Page 72 of Every Chance After

Old metal shelves flank out like a fan around us. Products are sparsely arranged—candy here, chips there, canned goods over there—but nothing looks organized. Magazines and old newspapers tower in a corner. Random standalone displays of keychains, individual packs of medicines, and lighters occupy odd spaces. Lights flicker in the cold cases along the wall, and fluorescents buzz overhead. A case that once held ice cream sandwiches and Nutty Buddies now only has bait and ice-crusted frozen dinners. Fishing rods and nets line the wall, most crooked.

And like a cherry on top, a legs-up cockroach the size of my fist lies on the rough, paint-chipped floor at Marina’s foot.

In her slow pan of the store, she sees the cockroach but says nothing. I steer her around it, and we walk deeper into the store from hell.

“Is that Marnie?” Christie’s voice rises from the back corner of the L-shaped store.

Marnie’s feet move somewhat quicker through the aisles to reach the source.

Seeing my uncle, his buddies, and what’s become of the place makes me cringe. What Maureen once called “The Canteen,” a short kitchen and bar with a few fixed metal stools where she’d serve us fountain drinks and hot dogs, has been overtaken by cigarette cartons and the insipid grunge of ashtrays.

Roy occupies one stool of the canteen to our right, legs stretched out to the register counter and belly protruding from his dirty t-shirt.

The counter is a large, battered wood monstrosity covered in ancient advertisement posters, mostly for beer and cigarettes. Overhead, a slotted shelf holds loose cigarette packs like an umbrella over Christie and Wade, who occupy high-top bar stools on the other side of the counter. They look like an oddball gang of old bikers, smoking and drinking in their corner, protecting themselves from customers.

Not that they get many. Or any.

Embarrassment makes my cheeks flush as I turn to Marina. It’s so awful that I want to scoop her into my arms, make a run for it, and find a way to erase her memory of this. She should hate me for bringing her here, let alone suggesting she work here.

But she stifles my upcoming apology with a wide smile. “Yes, it’s Marnie. Are you three heartbreakers my welcoming committee?”

Christie nearly falls over himself, coming from behind the counter to greet her—at a lumbering six-four, he tends to look clumsy. “It’s so wonderful to have you here,” he says, hand grazing his heart.

“I’m happy to be here.” She shakes his extended hand. “What a lovely blouse—a very good color for you. Brings out your eyes.”

Christie looks like he might tear up at the compliment. He fingers the collar of the silky shirt. “Told you, boys. She has exquisite taste. I still dream about your starry night display at Sunny’s.”

“Picnic Under the Stars? You remember?” Her cheeks redden sweetly. “We sold out of beach blankets and picnic baskets over that one.”

Christie raises his hand. “Guilty of buying both! Wren and I love going on nighttime adventures. Well, I call them adventures. She calls them evening spells and incantations. Do you know Roy?”

Christie motions to the idiot on the stool, who promptly stands, bows, and salutes, but does each clumsily. “Roy Fontaine. Retired Duke Power lineman. Glad you ain’t dead.”

“Um, thanks. Me, too.”

He rubs his gray beard, scrutinizing her with his drunk eyes. “You’re a lot prettier than Grady said.”

Marina flashes a coy smile in my direction.

“I never said,” I correct sternly. “Stop talking.”

Roy fumbles back to his stool.

Christie motions to Wade, still sitting behind the counter. “You remember Wade?”

Wade nods and flicks his cigarette ashes into the dirty tray beside him.

For the first time since we entered, Marina’s smile falters. “I remember. Nice to meet you under better circumstances. Thanks for being there, you and Christie, my heroes.”

Christie gasps. “A terrible day, but not tragic, thanks to Grady and the universe. Glad to help.”

“Just doing our civic duty,” Wade huffs.

I give him a stern glare over Marina’s shoulder. I should’ve known he wouldn’t make this easy.

“Grady tells me you’re looking for a manager,” Marina says, scanning her surroundings. Her finger lands on an empty stool. Its wobbly spin makes her smile widen and stirs my memories. I wish she could’ve seen the place when Maureen was here.

“That’s right,” Wade says.

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