I let my mind wander to my friends’ more promising first days out of college. Faye moving her clothes into a walk-in closet, kissing her new husband on the cheek before ushering him out the door to make enough money for both of them. And Roshi, receiving congratulations from relatives as she announced the prestigious law school she got accepted to.
Their futures are unfurling while mine feels like it’s snapping backward: Freshly moved into a tiny house at the back of a mansion I had no merit in earning, back to square one in my hometown. The irony is jarring. My friends are the mansion. I am the guesthouse.
I shut the water off and yank a pink towel from the rack, hastily drying off and ready to exit the guesthouse not long after arriving. Sulking wouldn’t get me closer to my dream of letting my mom finally retire, and Lottie wanted me to spend the day outside. So, if I couldn’t pursue the job I wanted, it was time I found one here in Seabrook. Descending the cobblestone steps and brusquely turning onto a wide road, I stride toward downtown where small businesses thrive during the tourist season. Somewhere, someone will surely hire me.
One of the things I missed most about home was the ability to walk everywhere. Within seconds, I remember why Seabrook is called “a storybook come to life.” The way the trees, seemingly as old as time, hunker down into the earth with muscular roots and weave through roads. A choir of birds sings as squirrels dart from branch to branch. Houses and shops lack street numbers, so hand-painted wooden signs offer names to reference instead. “Bristle & Brine,” reads a swinging sign to a boutique with robin’s-egg-blue-painted shutters.
Three blocks into the city, I lock eyes with my target—Seabrook Coffee House. A more recent addition to the city square, the name is a far cry from unique, but the shop itself makes up for it.
The white cottage house is nestled in a courtyard, led to by a brick street. Lush greenery hugs the roof like a sweater.As a child, I would hide behind the abandoned house’s bushes while playing tag with the local kids. Now, as a newly graduated adult, I swing the creaky red doors open to beg for a job.
A short, blond-haired girl peeks over the register at me and gives me an excited grin. She looks like she just celebrated the birthday that made her old enough to work here.
“Good morning! What can I get ya?” she says with a sunny smile.
An odd amount of shame creeps into my voice as I reply, “Morning! I was actually checking to see if you guys were hiring.” Perhaps seeing that I’d be coworkers with a high schooler after completing my degree at a prestigious university is what triggers it.
It’s just for the summer, I tell myself, making sure to liven up my expression so this cheery-faced girl doesn’t receive the brunt of my postgrad crisis.
The girl’s eyebrows crinkle like she’s trying to soak up the totality of my face before snapping out of it and blurting, “Yes! Let me just go ask the manager real quick!” I furrow my brow as she scurries to the back like a small mouse.
My ear unintentionally catches the sound of Sunny Teenager informing the manager that “a girl” is here looking for a job. There seems to be a tense exchange, whispered questions and responses, but I can’t hear what they’re saying.
The manager is facing her, his broad shoulders blocking my view, but the sun beams through the window and highlights his jagged cheekbone. From the back, his hair looks messy in a way that suggests he was too busy to put effort into styling it.
The conversation between Tense Manager and Sunny Teenager ends, so I turn away sharply, hoping they don’t catch meeavesdropping. I’m facing the window, pretending to look outside, when I hear his footsteps approaching.
A calm, deep voice sounds off behind my left ear. “Excuse me, ma’am?”
The sound makes me time travel while standing in place. I spin around, still suspended in the second of shock, where my brain screams improbability.
My eyes finally land on him and the floor of my stomach becomes a faulty elevator.
The person who felt more like home than my house did, the one I spent twelve formative years with, the name that became too painful to think about after disappearing without saying the wordgoodbye, is standing in front of me.
More to myself than him, a subconscious breath of a word rasps out of me,“Declan.”
His pupils dilate in response. Or am I imagining things?
Apart from the tiniest twitch of his strong mouth, his jaw stays locked in cool concentration. He seems unmoored, maybe more resigned to see me than shocked by my presence.
Why is he unfazed?
Everything about him is familiar in an instant, and yet, wholly different.
Declan has the face of someone who only becomes more interesting the longer you look at him. I instantly get lost surveying his recent developments. In the four years since I’ve seen him, his face has stretched tight over the angular planes of his cheekbones. A speckling of stubble dots the slant of his jaw. New lines are etched into the grooves beside his eyes. But the dimples, the freckle on his bottom lip, just slightly to the right, and the freckle on his neck, slightly to the left, are still perfectly in place.
“Blair,” he responds in a clipped tone and a simple, albeit slightly awkward nod, before shoving the application into my hands and spinning around to walk away.
As he does, I notice something that wasn’t there the last time I saw him. A subtle limp.
Chapter 3
My fingers navigate to Roshi’s number the second I step foot out of the coffee shop. Distant chatter fades as she answers the phone.
“Hey, Blink. How’s Seabrook life treatin’ you?” Her voice is a slow, laid-back drawl.
I’m out of breath as I answer, “Roshi.”
