“Texted last week. Said he’s fine.” Ethan reaches for his coffee, takes a sip, then sets down the ridiculous lobster mug. “I doubt that’s true.”
I’m not sure what to say to that, so I grin instead, pushing past the nagging concern for my oldest brother. “Nice mug.”
A dreamy smile spreads across his face, which normally, I’d think is the sign of a medical emergency where my brother is concerned, but I’ve seen him around Sloane enough to understand. They weren’t fooling anyone this summer, no matter how hard they tried.
“Sunny thought it was funny.” He shrugs.
“You seem happy,” I say at last around a forkful of eggs.
Ethan scratches the back of his neck, then finally meets my smirk. “Almost ready?” he asks instead.
I chuckle. That’s enough of an answer for me.
“Thanks for breakfast, Ethan.” I slide off the counter-height stool, wincing as my feet hit the wooden floor too hard. It’s a jolt to my body, like another hit to a fresh bruise. “I’ll head back to the city tonight.”
“No fucking way. Stay the night at least. Sloane had an interview this morning for theHerald, but you know she’s going to want to see you. And you’re off the ice for two weeks.”
I don’t argue. Not sure I have the energy to head back to Boston anyway.
After breakfast, I walk with Ethan down to the docks so he can head out and haul traps. It’s early yet, but Main Street is already full of familiar faces as they head to the diner and thecoffee shop. I tuck my ball cap down low, my head still throbbing. The damn sunlight isn’t helping. It’s cooler on the sidewalk. Main Street is a collection of boutiques and shops huddled tightly together, squat buildings with clapboard siding, hand-drawn chalk signs by their brightly painted front doors, and overflowing flower boxes. I’ll never get tired of the salt air.
I think everyone assumes I never want to come back, or maybe I’m too busy now. And while I have a life that keeps me on the road or in Boston for most of the year, Merritt Point will always be home.
Then I round the corner and see it.
It’s jarring every time. Still, the hole in the ground where my family’s restaurant used to stand.
Ethan notices me pause. “Doesn’t get any easier.”
A lot of things in life don’t. I think I’m finally learning that.
“It’s just different.”
“Let’s go,” my dad bellows from the boat. He’s loading bait bags onto the deck.
The harbor’s quieter this time of year. Just a few boats rocking in their slips and the gulls making a racket overhead.
“You look like hell, Jack,” he says by way of greeting.
Richie Murphy was never known to mince words. It’s straight-Boston. All gruff, noR’s, and a wicked sense of humor.
“You should see the other guy.” When my dad doesn’t laugh, I scuff my boot over the weathered dock boards. “Good morning to you too.”
He straightens, his round belly filling out his Red Sox T-shirt beneath a pair of bright-orange Grundéns. He adjusts his gray plaid scally cap, then dives back into work with a sigh. “Your mother’s worried sick. You call her yet?”
“I texted her this morning.”
“Doesn’t count.” He runs his hand across his sharp, Irishnose. “What are you doing out here anyway? Shouldn’t you be in bed?”
“It’s a five-minute walk, Dad. I’m fine.”
“Uh-huh.” He doesn’t look convinced. “Ethan, tell your brother to take a nap.”
“I’ve got the bags, Dad. Go start her up.” Ethan adjusts his hat and glares at me. “When has Jack ever listened to me?”
“Fair point.” That deep belly laugh of my dad’s booms, breaking the quiet of the harbor before he starts up the lobster boat.
“Where’s Brooks?” I feel a little weird being left on the dock. True, it’s a five-minute walk, but I don’t trust my body to handle being on the water or hauling traps with my brother today.
