11. So You’re Still Selling #3
After half an hour, though, it becomes painfully obvious there isn't much else to do. This is less of a cleanup effort and more of a social hour with rakes.
Maya disappeared back into the clinic at some point. I consider going inside to take her up on the ice pack for my neck, but I don't want to distract her from her patients.
Instead, I stand on the sidewalk for a moment and look down the street.
My gaze lands on The Harbor Cup.
Caffeine.
Yes, please.
The moment I walk inside, I'm hit with warmth, the smell of coffee, and the sound of people talking about the storm like it was a group activity.
A few tables are full, and someone near the counter is in the middle of a dramatic retelling of a power flicker like they narrowly survived a natural disaster.
I order a coffee, which serves the dual purpose of giving me caffeine and something to hold.
I'm turning away from the counter when Evie Shaw spots me, as if she has some kind of built-in radar for Monroe-related events.
“Claire Monroe!”
Her voice carries loudly enough that half the café turns to look at me.
I internally groan.
I also wonder if anyone in Tidehaven realizes my last name hasn't been Monroe for years.
Apparently, once a Monroe, always a Monroe.
Evie weaves through the crowd with the confidence of a woman who has never once worried about being subtle.
“There you are, dear. I was just saying you weathered it fine.” She pauses. “The storm, I mean.”
I furrow my brow. “You were saying that?”
“Oh, yes.” She nods enthusiastically. “It's a town. We say things.”
I laugh despite myself. “True.”
Evie grabs my forearm like I might make a run for it if she doesn't physically anchor me in place.
“Now, sit. Drink that coffee of yours. Eat something that isn't peanut butter.”
I freeze.
“Excuse me?”
She waves a hand. “I have ears. And grandchildren. I know things.”
I decide not to ask how Evie knows about the excessive amount of peanut butter in my cabinets.
I don't have the emotional stamina for that particular mystery.
She steers me toward a table like she's physically escorting me into remaining in Tidehaven against my will.
“And you'll stay a few more days, won't you?”
“I—”
“Nonsense.”
I don't even know what I was about to say, so the fact that Evie apparently does is impressive.
“No rushing off the moment the storm clears,” she continues. “A storm brings people together. It's practically tradition. And besides, I heard you're going to sell, which means we need as much time with you as we can get before that happens.”
My fingers tighten around my coffee cup.
“News travels fast. Even during a storm.”
“Especially during a storm,” Evie corrects.
I shake my head, although I'm not sure whether it's from exasperation or fondness.
Probably both.
Evie pats my hand. “You can make whatever decision you like, dear. But today, you sit and let people fuss over you. And remember that you're allowed to exist in this town without running back to the highway the second you feel something.”
I stare at her.
For once, I don't have a sarcastic response ready.
Inconvenient.
Evie leans closer, lowering her voice just enough to make the words feel like a secret.
“And if you're going to do something big, like sell a house, make sure you do it with your feet under you. Not while you're still wobbly.”
I swallow. “I'm not... wobbly.”
“Of course you're not.”
She pats my hand again.
I sigh and sit in the chair beside me.
Evie gives an approving nod. “Good girl.”
I open my mouth to object, but she's already walking away.
Apparently, the conversation is over.
She's said what she wanted to say and is fully confident I'll comply because Tidehaven runs on social pressure and baked goods.
I stare down at my coffee and focus on breathing.
I'm not here to be convinced to stay.
I'm here to meet with June, finish the list, handle the repairs, and leave.
That's the plan.
I repeat it silently like a mantra.
Set another meeting with June.
Finish the list.
Handle the repairs.
Leave.
It sounds manageable.
It also sounds like a plan made by someone who hadn't fallen asleep on Jack Wilder's shoulder and woken up wrapped in his blanket like a leftover burrito.
I take a sip of coffee and look out the window, half expecting to see him walking down Main Street with that familiar closed-off posture.
Glaring, of course.
As if he's personally responsible for protecting Tidehaven from tourists and unsecured porch swings.
He's not there.
Thankfully.
Except my brain circles back to him anyway.
To the moment in his kitchen when I said the word realtor and something in his expression changed. The ease between us disappeared, and suddenly it was like last night hadn't happened at all.
Your power should be back on now, so you can go.
I take another sip of coffee and stare into the cup.
It doesn't matter.
I'm here for business.
I have a plan.
One storm, one stupid blanket, and one night spent sleeping on Jack Wilder's shoulder aren't going to make me forget that.
Even if, for the first time since I arrived in Tidehaven, leaving doesn't feel quite as simple as it did before.