Even if she had no idea how she'd survive the landing.
eight
The truck was older than Jack by at least a decade.
Clara's dad's pickup—a faded blue Ford that had seen better years—rattled down the coastal road with the kind of personality that came from being held together by rust, duct tape, and sheer stubbornness. The radio only got two stations, both playing country music that hadn't seen a top 40 list since before he was born.
But watching Clara bob her head to the tunes was the most charming thing he'd seen in a long time.
"How do you even know this music?" he asked, but before she could answer, he guessed, "let me guess…your Gran?"
"And my granddad. They loved music. Always had something playing in the background." She shot him a quick glance, suddenly wary. "Are you laughing at me?"
"Not at all. I love to see you relax. It's a good look on you, Hawkins."
Clara bit back a sudden shy smile that did weird things to his chest and he had to look away. Everything between them had been like this lately — a hand brushing while passing tools, a look held half a second too long, the careful distance they kept on the couch that only proved they were both thinking about closing it.
Neither of them had said a word about it. As strategies went, ignoring a problem until it went away had never once worked for Jack, but that hadn't stopped him from trying.
"Okay, so tell me about this Founder's Festival?" he said, changing the subject.
Clara read between the lines and was only too happy to follow his lead. "It's the biggest thing Beacon's End does all year. Music, vendors, food, entertainment on the main stage—the one you helped rebuild, so congratulations, your craftsmanship will be publicly judged. And then there's a bonfire on the beach at the end of the night." She shrugged. "Probably nothing compared to what you've seen in other places, but for us, it's the event."
"It sounds like a great time," he said, grinning. "I'm in."
The parking area was already packed when they arrived. Clara maneuvered the truck into a spot, killed the engine, and sat for a moment with her hands on the wheel.
"You okay?" Jack asked.
"Yeah. Just... this is the first time I've brought someone. To the festival. Since—" She stopped.
Since Sam. She didn't have to say it.
Jack reached over, squeezed her hand once. "We can leave whenever you want."
"I don't want to leave." She squeezed back. "I want to show you my town."
The beach was transformed.
Strings of lights crisscrossed between posts driven deep into the sand, creating a canopy of gold against the darkening sky. Food stations lined the dunes—seafood, obviously, but also hot dogs and corn on the cob and what looked like an entire table dedicated to pies. Music drifted from somewhere, live and slightly off-key in a way that suggested community band rather than professional entertainment.
Kids ran everywhere, shrieking with the particular brand of chaos that came from too much sugar and zerosupervision. Adults clustered in groups, red solo cups in hand, laughing at jokes Jack couldn't hear.
It looked like every small-town festival Jack had ever been to. Same setup, same energy, same happy chaos. He'd seen this template in a dozen towns.
It had never made his chest tight before.
"Clara!" A woman with blonde hair and paint-stained overalls waved from near the face-painting station. "Over here!"
Clara's face lit up. "That's Lena. Come on, I'll introduce you."
Jack followed Clara through the sand, watching the way people greeted her. Not with the nosy curiosity of Maeve's crew, but with genuine affection. Hugs and inside jokes and the kind of shorthand that came from years of shared history.
Lena pulled Clara into a hug, then turned to Jack with an assessing look that was curious but not invasive. "So you're the carpenter everyone's talking about. I'm Lena. Clara and I used to get detention together for passing notes in Mr. Henderson's class."
"That's a lie," Clara said. "You got detention. I was an innocent bystander."
"You drew those incredibly unflattering cartoons of Henderson's toupee. You were anaccomplice."
