Page 3 of From the Wreckage

Everett

I make a cup of coffee and drink half of it while leaning against the counter.

The cabin still smells faintly of dust and stale air. The kind that settles in when a place sits empty for too long.

I didn’t bother cleaning or unpacking last night. When I finally came inside, I crashed on the old couch that came with the place. But today... I need to give this place a good cleaning and then unpack my stuff.

Two hours later, I’ve cleaned the cabin, unloaded some furniture from the U-Haul, and started unpacking boxes. Most of my things are functional—tools, gear, kitchen basics—nothing sentimental except for the few photographs I didn’t have the heart to throw out.

By late morning, I’ve done enough to make the place feel less like I just moved in and more like I actually live here.

One more thing is needed to make it complete—groceries.

The bell over the door jingles when I walk into Karns Grocery, and an older woman behind the register greets me with a smile that says she probably already wants to know my life story. I flash her a tight smile, scanning the store like I’ve landed on another planet.

Karns is small town to the bone. I didn’t shop much in the city—I had people who did that for me—so this is a new experience. But I know the grocery store there looked nothing like this.

Handwritten signs are taped to various bins as I grab a cart and head to the produce section. I grab some oranges, apples, and bananas. Then to the meat section, checking dates before choosing what’s freshest.

I avoid eye contact and mentally review my list to ensure I have the basics—bread, milk, coffee, and eggs. I’m halfway down the last aisle when I realize I’m not just looking at groceries. I’m searching for her. The brunette from the crosswalk who glowed like she came straight from heaven.

I run a hand through my hair. It’s ridiculous. One small moment, and she’s burned herself into my brain.

I shake my head, toss a box of cereal into the cart, and head for the register.

The cashier launches into questions before I can brace for them. It starts with a “Hello. How are you?” and immediately descends into a million questions like I’m on a game show. I grab my phone, pretending it’s ringing, even though my contact list is empty.

I mumble to my imaginary caller while she rings me up. When she’s finished, I hand her the cash and escape the second she gives me my change.

Before heading home, I stop at the Lockwood Hardware store. The bell over the door chimes as I enter. The place smells like sawdust and oil. As I walk through it, aisles are crammed with everything from hammers to fishing lures.

I pick up a few things for repairs around the cabin—nails, sandpaper, lightbulbs, and some tools. And, yeah, I scan every damn aisle like an idiot, hoping for a glimpse of her.

At least the older man running the register stops his questioning after he asks if I’m new in town.

“No,” I say. Technically, it’s true. I live by Silverpine Lake, close to the stretch of shoreline, with one other cabin.

Silence descends over us as he scans my items.

My gaze drifts toward the big front windows without meaning to.

A flash of red out the front windows catches my attention.

A cherry-red Chevy Silverado rumbles past, the late afternoon sun bouncing off its polished hood.

It’s the kind of truck you don’t see much anymore—old enough to have character and cared for enough to have kept it running for more than twenty years.

I can’t see the driver, yet for some reason, I watch until the truck eases down the street and out of sight before my focus returns to what I’m doing.

I shake it off, pay, and grab my stuff, then head for the door.

I load my supplies into the truck, then climb inside.

As I turn onto Main Street, my pulse picks up. My eyes flick over the sidewalks, waiting for a swing of dark hair, a flash of tanned legs, and a coffee in hand to appear.

I shake my head. This is ludicrous. I should go home, unload my groceries and supplies from the hardware store, and then work on the porch railing before it collapses.

Instead, I find myself parking my truck in front of The Pine & Page bookshop.

Inside, it smells like coffee and paperbacks. Bookshelves line the walls. Some of them create aisles, while others are pushed against the wall. Mismatched armchairs are scattered near the front windows, with a fireplace sitting across from them.

A couple of people glance up at me before going back to their books. I breathe out a sigh of relief as I head toward the counter and order a black coffee.

I take my time browsing the shelves, my eyes darting around at the patrons coming and going. I pretend I’m not looking for her, but I know I’m lying to myself.

I make it my mission to search every aisle and corner of the store. I even check the tables near the back where people read or study. But she’s nowhere to be found.

I stand in front of a shelf pretending to read the back cover of a mystery novel, wondering what the hell I’m doing.

I don’t know her. I don’t even know her name. For all I know, she’s got a boyfriend. Hell, maybe she’s even married.

Nothing can come of this. You’re too broken for her.

I put the book back, finish my coffee, and leave.

On the drive home, I tell myself I was getting to know the town.

But deep down, I know that’s a lie.