CHAPTER 1
Elsie
I don’t curse often, but there’s something about a well-timedmotherfucker that hits just right. Right now, idling on the street next to the parking spot someone on a motorcycle just stole from me, is one of those times.
“Motherfucker,” I mutter, turning off my blinker thatshouldhave signaled to any decent, rule-abiding citizen that I was about to park in that spot. I stopped for two seconds –maybethree, tops – to wave to Mr. Green as he climbed into his truck next to me, but apparently, that was enough to forfeit the one open spot on this block of Main Street.
I glare at the person on the motorcycle as I drive past, but with their face hidden behind the tinted shield of their helmet, the effect is lost.
Main Street is busier than usual for this time of year in Port Myles. The mild winter and unseasonably warm weather we’ve had are a beacon for outsiders, bringing a trove of brave tourists to our little seaside town in southern Maine earlier than usual. Thecalendar says it’s only the first week of April, but you’d never know it by all the people sitting on the patios outside the cafés in town, or the couples strolling hand-in-hand by the water with their pants rolled up as frigid water laps at their feet.
Port Myles is always my favorite place to be, but there’s something extra special about our town in the spring and summer, when the flowers are in bloom, raucous laughter echoes from the beach, and the smell of fresh seafood can tempt you into any number of restaurants along the shore. Full blown tourist season is still a ways off, so the unexpected uptick of visitors this early in the season is a welcome surprise.
Except when they steal my parking spot. I find an open spot in the next block over, outside of What’s the Scoop, my favorite ice cream shop in town. The lights are off and the curtains are closed inside the big bay windows. It’ll be another month or so before they open for the season.
Downing the last few sips of my coffee, I grab my keys and purse and climb out of the car, hurrying back the way I came from. I have plenty of time before my meeting, but I’m anxious – the good kind, for once.
As I draw nearer to the old, two-story, redbrick building I’m here to see, my footsteps slow. The man on the motorcycle is still there, straddling his bike while he scrolls on his phone, his helmet tucked under one arm. There’s so much to take in – the sheer size of him, the all-black clothing, the hands that dwarf his phone – but what I notice first are the tattoos.So many tattoos. The black and gray designs cover nearly every inch of exposed skin, from where his sleeves are rolled up to the elbows and down to the knuckles on both hands. There’s even one peeking out of the collar of his shirt, some kind of intricate design creeping up his neck.
“Can I help you?” the stranger calls out, his deep baritone startling me. I hadn’t realized I’d come to a full stop in the middle of the sidewalk, staring at him and his tattoos and his stupid motorcycle that stole my spot.
Right, he stole my spot.
Motherfucker.
“You stole my spot,” I blurt out. I hadn’t meant to actually make athingof it – arguing with strangers on the street isn’t something Ido– but the words slip out before I can stop them.
He looks up at me then and I can’t help it; I take a step back, startled at the eyes so dark they’re nearly black that are now zeroed in on me. There’s something predatory about his gaze as it flits over me, taking in my jeans and cardigan that had felt cute and comfortable when I’d put them on this morning, but now feel wholly inadequate to armor me from this man’s gaze. His eyes linger for a few moments on the long braid draped over one shoulder, then settle back on my face, a cocky smirk spreading across his.
“Did I? I’m sorry, I’m new here and didn’t know there was assigned parking.”
“There’s not – that’s not what I meant,” I rush out, flustered. “I just meant… I mean, didn't you see me getting ready to pull into that spot?”
“This one here?” he questions, gesturing around him with the hand still clutching his phone.
“Yes, that one there.” It takes every ounce of my willpower to resist rolling my eyes, and that realization annoys me. Ilikepeople. I don’t argue with strangers on the street. Something about this guy has my hackles raised, though.
“Ah, no, sorry,” he says, grinning. “What I saw was a big SUV stopped in the middle of the road while there was a perfectly good parking spot available, so I took it.”
“I was going to park there and you know that.” Even to my own ears, I sound bratty. It’s not even that I mind walking from the next block over. It’s the principle of the thing — you don’t steal someone else’s parking spot.
The man has better things to do than sit around arguing with me, apparently, because he swings a leg over the bike and stands up, ignoring me. Andholy cow, he’s huge. I watch as he stows his helmet in a compartment on the back of his bike, tucks his phone into his pocket, then... starts walking away.
“Hey,” I call out. “You didn’t even answer me!”
He doesn’t slow down, doesn’t turn around. He makes no indication that he even heard me yelling after him, though I swear I see his shoulders shaking.
Motherfucker.
CHAPTER 2
Elsie
My Nana used to tell me that falling in love with possibilities would either break your heart or change your life. “If it’s a man with only possibilities to offer,” she’d remind me, “run the other way and don’t look back.”
Nana was always falling in love with possibilities, and they seemed to be everywhere when she was around. The old dresser someone had left by the side of the road for trash pickup, with knobs missing and a drawer that wouldn’t fully close. Produce and herbs at the farmers’ market the next town over that I’d never heard of and even Nana wasn’t sure how to cook with. The backyard overgrown with weeds at the house my parents moved into when we arrived in Port Myles, with grass higher than our knees and so many pricker bushes and thorns, we’d come out of it looking like we’d gotten mauled by a tiger. For all we knew, there could have been one in there.
But when Nana looked at it, she saw thepossibilities.She saw the flowers that would someday thrive there, the deep purple dahlias and cotton candy-colored peonies that she’d have growing by the end of that summer. She saw the vase of baby blue hydrangeas, picked fresh from the garden that afternoon, that would sit in the middle of the table when we gathered for Sunday dinners. I inherited my love of flowers from her, though I don’t always have the same optimism.
