“Busy,” Ethan says, quickly.
Brooks is Ethan’s best friend, and between helping out on the lobster boat and painting houses, he might as well be another Murphy sibling. Annie sure annoys him enough for that to be true.
My dad walks back, his hands on his hips as he gazes up at me on the dock. “Go rest, son. We’ll see you for dinner tonight. Mom’s making shepherd’s pie.”
It might be one of my least favorite dishes my mom makes outside of her tuna noodle casserole. Still, I force a smile, ignoring the pang in my chest as my dad struggles with one of the lines. “I’ll be there.”
He gives me one more look, the kind that says he’s not buying my “I’m fine” act, before he shuffles back and turns on the radio. Aerosmith and seagulls are all I can hear before he and Ethan start yelling at each other over the noise, slowly guiding the boat out. It’s a dance they do together a lot.
Another thing I mostly missed out on.
I stand there for a minute as the boat heads out into theharbor, the horizon a smudgy line of pale blue and gray. I sit down, resting against the railing, and let my feet swing over the edge. When I was little, I’d watch the sun dance over the murky water sloshing against the docks, searching for schools of silversides.
The team’s on their way to St. Louis, and I don’t know what to do with myself. I guess check in with Heather, maybe grab a coffee.
That’s when I spot it, not far down the street from where the Merritt’s Catch Lobster Co. stood.
A wide window decorated in ghosts made of book pages, little heart cutouts made in each, the two larger ones holding bouquets of fake roses. A heart garland is draped across the top of the arched window, lined with white Christmas lights. In each corner, stacks of pumpkins with bright pink and orange bows tied around each stem. And to the left, a bright, bubblegum-pink door.
The Salty Romantic.
I should keep walking. Head back to Ethan’s, take a nap, and respond to everyone’s texts. But my feet are already moving toward the entrance flanked with giant pots of bright-orange mums.
When I step inside, a small bell overhead rings. I stuff my hands into my pockets and watch as Izzy helps a customer on the far side of the small shop. She throws her head back and laughs, and something inside my chest squeezes. I don’t sit with it, because if I do, I’ll turn around. And I came here for a reason, even if I’m pretending I didn’t.
She does a double-take when she spots me, her eyes widening before her expression shutters, and she spins her back toward me. Her hair is down as always, tied in an orange bow. She’s wearing a boxy gray T-shirt over a satin floral skirt andsneakers.
I wind slowly through the stacks, pretending to browse. There’s a line at the register, three people deep. Izzy darts between answering questions, ringing them up, and handing out bookmarks with little bows on them. She’s flushed, chatty, and absolutely in her element.
I hover near a display of monster romances, trying not to grin at the shelf of very interesting silicone toys displayed beside them. Tentacles? A thrusting wolf dildo? Dragon tongue?
Izzy catches me looking and shoots me a glare so sharp I toss my hands up and spin, delighted to find a whole section of hockey romances. I grab one and flip open to a random page, ignoring the way I can feel her stare burn into my back.
“Just go ask him,” a voice hisses behind me.
Fuck. I’m not in the mood for this today.
“Excuse me, can you sign this?” A younger woman with short brown curls holds out a book and a pen. “I’m a huge fan.”
“Love hockey?” I sound like an asshole, I know it.
Still, her smile breaks out into a full grin, and she sighs. “The Breakers are going to the Cup this season. I know it.”
“That’s the goal.” I hand back her pen and book, already turning my body toward her because I know what’s next.
“A quick selfie?”
I grin, and my cheek aches from last night. Shit, I’m not exactly dressed for this today. Don’t think there’s a picture of me in glasses anywhere on the internet. I’ve made sure of that.
The other customers in the store whisper, and before long, there’s a short line waiting for me to chat. Izzy, meanwhile, is roughly stuffing bookmarks into books on a crowded display.
Customers trickle out until it’s just the two of us alone in the shop. Izzy walks back behind the front counter and leans against it. “Why are you here?”
I scratch my cheek, then immediately wince. Right, black eyes, bruised cheek. My thin, gold-wired glasses slide down mynose, and I shove them up quickly. God, I hate these things. Bruises I can handle. The glasses? Different story.
“Why are you here, Jack?” she repeats.
I yank off my hat and run my hand through my hair. “Went for a walk.”
