Page 6 of Letting Go

As if reading my mind, he suddenly says, "I know more about you than you think I do."

Now, I'm the one who's startled. "What do you mean?"

"You and I need to talk," he says.

I glance at my watch. It's a thin, silver accordion band, set with two tiny microscopic diamonds on either side. It used to be our mother's. I took it as well when I ran off. I stole it. See? Not a nice thing to do.

"I have exactly twenty minutes if you want to walk with me down Carters Point. I have to buy some fish."

As he grabs his windbreaker by the back door, I watched the muscles move underneath the thin sweater. God this guy's built. Why was I inviting him along? Talking is never good—especially when one person wants to do it and the other doesn’t and I haven’t felt much like talking in years.

Outside, the air is crisp and sunny-dry for late summer. Salty, Claire's rescue horse, nickers softly as we walk along the path by the corral. For a moment, I can hear Claire's laughter from inside the vet clinic. She's probably getting ready for surgery now, holding off on breakfast until later in the day. That was one of the small things she confided in me after I came back to the family just weeks ago. I had brought over some cinnamon buns, warm and yeasty as a gift. She turned them down and told me she didn't usually eat breakfast first thing in the morning. Not before surgery.

So maybe that's why she didn't take the croissant. But she could have taken one for later.

"What's got your forehead all frowned up," says Bryce waving an index finger at my hairline.

Glancing at him I try to rearrange my face.

"You're thinking about something not fun," he continues.

"I'm just trying to figure out how much haddock to get."

Bryce leans over and whispers in my ear conspiratorially: "Not buying it."

His warm breath against my ear makes me shiver, as hair rises on my arm. I have to put certain thoughts aside. There's no way I could ever invite him into my life.

The walkway down to the wharf was grit-brilliant with white crushed shells. I just hoped Owen Curtis wasn't around. Growing up, he was a high school kid a year older and a grade above me. I realized a long time ago he had harbored an unhealthy obsession with what he thought was "our" relationship. It was more like a fiasco. Devon warned me he had taken over his father's fishery and had hurt his back last week. This meant he might be working behind the counter and not out at sea. But the truth is, I can't avoid him forever.

"You've said hardly two sentences. What are you hiding?" says Bryce.

"I'm not hiding anything."

"I'm calling you on that one," he says, pulling open the wooden screen door.

Shrugging, I brush by him to enter and offer a smile. "I'm just private."

"Oh, no. You're mysterious."

My heart melts just a little. I shake my head as we step inside the fishery.

"I am definitely not mysterious." I turn my attention to why I am here: fish and shellfish.

To my relief, a teenager stands at attention behind the counter. With a touch of greasy hair, a very large and active Adam's apple, he's strapped into a slightly stained but clean apron.

"Can I help you?" he says, his voice cracking.

Bryce tries to say something to me but I wave him to be quiet for a math-moment. I have to think about fourteen guests staying the week with stuffed haddock as our signature entrée. My mouth suddenly waters and I realize I haven’t had anything to eat this morning either. But the sudden flash of sun-dried tomatoes, goat cheese, chives, and capers melting in the center of wedges of Haddock is too seductive.

I make a decision. "Twenty pounds of haddock. And ten pounds of mussels. Are they local or PEI? And some oysters. Five pounds."

"Local. Pemaquid and Belon he says.

"Half and half. That's enough for now." I dig around in my back pocket for the kitchen's charge card. The boy wraps up the haddock first and is working on selecting clutches of mussels when the door behind him opens and slams shut. It's Owen Curtis.

He's chatting with the kid and doesn't see me right away, thank God. I pull my hood up, just hoping he won't recognize me, but as he reaches over and sets the mussels up on the countertop, our eyes lock.

"Oh my God," he says. "Is that you? Is that you, Chloe?"