Page 52 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell
It’s early, just past six. The sun’s barely thinking about rising, fog curling low around the boats like it’s trying to keep them tucked in a little longer.
I need the quiet. It’s been a few days since my mom and her family crashed the house, and I have nowhere to stay, so I’ve been staying at the bookstore. Not ideal, but better than being where I’m not wanted.
Need to breathe before I walk back into the house and deal with the circus inside. Randy, my mom, and the two kids think screaming is a valid form of communication, and their grandmother, who flew in last night, thinks microwaving fish is fine at any hour. She said, “When in Rome,” as if eating fish sticks was something that had something to do with the east coast. I didn’t bother explaining to her that frozen fish is eaten everywhere. If she wanted a fresh fish experience, the frozen fish sticks aren’t it.
But whatever. She thought I was the maintenance man until one of Randy’s kids told her I was April’s brother. I politelyexplained that I was April’s son, and she looked like she didn’t believe me.
The water, at least, is calming and peaceful.
From the next dock over, I hear a grunt and the clatter of rope hitting deck.
Old Pete stands on the deck of his rusted-out trawler, squinting at me like I’m part of the landscape that doesn’t quite belong.
“If you’re gonna sit there all broody like some romance cover model,” he calls out, “you might as well come give me a hand, Fabio.”
I huff a laugh, standing. “I didn’t realize helping you was mandatory.”
“You’re within thirty feet of my boat. That’s consent.”
I jump down and make my way to his side. The deck’s still slick with dew, but Pete moves across it like a man twenty years younger.
“The lines are tangled,” he grumbles. “Damn fool college kid who helped me last week knew nothing. Nearly tied the boat to itself like a goddamn pretzel.”
Together we get to work. I fall into the rhythm without thinking, checking the pulleys, re-coiling the lines, tightening a few bolts. Pete watches without hovering, only offering a grunt or the occasional snarky mutter when I do something he likes.
“You always did know your way around a boat,” he says after a bit. “Even when you were a scrawny thing with a mop of hair and no idea how to keep your damn shoes tied.”
“Still have trouble with the laces,” I joke.
He smirks. “That checks out.”
We work in companionable silence for a while. It’s easy with Pete and always has been. He says exactly what he means, then shuts up about it. No games, passive aggression, or bullshit. I appreciate a straight shooter.
When we finish, he claps me on the back. “Now, I’d say that’s worth a coffee, wouldn’t you?”
I nod, following him down the dock. “As long as you’re buying.”
He snorts. “You wish.”
The Driftwood Diner is already buzzing when we get there, the usual blue-checkered curtains pulled open, the scent of bacon and fried blueberry muffins thick in the air. We don’t stay, just grab two coffees to go and a couple of breakfast sandwiches that may or may not still be warm depending on how fast Old Pete walks back to his bench by the wharf. And yes, it’s literally his bench. Has his name on it and everything. This town doesn’t mess around when it comes to taking care of its own. The town respects Old Pete, who has been the harbor master for a long time. He looks out for people, and he cares.
We sit, the wood damp beneath us, the harbor stretching out in front of us like a postcard.
He takes a sip, sighs. “You know…I’m proud of the man you’ve become.”
My grip on the coffee tightens slightly. I nod, but I say nothing.
“And I know your dad would be too,” Pete continues. “I know she’s your mom, but April wasn’t even nice to your pops when he was alive. It’s kinda hard for a zebra to change its stripes, son. I mean that in the most loving way. Sometimes we get dealt a hard hand.”
I stare straight ahead.
“You were young,” he says gently. “Probably don’t remember it all, but your dad put up with a lot from her. She hated he went out fishing. Hated that he did that for a living. Thought he should’ve worked someplace else and played it safe. But he loved the water more than anything. And she hated that most ofall. Sometimes it didn’t seem like she even liked him much or wanted him to be happy.”
The words hit somewhere deep, somewhere I’ve locked up and left dusty for years. I remember the fights. Not the words, but the tones. The volume. The way dishes would clatter in the sink, and doors would slam, and I’d sit at the table pretending to read a cereal box like I didn’t hear a damn thing.
I thought that was just life, and that everyone lived like that. Walking as if on eggshells, knowing silence wasn’t peace, just a pause between storms.
Thinking it was normal. And now I realize it’s not.
