9. Chapter Nine
Chapter Nine
“D ad!” I screeched, embarrassment filling my voice.
“What! Is everything okay?” He sprinted from behind the bar until he saw me, hands full of two large bags of ice, one in each arm.
“What in the hell is this doormat?” I chuckled as I leaned my butt on the wooden door, resting the ice against the frame.
Looking up, I was met by Dad and the biggest shit grin you’ve ever seen. “Funny, huh?” He started toward me, motioning for me to hand the ice over.
“It’s ridiculous.” I laughed, gladly giving him the two dumbbell-sized bags.
The tacky brown doormat lay under my feet, right at the front entrance of the restaurant. Whalecum was printed in large black letter, and a smiling whale sat just below it.
“I love you so much, but do we really think this is necessary?”
Dad was a sucker for a good cheesy pun, and over the years, he’d made a game out of buying the most random, usually inappropriate shit and somehow always finding a spot for it in the bar.
“Is any of the décor in this place necessary?” Clearly that was a rhetorical question because he kept talking. “ No , but damn does it look good.”
The smirk on his face gave way to how proud he was of this place, and who was I to take that away from him.
The Wharf had been around for decades and under my parents’ ownership for almost sixteen years. From the outside, it was picturesque—the white shiplap and openness allowed for the most perfect view of the ocean. The old building sat upon stilts that had been built before I was born. The stilts permitted the building to reside just above the water, giving everyone a free soundtrack of waves with their meal. The string lights that Mom and I had weaved throughout the balcony reflected off the water and made for the most magical lighting.
Inside, it was everything you would imagine from the most perfect little dive bar. As soon as you walked in, you were greeted by a large rustic-looking bar that expanded across the entire back wall. The barstools were wooden and worn, having seen their fair share of late nights. Behind the bar, shelves of liquor lined the wall. Each shelf was underlit with a row of lights that illuminated the bottles. In the spaces between the bottles, there were knick-knacks and mementos, each one with a story just waiting to be told. The rest of the walls throughout were painted deep blue and were decorated with picture frames filled with trophy fish, family traditions, and memories that people never wanted to forget.
At this point, there was barely any blank space left, but it’s what made this place so unique. It wasn’t the fanciest place in town, but it didn’t need to be. Everywhere you looked you were transported to a different celebration, a different sentimental moment that made you stop and experience it as if it were yours.
It wasn’t just a local restaurant; it was a way of life . My life.
“Maybe one day the surprise will wear off, but until then, I’ll continue to be astounded by the amount of random shit you come across,” I said.
“Don’t worry, I’ll always surprise you.” He winked. “We’re expecting a busy lunch, so”—he held up the two bags of ice—“thanks for saving us.”
“You know I’ve always got you covered.”
“That’s why you’re the best!”
I walked toward Dad, grinning as I said, “Don’t forget it.” I pulled him in for a hug. “I’ll be back around eight for my shift. Call me if you need me to come in earlier. I love you big.”
“I love you bigger.”
Snagging my wagon from out front, I bounded across the street and was home in less than two minutes. During my jaunt home, Chief Williams sent me a text asking for a raincheck, having forgotten about a different lunch he had. Although I did love our time together, I was quick to respond and let him know that I’d see him next Thursday.
I really could use the extra time to write.
He and I had maintained a relationship ever since he showed up at the hospital the day I was discharged. Although, I must admit I felt very lackluster about our relationship in the beginning, but he’d stayed persistent. Never pushy, but always persistent.
He’d dropped the bag off from the police station a few days after the accident and then proceeded to pop in on a weekly basis. More times than not, he came with gifts, usually a coffee or a sweet treat. Then, before I knew it, he was at my door every Thursday, like clockwork. When it was clear I’d warmed up to him, he began bringing lunch.
Sometimes I’d ask him questions about the accident, sometimes we’d talk about nothing in particular, and other times we’d just sit in silence and eat our lunches.
After a month or so, I returned to school and our lunches turned into late afternoons at the firehouse. Slowly, Thursdays became my favorite day of the week, and we rarely missed them. For those few hours that I got to spend with Chief Williams, everything felt like it was going to be okay. He’d been a safehouse for me. He’d been there during the most vulnerable and gut-wrenching moment of my entire life.
Most importantly, he’d saved me.
There was something that the two of us shared. We never spoke about it, but we both knew it was there.
Over the years, I realized I cherished his friendship more than I ever anticipated. He was kind and funny, and I found myself intrigued by all of his stories and knowledge. And if we’re being honest, he’d always pushed me to continue writing, constantly reminding me that “some words are better than no words, darlin’.” I could hear his voice as clearly as if he were standing right next to me.
So I knew he’d be proud to know that I would be spending the afternoon writing.
It was one o’clock by the time my microwave beeped, signaling my cheese and crackers were finished. Snagging my plate, I strolled to my bedroom to throw on some scrum clothes, because absolutely no writing was going to happen while I was still in jeans.
My tiny 900-square-foot apartment limited my ability to create the ultimate writing space, but I made do. My desk sat in the corner of my room, pushed up alongside the large window that overlooked Reef Road. An oversized green velvet chair that allowed me to sit cross-legged, and comfortably so, was pushed underneath it. The desk had been a gift from my parents, made from driftwood that Dad collected from the shores of our little town.
On the desk sat a vase with a familiar bouquet of dead lilac hydrangeas, a gold lamp, and a black-and-gold picture frame that held my favorite picture of Liv and me, both of us grinning from ear to ear as we held up our gray New York sweatshirts that we’d gotten for Christmas. She was my why and always would be. It didn’t matter that I’d promised myself I’d finish this book; it mattered that I’d promised her.
We may not have made our way out of this small town, but that wasn’t going to stop me from writing my story. Liv had always encouraged me to chase my dream of becoming a writer; she knew I needed a push, and she’d always done the pushing.
Slugging on my headphones, I did my best to drown out the noise within and get to work, but before I did, I pressed my fingers to that familiar picture frame. “For you, Liv. I love you deeper than the ocean.”