Page 38 of Just One More Thing

Hank snorts and trots ahead, dragging his leash, already scanning the skies for French Fry.

We head toward Tall Tales, waving at Willard on his bench and calling good morning to the handful of people already out and about. Blue Crab Bay doesn’t really wake up all at once. It yawns. Gets coffee. Starts talking before it’s fully conscious.

Hank spots French Fry near Willard’s feet.

The gull starts pacing back and forth. Each time he stops, he turns in our direction, raises his wings, and squawks. It reminds me of the targets in a carnival game.

Hank lunges.

“No, sir,” I say, stepping on his leash to stop him. “You are not starting a turf war before coffee.”

French Fry doesn’t even have the decency to look rattled. He just stands there, smug as hell. “C’mon, Hank. Walt’s got better options than bird.”

Inside Tall Tales, the bell over the door jingles. Walt looks up from the espresso machine and nods at Hank like he’s a regular with a standing order.

“Morning.”

“Morning, Walt.”

I step up to the counter. “Americano. One for me. One with two sugars. And whatever comes with extra caramel.”

“You thirsty today?”

“My buddies are in town, and we’re taking the boat out. But I’ve got to get their asses vertical first. This should help.”

“I live to serve,” he says, bending to hand Hank his Lick n’ Crunch cookie. Hank takes it with the solemn gratitude of a bulldog who has never once expected less than devotion from the world.

Walt watches him chew. “Saw you at the dunk tank with Emory last night.”

I keep my face neutral. “That so?”

“Whole town saw you. That was something.” He wipes down the steam wand, then glances at me again. “Also saw you throwing like you never left.”

I lean one hip against the counter. Hank finishes his cookie and immediately checks the floor for evidence of a second one. He settles for crumbs.

Walt says, “Ever think about going back?”

For a second, I just look at him. There are some questions that don’t hit as questions. They hit like somebody quietly opening a door you keep pretending is nailed shut.

“Walt,” I say, quieter now, “I think about it every day. Every damn day.” I shake my head once. “I thought football was my whole life.”

He waits.

“Turns out it’s just part of it.”

Walt studies me the same way he studies a shelf before he decides where a book belongs. “You notice things when you’re ready,” he says finally.

Then he slides the drinks into a cardboard tray and hands it over with a nod that ends the conversation without making it heavy. Maybe that’s a skill you earn with age. Knowing when to stop talking.

“Thanks, Walt.”

“See you later, Jake. Hank.”

I turn to push the door open with my back and walk right into someone stepping inside.

Mo.

The tray tilts in my hand. I catch it before disaster happens.