Page 16 of Since the Day We Left

He vaulted upright.

Not smoke ... burned toast.

From the kitchen, the usual morning noises drifted in—cabinets opening, water running, a spoon clinking against ceramic.

“Dad?” He swung his legs over the side of the bed, blinking away the remnants of the dream as the light of the room came into focus.

No answer.

Miles scrubbed a hand over his face, then grabbed a T-shirt from his duffel. He pulled it over his head, still half-asleep as he shuffled down the hall.

Good grief, what happened in here?

The kitchen looked like a war zone—toast crumbs scattered across the counter, coffee forming a small lake on the laminate, chunks of grapefruit pulp floating in puddles of pink juice that had escaped from an overturned pitcher. And in the middle of it all stood his dad, fully dressed in a button-up and pressed khakis, silver hair combed neatly to the side.

“Morning.” Arthur grinned. “Made breakfast.”

Miles eyed the blackened toast. “Yeah, I can see that.”

“We need to get going,” Arthur said, sliding a plate of charred toast over.

Miles blinked, feeling like he’d stepped into a sitcom. “Going where?”

“The Painted Shell.” Arthur sipped his coffee like this made perfect sense. “Redhead with the dog?”

Miles stared. His dad remembered Wendi, but he couldn’t remember where the bathroom was after asking three times last night.

“I hope they’ve got good brushes.” Arthur drained his mug in one gulp. “And I want to check out that class she mentioned.”

Miles had planned to tackle the jungle in the front yard and sort through the stack of mail on the table. But seeing his dad dressed and ready—it was the most present he’d been since Miles had arrived.

“Alright.” Miles sighed. “Let me shower first.”

By mid-morning, they were meandering down Main Street, the sun warming their faces. For a while, neither of them spoke—just walked side by side, taking in the salty scent of the sea mixed with the smell of freshly baked bread. It was the kind of morning that made the town feel like it belonged on a postcard.

“Morning, Tom,” Arthur called to a man sweeping outside the bakery. “Knee any better?”

“Better when I don’t think about it!” Tom called back with a hearty laugh, leaning on his broom. “Good to see you, Arthur. Don’t be a stranger now.”

“You know I can’t stay away from your sourdough. Until next time,” Arthur said, waving.

They continued along the cobblestone, passing Coastal Creations with its window display of handmade jewelry, then Sarah’s Sweets, where saltwater taffy sat alongside sugar cookies shaped like starfish, seashells, and sand dollars.

At a storefront with people on colorful mats visible through the windows, Arthur stopped.

“Hmm. Yoga by the Sea,” Miles said, squinting at the sign.

Arthur huffed. “People pay to stretch now?”

Miles bit back a smile, then they strolled down to the corner of Main and Maple where a coral building with a hand painted sign came into view:The Painted Shell.Sunlight glinted off the large front windows, where art supplies and coastal-inspired paintings were carefully arranged. Beneath one window, a wooden bench invited passersby to sit, watch the town go by, or maybe linger just a little longer.

Miles hesitated.

What if Wendi was just being nice? What if dad has a meltdown inside? What if—

“Come on.” Arthur was already tugging the door open.

A small brass bell chimed as they stepped inside. It smelled like cinnamon and vanilla, with a hint of coffee drifting from behind the counter. Barely audible classical music played from somewhere above. The shop was small but felt unexpectedly airy, thanks to high ceilings and windows flooding the space with sunlight. Every inch of the walls were put to use—paints arranged by color, brushes sorted by type, papers organized by weight and texture. A small gallery space showcased local art, while the back section held tables—likely for the classes.

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