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But I have.
Walking down the quiet, peaceful street is like ripping off a bandage to assess the wound underneath. Mine should look scarred yet healed. But now that I’m actually peeking underneath, it still appears pink and raw.
Time only heals if you acknowledge its passing.
Grief has no finite measure.
The end of Ashland Avenue dead-ends into the unoriginally named stretch of Main Street—the center of Port Haven’s small downtown section.
My destination sits right on the corner, fluorescent lights shining through the rain and darkness like a lighthouse’s beacon. Main Street Market serves as the town center. Memories of purchasing Popsicles to suck on down at the lakeshore and picking up hot dog buns for a cookout creep into my mind as the automatic doors slide open. Happier, simpler times.
Harsh lighting and the acrid scent of chemical cleaner greet me as my wet sneakers squeak across the linoleum.
Port Haven’s only grocery store hasn’t changed the arrangement of its aisles since I was last here. Produce is up front, the waft of additional refrigeration raising goose bumps on my skin. The meat counter is located in the very center, mostly displaying cuts of fish and emanating a continual gurgle from the lobster tank. All the alcohol is tucked against the far wall, so you have to cross the entire store to reach it.
I grab a couple of limes from the basket of green citrus set up beside the bananas before weaving my way down the chip aisle. Following a brief debate between cheese puffs or potato chips, I pick up a bag of salt and vinegar potato chips to serve as a late dinner. Then, I beeline toward the back of the store and make a quick selection.
One bottom-shelf bottle of tequila later, I’m in line for Express—the only open checkout lane. The market is close to empty, which is hardly surprising. It’s past what most of Port Haven’s residents would consider appropriate shopping hours and too late in August for there to be much of a tourist influx lingering in town. There’s only one man in line in front of me.
Water drips from my soaked clothes as I study the final flecks of coral still sticking to my toenails and wait for the other customer to pay. No doubt my mom and my sister, Amelia, will have something to say about their chipped state.
I’d rather endure comments about my poorly polished nails than have them delve deeper than the surface level of my appearance. That’s always been my strategy when it comes to interacting with my family. The more obvious I make our differences—my shortcomings—the more civil our conversations are. The more superficial subjects there are to discuss, the less likely painful topics will come up.
A fading pedicure is nothing in comparison to my lack of wedding date or disappointing choice of career.
I’m twenty-seven years old. Long past the point where my family should dictate my life choices. And I know their comments come from a place of love—it’s just heavily disguised by judgment and dismay. By my mother mentioning which of her friends have single sons and my sister saying many of her former law school classmates are in their mid- to late-twenties. I have as much interest in dating an investment banker or attending law school as I do in leaving this store empty-handed.
None.
My phone begins vibrating in the back pocket of my jean shorts. I’m guessing it’s my best friend and roommate, Olivia—there’s no one else I can imagine calling me this late. She’s an ER nurse with a hectic schedule that I can’t keep track of even though we live together.
I fumble for my phone, dropping one lime in the process. The green fruit rolls away slowly, like it’s taunting me with its departure.
“Shit,” I mutter.
I can’t lean down without dropping either the chips or the tequila—precious cargo I’m not willing to part with. So, I ignore my ringing phone and step closer toward the register, stopping next to the guy who’s taking a ridiculously long time to pay for groceries that have already been scanned and bagged.
“Is it okay if I just—”
My intention is to ask the cashier if I can set my items on the empty stretch of counter next to the credit card machine. But for some unknown reason, mid-question, I decide to glance at the guy holding up the line.
Or maybe the reasonisn’tunknown.
Maybe it’s a remainder of the urges my thirteen-, fourteen-, fifteen-, sixteen-,andseventeen-year-old self fought for the five summers he lived next door.
Just as stubborn as an adolescent, I was bound and determined not to be the cliché who lusted after the hot guy every girl had a crush on. The guy who went for a shirtless run every morning. The guy who turned out to be more interested in my younger sister than he ever was in me.
Drew Halifax smiles at me from beneath the brim of his beat-up ball cap, and my silly heart skips a few beats. A collision of nostalgia and hormones can cause palpitations, I guess. My throat goes dry and my palms turn sweaty.
I swallow, suddenly intensely aware of my ragged appearance. Faded T-shirt that could possibly be see-through now that it’s soaked, muddy sneakers, and wet hair. Never have I imagined what running into Drew as an adult might be like. But an ideal scenario would look nothing like this—clutching cheap liquor and dripping water, like I just took a shower while wearing clothes.
I try and fail not to feel self-conscious about my appearance as water continues to streak down my face like tear tracks. If my hands weren’t full of alcohol and junk food, I’d attempt to make improvements to my appearance. But it’s probably a lost cause at this point.
“Hi,” he says. “Remember me?”
With another guy, I’d play dumb. Call this a self-absorbed power play. Alook at me nowway to get me to acknowledge I know who he is. So I can stroke his ego by admitting, after ten years, I still recall too many details, including that brief moment we shared—once. So I can admit that I’m aware he’s now a famous athlete who graces magazine covers and makes millions.
He takes my stunned silence to mean I don’t. “Drew. Drew Halifax. My parents own the place next to yours.”
