“The part where I got dragged across open water while clinging to a boat for survival.”
“You chose boat.”
“I had incomplete information.”
His smile appears slowly. “Let me make it up to you.”
Then he dips me. Right there on the shoreline with half the town watching.
And kisses me.
I kiss him back instantly. No hesitation. No overthinking. No checking for exits. Just my hands in his hair and his mouth on mine and the entire world briefly narrowing to the space between us.
I have no idea how long it lasts.
Only that it ends too soon.
“THAT’S FIFTY MORE DOLLARS!” Miss Hattie screams somewhere behind us.
Jake laughs against my mouth before helping me upright again.
My knees are embarrassingly unreliable.
We’re not partners in the water for the Doggy Paddle race. It’s an individual heat with combined times, which means I spend a full minute standing on the dock, watching Jake swim before it’s my turn.
He cuts through the bay, shoulders rolling beneath the surface, reading the current instead of fighting it. This place belongs to him. The water. The dock. The town that shows up for him without needing a reason. The life he built when everything else fell apart.
He reaches the buoy and turns.
I dive.
Cold water closes over my head, and suddenly all the noise disappears. Just bubbles and movement and the taste of salt.
I swim hard. Toward something instead of standing at the edge of it waiting to see if I ruin it first.
By the time I climb back onto the dock, Jake’s already there with a towel open and one hand extended toward me.
Waiting.
I take it. He wraps the towel around my shoulders carefully, hands lingering at the edges like he doesn’t quite want to let go. I don’t step back.
“Good swim,” he says quietly.
“You were watching.”
“Of course.”
I smell like bay water, my hair is doing something that cannot be described as intentional, and Jake is still looking at me like I’m worth watching anyway.
I’m in serious trouble.
The Holler Crawler is the final competitive event.
One partner calls instructions from a platform while the other crawls blindfolded through obstacles guided only by voice. Just the caller’s voice. And complete trust.
The blindfold goes on. The world disappears.
I can hear the crowd, a low hum of anticipation, and Wayne somewhere nearby saying something I decide not to process.
“Mo.” Everything inside me settles. Just his voice and the nickname that’s only ever meant something when he says it.
“I’ve got you,” Jake says. “Forward. Slow.”
I move forward.
“Cone on your right. Come left a little.”
I adjust. Something smacks against my shoulders.
I yelp.
“Pool noodles,” Jake says. “Just go through. They’ll hit you, but they won’t hurt you.”
“Jake!”
“You’re fine. I can see everything. I’ve got you.”
My humiliation remains catastrophic. My physical injuries remain nonexistent.
“You’re through,” he says, laughter in his voice. “You’re doing great. Forward.”
I crawl forward.
“Stop. Tunnel on your left. Duck.”
I find the tunnel and crawl through it only to crack the top of my head exiting.
“THAT’S GONNA LEAVE A MARK,” Wayne shouts helpfully.
“Almost there, Mo,” Jake says. “Slight right.”
I move right. My hand plunges into something thick and gooey and deeply concerning. I freeze. “What is that?”
Silence. Then Jake says carefully, “…It’s not what you think.”
The crowd absolutely loses it.
“Jake Wheeler!”
“That’s the finish, Mo! You’re right there.”
I lunge forward and slam into the mat.
The crowd cheers.
I rip the blindfold off just as Jake climbs down from the platform, grinning, dimple fully deployed. “What was it?” I demand.
“Mostly mud.”
“Mostly?”
“Mostly.”
He catches my wrist before I can investigate further, and wraps my hand carefully in a towel.
The whole town watches.
I realize I don’t care.
The Stay the Day competitors have been dropping out one by one throughout the afternoon, mostly due to reckless lemonade consumption. Once you leave your spot, you’re eliminated.
The golden retriever holds out heroically until three fifty-eight when a rogue hot dog rolls past and his stomach simply would not be denied.
Two hot dogs, one doughnut, and no lemonade later, Mrs. Kravitz wins.
Wayne presents the ribbon like it’s the Lombardi Trophy. She accepts it exactly the same way.
I watch Jake move through the crowd afterward, crouching to talk to a little girl holding up a drawing she made of Hank wearing a tutu.
Hank wanders over and leans his entire body against my legs. I scratch behind his ears and straighten his bandana. I think this dog inherited Jake’s patience and Jake’s inability to leave anyone standing alone.
Granny rolls up beside me, closing her notebook while counting cash. She looks at me. Then at Jake across The Green. “You going to stop overthinking it?”
I watch him laugh while handing the drawing back carefully with both hands. “I’m working on it.”
Granny makes a sound. The sound of a woman who has watched me “work on things” my entire life and has developed opinions about the process. “He’s been waiting a long time,” she says gently.
“I know.”
“Emory. Don’t make him wait in the wrong direction.”
Before I can answer, she points suddenly across The Green. “You now owe me a hundred dollars!” she yells at Wayne before speeding away on the scooter at full throttle.
Jake looks up from across the lawn and finds me instantly. Like there was never any question where to look. He smiles.
And something inside me finally loosens.
For the first time in a very long time, I stop wondering if I belong here.
And start wondering why I ever believed I didn’t.