I reach the pier and lean against the weathered railing, looking out at the black water. This is where we kissed for the first time, twenty years ago. She was seventeen and laughing about something—I can’t even remember what—and I was nineteen and so in love I couldn’t see straight. I’d kissed her mid-sentence, just because I couldn’t stand another second of not knowing what it felt like.
She’d tasted like salt water taffy and summer. She’d grabbed my shirt and pulled me closer. Whispered “finally” against my lips, like she’d been waiting for me to work up the courage.
We spent that whole summer tangled up in each other, making plans that felt as solid as the pier beneath our feet. I was going to make it big—touring, albums, the whole dream. She was going to come with me. We’d conquer the world together.
Then August ended, and so did we.
I never really understood why. One day she was there, and the next she was on a bus back to Asheville with a note that saidI’m sorry. Please don’t follow me.
So I didn’t. I respected her wishes, even though it nearly killed me. I told myself she’d come back whenshe was ready. Wrote her letters she never answered. Left voicemails she never returned. Eventually, I stopped trying.
But I never stopped wondering.
Ten years later, she came back. Walked into Twin Waves like a ghost made flesh, and for one stupid second, I thought the universe was giving us a second chance.
Then she left again. Same note, different words. Same disappearing act. Same silence that stretched for years until I stopped expecting anything else.
And now here we are. Third time around. Both of us older, supposedly wiser, definitely more broken.
I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with that.
The waves crash against the pier supports, steady and relentless. The sound used to comfort me. Now it just feels like mockery.You thought you could run from this,the ocean seems to say.But I always bring everything back to shore.
I stay until my fingers go numb from the cold. Then I walk back to the rental house, fall into bed, and stare at the ceiling until dawn starts to lighten the edgesof the sky.
I need coffee.
Twin Waves Brewing Co. opens at six, and I’m standing outside at 5:58 like a desperate man. Which I am. The woman behind the counter—Michelle, according to her name tag—gives me a knowing look as she unlocks the door.
“Rough night?”
“That obvious?”
“Honey, I’ve been serving coffee to this town for years. I know what ‘haven’t slept’ looks like.” She gestures me inside. “What can I get you?”
“Whatever’s strongest. And biggest.”
“Coming right up.”
The shop is cozy and warm, all reclaimed wood and soft lighting. It smells like fresh espresso and something baking in the back—muffins, maybe, or scones. A few early risers are scattered at tables, nursing their own cups and scrolling their phones. Nobody seems to recognize me, which is either a blessing or a sign that I’ve faded further from relevance than I thought.
I take a seat at the counter, Michelle grinding beans and steaming milk like she could do it in her sleep. There’s something soothing about watching someone who’s genuinely good at their job.
“You’re Dean’s brother, right?” she asks, sliding an enormous mug across to me. “Levi?”
“Half brother. But yeah.”
“Jo’s been talking about the wedding nonstop. She’s so excited.” Michelle grins. “We all are. That girl deserves every bit of happiness.”
“She seems great. Dean’s lucky.”
“They both are.” She tilts her head, studying me with frank curiosity. “I heard you’re staying for a couple months. Working on music?”
“Trying to.”
“Twin Waves is good for that. Creative energy, or something. My friend Scott—he’s a writer—he always says the ocean clears his head.”
The name snags my attention. “Scott? Scott Avery?”
