Page 25 of Second Chance with the Half-Elf

EVIE

M ornings hit different when you’re not planning your exit.

The fog rolls in thick over Lumera Bay, curling around the pier like it’s got secrets to keep.

I’m sitting on the seawall with my camera balanced on one knee, watching a pair of gulls go to war over a crab shell.

The shutter clicks in slow rhythm—steady, deliberate.

Like breathing. Like I finally remembered how.

I haven’t run in three weeks. Haven’t packed a bag “just in case.”

I bought curtains.

I didn’t mean to, exactly. But there was this old vendor stall set up next to the fish market, and this woman named Calla—spiky white hair, a mouth like a sailor, and eyes that’ve seen more storms than the lighthouse—talked me into it.

“They’re too pretty for someone else to buy,” she’d said, shrugging. “You look like a woman who doesn’t decorate for other people.”

She wasn’t wrong.

So now my bedroom has teal linen panels that flutter in the wind like they’ve got opinions.

I do too. At long last.

I slide off the seawall and follow the sound of squealing laughter echoing from the boardwalk. Jamie’s there, wrapped in a life vest two sizes too big, waving a hand-drawn map in the air like it’s a treasure scroll from some sunken pirate kingdom.

“There’s one under the crab shack, I know it,” he shouts, legs pumping as he barrels toward the pilings.

Rowan trails after him, shaking her head and sipping iced tea like it’s spiked with patience. “He told every vendor on the strip they had to report sea monster sightings to him or risk a kraken visit.”

“Effective,” I say, falling in beside her.

“He’s already got three jars of sea glass and a broken fishing lure he swears is a ‘mer-shark’s tooth.’”

I snort. “Kid’s gonna run a whole monster museum by next week.”

Rowan hands me a folded flyer. It’s printed in neon marker and glitter glue.

“SEA CREATURE SCAVENGER HUNT – BY APPOINTMENT ONLY – NO WHINERS”

Underneath, in Jamie’s handwriting:

1. Tentacle rock

2. Mermaid brush

3. Ghost crab

4. Water dragon pebble (glows in sun)

5. Shell that sings when sad

“You’ve got a camera,” Rowan says. “He thinks that makes you ‘official record-keeper.’”

I glance at the list again. “Shell that sings when sad?”

She shrugs. “He says it hums near moody people.”

“Well,” I mutter, grabbing my gear, “we’re in luck.”

Jamie drags me halfway down the beach before launching into a monologue about monster migration patterns and how the tides influence their sleep cycles.

His enthusiasm is absurd. Infectious. I find myself grinning like a fool, crouched beside him to photograph a shell shaped vaguely like a crescent moon.

“Got it,” I say.

He peers at the viewfinder. “You’re good at this.”

I look at him. At his round cheeks and storm-colored eyes and the way he shoves his hands into his pockets when he’s unsure of himself.

“Thanks, monster boss.”

He beams and points out another “sighting.” This one’s just driftwood, but we pretend it’s a sea serpent spine.

He asks me questions—real ones. Not just about monsters.

About the world. About what kind of people build boats and what kind of people leave towns behind and why the ocean smells different at night.

I don’t have answers for most of it.

But I try.

Later, we return to the boardwalk, seaweed in our boots and sand caked to our knees. Aeron’s helping Marla re-string lights over the bait shop—his sleeves rolled, brow furrowed, and hands moving with that quiet efficiency that makes him look like part of the town itself.

He sees us and nods. Not dramatic or possessive.

Just… like he sees me.

Jamie tears off toward the docks again, hollering something about “leviathan egg foam” and Rowan follows after him with a laugh that carries like wind chimes on salt air.

I linger near the crab shack.

Alone.

For the first time in hours.

I raise my camera and take a shot—not of the kid, the beach, or some whimsical monster prop.

But ff the horizon. It’s wide and untamed. Not a wall but an invitation.

I lower the lens, and I know something with sudden, fierce clarity:

I belong here. Not because I owe it to the town, or to Aeron, or to the past I keep picking apart like a wound that won’t quit bleeding.

I belong because I chose it.

I’ve carved out a space between the tide and the fog and said—this. This is mine.

Tomorrow I’ll fix the porch step. Next week, maybe I’ll repaint the door.

For once, I’ve got time.

–

The sky’s streaked mauve and gold by the time I make it back to the house, my hair still wind-mussed and my boots crusted with beach grit.

The place smells faintly of lemon oil and old wood—Rowan’s doing, no doubt.

She’s already sitting on the porch when I arrive, two glasses and a bottle of red between us.

She raises her eyebrows as I step up. “You survived monster patrol.”

“Barely,” I groan, dropping into the chair across from her. “He made me sign a contract. Swore blood, or something close to it. Might’ve been grape jelly.”

Rowan snorts and hands me a glass. “To surviving scavenger hunts, jelly pacts, and emotionally constipated sea captains.”

“Cheers to that,” I say, clinking her glass.

The wine’s cheap but warm, full-bodied and just tart enough to sting in a good way. The kind of drink that makes you spill things you’ve kept sealed too long.

She eyes me over the rim of her glass. “You know, it’s weird.”

“What?”

“You,” she says, gesturing vaguely. “Smiling. Not pacing like a feral cat in borrowed boots.”

I raise a brow. “That’s specific.”

“You’re not exactly subtle, Evie.” Her grin turns sly. “And let’s be real—you’re glowing.”

“Oh no,” I deadpan. “Not the ‘you’re glowing’ curse. That’s code for ‘everyone knows you’re getting laid or you’re emotionally compromised.’”

“Or both,” she sings.

I roll my eyes and take another sip, but I’m grinning now—really grinning, not that tight-lipped thing I’ve been doing since I learned how to brace for disappointment.

Rowan leans forward, her voice low and conspiratorial. “So. You finally got your elf.”

I choke on the wine.

She’s howling now, wheezing with glee. “Oh come on, you called him a broody elf with shipbuilder hands the first week back.”

“I did not.”

“You did, and I quote—‘He’s like someone conjured a Tolkien fever dream and dipped it in salt.’”

I cover my face with both hands. “Oh my god.”

“I mean,” she says between giggles, “where’s the lie?”

I peek at her through my fingers. “You’re evil.”

“Maybe. But I’m not wrong.” She sobers a little, her voice softer now. “I’m glad you’re laughing again.”

I look away, toward the horizon, where the last edge of sun is bleeding into sea.

“I forgot what it felt like,” I admit.

“To laugh?”

“To want to,” I say. “Without guilt. Without wondering what’s waiting on the other side of it.”

She nods, patient and quiet in that way she always is when things turn real.

“I didn’t stay because of him,” I say suddenly. “I mean—I did. But not only.”

“I know,” she says. “But it’s okay if he was part of the reason.”

“I wanted to know I could make a life for myself here,” I continue. “Not just slide into someone else’s. I needed to believe I was choosing—not defaulting.”

Rowan tips her glass toward me. “That sounds an awful lot like growth.”

“It sounds exhausting.”

She laughs. “Also that.”

We sit there a while longer, the stars crawling out slow overhead. The wine warms my throat and my chest and something deeper that I didn’t realize had been cold for years.

I laugh again—loud, unguarded—when Rowan mimics Aeron’s gravel-voiced brooding.

And this time, I don’t stop myself.