Last Stop.
Twinkle lights wrap the porch railing. Wind chimes sing above the door, their soft notes tangled with the faint smell of salt and coffee drifting on the breeze.
Inside, it’s bigger than it looks—clean, cozy, and packed with everything from chips to local honey. The back wall’s lined with beverage coolers, and tucked off to the side, a painted wooden sign reads:Last Stop Tavern.
I push the door open—and forget to breathe.
It leads to a wide, wrap-around porch with hanging swings and Adirondack chairs. Down a few steps, there’s a small deck with weathered stools and an open-air bar that looks like it belongs at a beach wedding. Locals sit with coffee or beer—depending on their mood—chatting over the creak of swings and the clink of bottles, like it’s just another slow day in paradise.
Stella would love this.
The guy behind the counter gives me a friendly nod, like I’ve been here a hundred times before.
“You just riding through, or staying a while?” he asks as he dries the mugs he just washed.
“Not sure yet,” I say, sliding onto a stool as the cool breeze kicks up off the water.
The smell of driftwood and citrus fills the air—not heavy, not overwhelming. Clean. Calming.
Behind the bar, an old corkboard catches my eye. Blue flyers for poetry night at the local bookstore. A “lost but maybe not missing” cat. Surf lessons, handwritten in red ink. Scattered among them are faded Polaroids: barefoot brides, oceanfront vows, joy caught in still frames. The edges curl and yellow with age, but the smiles stay bright, like the whole town has been pinning pieces of its heart here for years.
I glance out toward the water, and she’s there. Not really—but I see her anyway. A porch swing swaying, legs tucked under her, coffee mug in hand. Hair wild from the wind, cheeks pink from the cold. Smiling and laughing like she’s always belonged here. Like we both do.
After several Cokes and a long stretch of silence, I finally see it—the ocean doesn’t care who’s right. It just keeps moving. Endless. Unbothered.
But the waves... They aren’t just crashing. They’re rebuilding. The pull back, the surge forward, again and again.
Maybe that’s how we fix things. Not all at once. Not with one grand gesture. One tide at a time.
I make my way to the door. The guy behind the counter—Huxley, I’ve learned—tips his head and says, “Don’t be a stranger, ya hear?”
I don’t think I could be a stranger to this place again. Oddly enough, this is the most at home I’ve ever felt. And I can’t wait to bring Stella here.
The sun has already set as I ride back toward Virginia Bay. The air is cool, the hum of the engine steady as I lean into each curve like the road and I are having a quiet conversation.
I park the bike, making a mental note to pick up my car from the dealership tomorrow. Then I climb the three flights of stairs to my small apartment.
Inside, the silence hits first—thick and unmoving. The space is clean, familiar, and everything is where it should be. And yet it feels empty. It always has.
I kick off my riding boots and set my helmet and gloves on the counter. This place holds my stuff, but she is what holds me.
Stella is home.
The quiet presses in until I can’t take it anymore. I finally reach for my phone, thumb hovering over the button. I don’t even remember turning it off. But I know why I did.
When the screen lights up, the messages are stacked, one after another.
Mac:Onyx is a beauty, man. She’s so fun to ride. ??wink emoji
Mac:You can take her out next time you come through.
Mac:Slate, it’s been hours since you texted. You haven’t even read my messages. You good?
Mac:I’m worried about you, man. Stella called me—she was a mess. I know you’re not cheating on that girl, so what the fuck is happening?
Then hers.
Stella:Mac told me you aren’t responding to texts, D. I apologize for everything. Please call me. Let’s talk about this.
