Maple Crossing is a small town that boasts beautiful seaside views. The quaint harbor is the staple of the town. And I can see why. Yachts dance on blue water, their ringing bells tickling the atmosphere just right.
It’s different from the obnoxious horns you hear from cargo ships coming into port on the Hudson. The waterfront there is an industrial nightmare compared to what Maple Crossing has going on.
Everything here is untouched. Unruined.
And it’s making me feel so fucking out of place.
I inhale the sweet air and hope for it to cure me. But I fear there’s no antidote to this pain.
Nothing hurts more than being denied the chance to know your own daughter.
I’ve been working for just over a decade in the New York City Fire Department now, and have been exposed to ruin in its rawest form.
Death.
Children with third-degree burns.
Flames so ruthless they cut through uniforms.
That pain is nothing compared to this.
I deviate from the boardwalk and nip into a coffee shop. The change of location isn’t improving my mood, so I’m hoping a coffee will.
Bean There. Classic, witty name for a small, independent business.
“Black Americano, please,” I say to the barista as she counts up a wad of cash. “And make it strong. Thanks.”
She looks up at me, and I suddenly slip into a dream.
Eyes colored the same brilliant blue as the water outside, with a restorative look inside of them that heals more than the sun.
Pale-blue eyes. Creamy skin. Her curved nose decorated with the perfect amount of freckles.
There’s something so refreshing and new about her face. It brings positivity back into my chest after a week of despair.
“Sure thing,” she says, her voice equally as sweet as her face as she rings up my order. “Four dollars.”
Cheap, compared to New York City prices.
I take out my phone and open up my wallet app.
That’s when she bursts into a bout of laughter. “Um…” A wide grin lifts her face even more, rounding out her cheekbones into apples. “Sorry, city boy—we only take cash.”
“Traditional. I like it.” I stuff my hands into my pockets and retrieve the four dollars. “Is it obvious I’m from New York?”
“Only a little.” Her eyes grow wide, and a blush tints the ends of her pierced ears. “City boys are a little more…”
“Put together?” I finish jokingly, noting my outfit.
I picked out the first pair of jeans I could find and stuffed them into a carry-on with a bunch of creased T-shirts. Pair the careless outfit with my unwashed hair, and you’ve got yourself a very untidy person.
I now resent myself for not making more of an effort.
The woman—Piper, according to her coffee-bean-shaped name tag—giggles and heads over to the coffee machine to get started on my coffee.
Fuck. Love at first sight is supposed to be a myth, a term saved only for the movies. But I watch Piper fit the coffee grinder into the machine with precision, laughing with colleagues as she goes, and feel an odd relief that Holly ran off.
Not because I don’t get to know my daughter. But because Holly was never the woman I was looking for. Not really.
