“Me too,” I say with a smile. “We’ll bring back muffins,” I promise as Dad comes in with another armful of things.
“Two for me,” he says, dropping bags of groceries and turning toward the basement. “I’ll turn on the water.”
Mom calls out, reminding him to be gentle with the pipes. We don’t need another incident like we had when I was eleven and we had to go next door to shower for two weeks. I will be avoiding Luke as long as possible, and needing to use the Tisdales’ shower would make that tough. I grab my backpack off the table where Mom left it, and she swats playfully at me when I reach for one of the suitcases.
“Get outta here. I mean it.” She lifts a box out of Abbi’s hands too. “You too, Abbi. Go air out your rooms and then get out of the house. I bet you could use a coffee. You’re moving a little slow.”
Abbi shrugs, caught, and I smirk at her before dashing to the corner past the fridge. Hidden in what looks like a tiny cupboard, there’s a set of stairs that lead to my room, which is in the older part of the house. Mom and Dad added on the garage and their bedroom above it when they bought the place, but Abbi’s and my rooms are in the original upstairs. I make my way up the dark narrow stairwell and step on the creaky first floorboard of my room. I open all three windows, including the one that looks over the rosebushes at the Tisdales’ next door. I spy to see if they’re awake, but it’s barely 8:00 a.m., and the navy-blue curtains of the bedroom facing mine are pulledshut. I catch sight of aCongrats, Seniors!sign in their yard next to a couple little-kid bikes and a half-set-up volleyball net that a gray cat is sniffing suspiciously, but no human movement. I feel a twinge of relief, then spot Luke’s old black truck in the driveway. It’s covered in dew, and I remember leaning out the passenger window as the wind whipped through my hair, the music loud, Luke pulling me closer to whisper something in my ear, his breath shivering down my spine.
I blink away the memory and drop my bag on the window bench. I’m heading to the closet, looking for bedsheets, but Abbi stops me in the hall.
“Are you ready? I need coffee, like, now.” She’s already changed out of Cam’s hoodie and into a pair of black jeans and a white crop top. Her jewelry is layered, the only thing with color besides her hair, and her sunglasses rest on her smoothed-out curls. She’s even had time to swipe on some mascara. I look down at my black leggings and old volleyball league sweatshirt.
“Do I need to change?”
Abbi’s silence is enough of an answer, so I slip back into my room and pull on a pair of jean shorts and a fresh long-sleeved T-shirt. There’s a little knot of anxiety in my chest. I try to ignore it as I run a brush through my hair and steal one more glance out the window.
Abbi appears at my door, giving an unapproving eye to my outfit.
“Let’s go.” I grab my tote bag and pretend to ignore the look, pushing past her. She catches up to me as I turn left out the driveway, away from the ocean and toward downtown. I sendoff a quick text to Maddy letting her know we’re heading to Lorell’s.
Calling it “downtown” might be too generous. Unlike Brookline, the total sum of Northport’s center is one street barely a quarter mile long. Sure, there’s the back half facing the harbor too, but a lot of those places are abandoned. Northport isn’t as fancy as other towns on the Cape. There are tourists, but the strong year-round population can be a little off-putting to outsiders. Locals take being a local very seriously. Thankfully, even though we were only ever here a few months a year, we’ve always been treated like locals, probably because of how close we are with the Tisdales. I worry our two years away and my rift with Luke have changed that.
Like she can read my mind, Abbi loops her arm through mine as we turn onto Main.
“It’s good to be home,” she says. “I missed the smell.”
I take a deep breath in. The dense salty air calms me. “Me too,” I say.
“Ooh, look.” Abbi points as we come upon the first of the downtown shops.
The storefronts already have their themed summer art on the windows. I recognize some of the artists’ names, both from gallery shows I’ve been to and even kids I went to camp with down here. Art school is on my maybe list, though the idea of spending more time in school, even art school, grates on me like a sunburn. I just want to move, see the world,live. I’m tired of wasting time.
When we reach Nyeman’s Antiques & Interior Design, I slow. Luke’s grandparents own it, though his parents took overa few years ago, bringing in all the gifty and decor items Cape visitors expect. His mom also started doing interior design consultations, and I guess it’s become a big enough part of the business that they got a new sign. I’m happy for her, but I stop completely when I see the art in the window. The painted window is all Luke. Black and white, professional and clean. The two bridges stretch over the canal with the Nyeman’s name done in a sharp original font between them. It reminds me of the fake book covers he used to make up when our favorite series author didn’t have anything new.
Luke’s been working shifts after school and on weekends since we were thirteen. He could be in there prepping to open. I can’t walk by. He might see me.
“Sera.” Abbi is already past the shop, but I widen my eyes at her to be quiet. She sighs, flips her sunglasses into her hair, and peers inside. “Relax. The lights are off; he’s not in there. It’s too early.”
“Right,” I say, catching up to her.
“You still haven’t talked to him?” she asks as we step around a family with three little kids who are crowding the tiny brick sidewalk.
“Nope.”
“Don’t you think you should?”
“Why?”
Abbi sighs and shakes her head but doesn’t say more. She and Maddy are the only people who know what happened with Luke, and talking about it with them once was embarrassing enough.
At the bookstore, I stop to stare through the decoratedwindow at the new releases, hoping for some good science fiction and wondering if Lori, the owner, has shelved any good books in the used section upstairs.
“Oh, Cam’s calling me,” Abbi says, glancing down at her phone. “You got the Lorell’s order, right?”
“You know my summer job hasn’t started yet,” I reply, raising an eyebrow.
“Well…I’m a broke college student, so, not it.” She’s already walking over to one of the rocking chairs on the bookstore’s porch.
