Page 12 of At First Catch

“What kind of events?”

“Dock parties. Seasonal festivals. Live music. She handles a lot of the tourism stuff around town.”

Of course, she does. I can practically picture it. Hadley moving through crowded summer events with sunlight catching warm chestnut highlights in her hair and a clipboard tucked against her body, chuckling because somebody forgot the permits. Balancing three conversations. Waving children away from the docks.

The image settles somewhere dangerously close to fondness.

One night. A handful of conversations. A few accidental run-ins afterward. That should not be enough to miss someone.

Yet…

That’s another problem: the Wrights.

Most families would intimidate me less if they came with warning labels.

The thing about the Wright family is that they love loudly. Completely. Without hesitation.

You walk into a room with them and understand that these people would burn the world down for each other. It’s written into the way they move. The teasing. The easy affection. The way they automatically make space for everyone at the table.

Even this morning, Dean had reached over absentmindedly to straighten Evelyn’s sweater while arguing with Crew about football rankings. Lila had stolen half of Dean’s breakfast without asking. Bailey kept leaning against Ivy while they whispered about something probably dangerous.

And Hadley sat in the middle of all of it looking warm and familiar and deeply woven into something permanent.

I don’t think she realizes how beautiful that is. Or maybe she does. Maybe that’s why she ran.

Nobody asks permission to belong. They just...do.

I look away before the thought has time to settle. Some things are easier to admire from a distance.

Everything in my life growing up came with an expiration date attached to it. You learn not to expect people to stay. You definitely learn not to need them. Which made waking up alone that morning feel far more personal than it should’ve.

A truck pulls into the marina lot behind me, tires crunching over gravel. I glance back. Holt Wright climbs out wearing a faded fire department shirt and mirrored sunglasses, carrying two paper bags that smell unmistakably like burgers.

Of course, he brought food. The man’s love language is aggressive meal distribution.

The breeze shifts across the docks, carrying the smell of salt water and fresh-cut lumber from somewhere down the shoreline.

Holt unwraps his burger beside me.

“You know what the old owner used to do every Friday?” he asks.

I glance over.

“No.”

“Free hot dogs.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“For the kids.” He nods toward the empty slips. “Parents would fish. Kids would run around the docks like little maniacs.”

I look out over the weathered marina again. It’s easy to picture. The empty walkways suddenly feel louder. Like they’re remembering something.

Holt takes another bite before speaking.

“Town’s missed this place.”

I don’t answer.