By noon, coolers will line up at the side of the house like a barricade. Lawn chairs will sprout across the yard. Children will be sticky and barefoot and feral with sugar before the first firework even leaves its tube.
People drift in from every direction—Harbor Road, Pine Hollow, Willow Lane—coolers tucked under arms, red-white-and-blue t-shirts pulled over swimsuits, dogs weaving between legs. The tourists clog Route 17 thinking they’re headed for a quaint lighthouse and a peaceful seaside celebration. They don’t realize they’ve stumbled into a town that treats holidays like a competitive sport.
We don’t celebrate.
We conquer.
I line up platters along the counter and glance out the window.
Birch Grove Road is already stirring. Mrs. Langley from Elm Court walks her terrier like she does every morning, but today she’s wearing a glittery flag dress. She waves at the house, as if she can see me through the glare.
Our house sits on the harbor side of Main Street. The main road in Northwick Cove forms a close-to-straight line from Route 17 to the coast and if you stand at the end of the driveway the B&B near the highway is visible. Diana, the owner, will have made blueberry scones this morning. She always does on holidays. We all have our specialties.
The twins used to sprint the stretch between here and the B&B when they were little. Racing with each other. Now they send photos from Florida beaches instead. Sun-bleached hair and shoulders too wide for boys who used to need help tying their shoes.
I check the clock.
Dan should already be outside.
As if summoned, the back door opens. Boots scrape across tile. A toolbox bumps the frame. “You seen the extra extension cord?” His voice carries the gravel of morning and something softer underneath.
I don’t turn around immediately. I know what I’ll see.
Six feet and still broad through the shoulders. Hair gone silver in the last decade, cropped close to his scalp like he refuses to negotiate with age. The t-shirt stretched across his chest is faded from a hundred washes, but it still molds to him the way it used to. His forearms are dusted with gray now, veins pronounced, skin weathered. His hands have built fences, fixed engines, held newborn boys like they were glass, and now carry age spots.
“It’s in the hall closet,” I say. “Top shelf.”
He nods and moves past me.
I watch him in the microwave reflection instead of directly. He reaches up, and his shoulder catches for half a second. A micro-wince he thinks no one sees. He still moves like he’s thirty most days, but sometimes the body reminds him.
I always notice.
He grabs the cord and turns, and this time our eyes meet without the barrier of glass.
“Smells good,” he says.
“It’ll be better in an hour.”
He steps closer.
For a moment I think he’s going to say something else. Something unscripted.
Instead, he presses a quick kiss on my cheek. His mouth is warm, and the contact is light and efficient, like he’s checking something off a list. Affection between tasks.
Then he’s gone again.
The back door swings shut, and the kitchen feels larger without him in it. I rest my hands on the counter longer than necessary.
We haven’t fought in years.
People in town call us solid. Dependable. The Carters host the Fourth. The Carters show up when someone needs a ride to the clinic. The Carters raised good boys.
Solid.
The word sits heavy.
The house is too quiet without the twins.
