Page 83 of Just One More Thing

“I believe they are.”

We look at each other and lose it. Full-body laughter. The kind that doubles you over and steals your breath. Then?—

Crash.

Electric scooter meets trash can.

“Whoopsie daisy,” Miss Hattie slurs.

Granny’s voice floats back, completely unbothered. “I meant to do that.”

Jake presses his face into my hair, still laughing so hard he can barely breathe.

I lean into him, heart full and wildly misbehaving.

Even with canvas and scandal collapsing around us, it feels like home.

CHAPTER 23

JAKE

The Green is quiet now.

The screen, what’s left of it, is gone. Concession tables are stacked. Someone swept up the popcorn, though a few kernels remain near the oak roots. Chip will handle those by morning.

The string lights are still on. They usually are at this hour. No one’s ever in a hurry to turn them off. Blue Crab Bay likes an excuse to linger.

Hank and I are doing the same.

He found Willard’s bench ten minutes ago and planted himself at the old man’s feet like he’d been formally invited. Which, knowing Willard, he probably was. Hank has never had to earn his welcome here.

“Quite a night,” Willard says.

I lower myself onto the bench beside him. The wood dips in the familiar way it always has. “French Fry planned that,” I say.

“Probably.”

“He’s been waiting for this moment.”

Willard tosses a peanut into the grass. Nothing moves to collect it. Chip has called it a night.

“The mayor’s going to have a rough week,” I add.

“Mayor’s been having a rough year,” Willard replies. “Tonight just made it public.”

I huff a quiet laugh. Hank exhales a full-body sigh and settles heavier against Willard’s shoes.

We sit for a while without saying anything. Willard doesn’t come here for conversation. He comes for the bench. For the way it holds memory.

I’ve been coming to this bench since I was nine. Back then it was peanuts and no agenda that drew me here.

He was the only adult in Blue Crab Bay who didn’t ask anything from you.

My dad used to wave to him from the dock every morning. My mom brought him sweet tea on hot afternoons and stayed exactly as long as she wanted. Never more. Never less. She said Willard had the gift of not needing. She was right.

“She looked happy tonight,” he says.

He doesn’t say her name.