Page 44 of Monk
“And all of my data is imported? Contacts—”
“Everything,” Howie assures me.
“Great. Thank you.”
I pick up my new phone from the counter, then stuff everything else into the bag. It’s not the latest and greatest, but it’ll do. I’ve never been one who needs all of the bells and whistles anyway. So long as it does what I need—calling, texting, and browsing the Web, it’s good enough for me.
Giving Howie a smile, I turn around and walk out of the shop and to the parking lot. After dropping my bag in the back seat, I decide to get a coffee. So, I close the door, set the alarm, and casually stroll down the street to one of the mom-and-pop coffeehouses that endure in this world of corporate coffee houses. After getting my drink, I head back out and walk around, really taking in the town for the first time since I’ve been back.
It’s a beautiful day out. The late-afternoon sun is high in a sky filled with scattered and patchy clouds. It’s warm, but not too warm, and a cool breeze carrying the heavy scent of the ocean rustles the leaves in the street, sending them skittering along the pavement with a dry, scratchy sound.
As I wander down Harrison Avenue—Blue Rock Bay’s main drag—I notice just how much things haven’t changed. The same shops I remember from my childhood still line the street. Oh, there’s some new additions—Starbucks now has two locations, one at either end of Harrison, because apparently, you may need a refill after that half-mile drive or so.
There are some new boutique shops I’ve seen, and as always, the big-box stores are located elsewhere in town, pushed far back from Harrison, since the city council doesn’t want our idyllic, Mayberry-esque main street spoiled with the gaudy edifices of rampant, out-of-control capitalism.
“The more things change, the more they stay the same, huh?”
His voice nearly makes me jump out of my skin, sending a spike of adrenaline straight into my heart. Spinning around, I find Jacob standing in the doorway of Miller’s Fine Meats, one of the dwindling number of boutique butcher’s shops left in the state. Maybe even in the country.
Jacob is standing in the doorway, holding a large paper bag that’s tied with white string under his arm, smiling at me.
“Didn’t mean to startle you,” he said.
“You didn’t.”
Jacob nods. “All right.”
He closes the door behind him and stands there for a moment, holding my gaze, but saying nothing. There’s a heavy sense of anticipation crackling in the air between us, and the longer the silence drags on, the heavier it seems to get. As if sensing it as well, Jacob shuffles his feet and clears his throat.
“Anyway, thanks for giving me a chance to talk the other night. I hope it gave you some… closure, I guess,” he says.
“Closure,” I reply. “Right. Yeah.”
My tongue suddenly feels too thick for my mouth and my verbal comprehension skills drop to that of the average rock. There’s so much I want to say to him still, but I apparently lack the ability to form coherent thoughts, let alone words. I didn’t feel like such an awkward kid even when I was an awkward kid.
“So, you moving back here for good?” he asks.
I give him a shrug. “I’m not sure yet. There’s a lot of things still… up in the air. Things I’m trying to figure out.”
“Yeah?”
I nod as thoughts of Spencer and the shitshow my life has become flash through my mind. There’s also the bag of cash hidden in my closet to think about. I don’t even know how much is in there but given the weight of the bag and Spencer’s desperation to get it back, I have to imagine it’s a pretty substantial amount.
“What kind of things are you trying to figure out?” he asks.
A wry smile forms on my lips. “Life. Just trying to figure out my life.”
“You? I seem to recall that you always had it all buttoned down.”
“Yeah, well, what’s that old saying? Man plans, God laughs.”
He nods. “I hear that.”
It’s strange to me that for so many years, I held such animosity for this man, I can stand here and have a civil conversation with him. And while my hurt and anger still haven’t entirely dissipated, they’re not as strong as they once were—as I expected them to be for the rest of my life. Thirty is on the horizon, so maybe I’m mellowing with age or something.
I point to the package in his hand. “Picking up dinner?”
He nods and looks at the package as though he’s forgotten it being there. “Yeah, Bo loves his red meat.”
