I hadn’t expected the shift to land like a swift punch to the gut.
“We’re not talking about me.”
He pulled a hand over his face. “You’re right, we’re not. But maybe we should be.”
“I just think you would want to be happy about what you’re doing with your life,” I added pathetically, barely above a whisper.
“Georgie, please.”
My stomach was doing flips again, but for all the wrong reasons. Suddenly, I wasn’t starving anymore.
After a long, breathless hush, I murmured, “I’m sorry.”
This time, he didn’t correct me for saying it.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The city didn’t ease you in—it hit like a tidal wave of noise and smells and a kind of chaotic buzz that made Bluebell Cove feel like a sleepy watercolor painting in comparison.
Rhett’s truck jostled along the busy road as we crossed into downtown Port Camden. The towering buildings surrounding us shouldered each other for space; some were brick and peeling paint, with balconies that jutted out like iron jaws. Others shone back at us and glinted in the sun, glass edifices anchored by restaurants and department stores and convenience shops. A man played the saxophone at the corner, his melody echoing off the buildings, floating through our open windows.
Rhett flicked on his blinker and muttered, “Welcome to Port Camden. Jewel of the East Coast.”
“Really?” I wrinkled my nose as a gull swooped overhead, dropping something unspeakable on the roof of the car ahead of us. “Not quite the jewel I would’ve pictured.”
“You’ve lived in the Cove all your life, and you’ve never been here, Wheeler?” he asked, easing the truck around a corner.
“It felt different,” I replied, kicking my feet up until they dangled outside.
Last time, Port Camden had been brighter, warmer—not the embodiment of everything I was trying to fight.
The forest of glass and concrete began to clear as we headed down a low hill toward the coastline. In truth, I hadn’t been to Port Camden since I was in high school. Big cities, with their traffic and bustling sidewalks, only ever made me anxious.
Rhett found a parking space near the wharf and pulled in. The second he cut the engine, the gulls’ cries filled the air, overlapping with vendors shouting the catch of the day. Stands lined the street behind us, colorful shades protruding from a squat, brick building with spreads of various fish on ice beneath them.
I popped open my door and momentarily took in the chaos. Underneath the brine and the shrieking birds, warmth pressed through—the faint lapping of waves against rocks, chatter from the nearby pier, and something sweet and fried.
Rhett climbed out and stretched, tossing me a look. “So, boss.” He nodded at the stack of posters in the bed. “Where do we start?”
I had no idea—but he didn’t need to know that.
He followed me with a few signs as I wandered down the boardwalk. Then I spotted a bulletin board hung crooked and hammered to a wooden piling by the pier. Half of it was covered in sun-bleached flyers: missing cats, guitar lessons, a hand-scrawled advertisement for babysitting with a few numbers torn off. Rhett held our festival poster against the board while I retrieved the tape from my backpack and began wrestling with it.
And promptly lost.
It unraveled and clung to my wrist, nearly dropping all the way to the ground.
“Need a hand?” Rhett asked, far too smug.
“I’ve got it,” I said through gritted teeth, slowly winding the tape back onto the spool.
“Sure you do.”
By the third board, I thought I had it figured out. Except a gust of wind ripped the poster from my grip and sent it cartwheeling toward the harbor.
I lunged after it with a shriek, nearly colliding with a fisherman hauling a crate of clams off the quay. Rhett snagged my elbow before I tumbled headfirst into the water.
They really should’ve put a railing there.
