people turn their heads to ogle items behind glass windows. At the Seahorse that necklace is still calling my name but it will have to wait a bit longer. According to my cell it’s 7:26.
7:28.
7:29.
No red pickup truck. Maybe he won’t come?
I peer down the street, lift my chin, and even rise up on my tiptoes.
“Come on, Star Girl, I’m hungry.”
My head whips straight ahead to Andrew, looking at me from behind the wheel of the red pickup. Wow, how could I miss his car? He’s rolled the window down and is leaning his arm on the passenger seat.
I slide in next to him. My knee jumps up and down and I worry that Andrew will notice.
“You like seafood?” he asks. He has strong hands—I can tell from the sculpt of his forearms as he grips the steering wheel.
“Definitely,” I say. I like fish and chips and Nancy’s lobster bakes. I only brought twenty bucks; I hope wherever he’s taking me has a cheap eats section.
“Ever had grilled scallops?” he asks.
Dad grills at home all the time. Every time we barbecue, he wears his MEAT IS MY LIFE apron. Tucker always showed up at our cookouts. Sometimes Trish came too. It was a thing. We would grill, Tucker would come over. I guess he won’t now. Not anymore.
“I love scallops!” I say, but it’s a lie. I’ve never had them before.
“Great. I have an idea.”
“What?”
Andrew pulls out into Main Street traffic and we’re barely on the road for two minutes before he’s pulling off into a parking lot that abuts the fishing docks. I’ve been here a thousand times; is there some secret restaurant that I don’t know about?
I get out of the car, and right next to the docks and marina office is a big sign that reads: HATCHMAN ’ S FISH MARKET .
“This is a restaurant?” I ask.
“No, just a market. You can buy fish straight off the Orleans boats.”
The sun hovers above the ocean and it’ll be sunset in a couple hours. Little pops of light glimmer across the water and onto the parking lot making everyone walking to and from the market look like they should be in a Monet painting. I guess anyone can look beautiful if they’re in the right light. Ahead of me, sparkles of sunlight roll over the harbor and golden shimmers lick the boat docks. I hesitate, walking slower. I still feel like there’s something I’m forgetting to do.
“What’s up?” Andrew asks.
“You know that feeling? Like you forgot something, but you can’t remember what it is?”
“Yeah . . .”
“I can’t remember what it is!”
Andrew laughs and I do too. “Maybe dinner will help jog your memory,” he offers.
Andrew extends his arm. His palm is open to me; I place my hand in his and let him lead me inside. The sour smell of fish and salt water overwhelms me and I can’t imagine how I thought this was like a painting. This is how it smells in the cafeteria when they make fish sticks, but worse. I bring my wrist to my nose and breathe in the Egyptian Musk. I note that Andrew hasn’t mentioned the foul odor in here. I guess he’s used to it, working on a lobster boat.
“Andrew!” It’s Scarlett’s Curtis. I immediately survey the market for my sister. The only other people in here are an elderly couple. Curtis looks me up and down, a smile creeps over his face.
“American flag string bikini,” he says with a slow drawl.
What the hell does Scarlett see in this guy?
“Scallops, I need, like, a dozen,” Andrew says to the guy behind the counter.
“You going to beachcomber tonight?” Curtis asks, shooting another glance my way. “I get off in, like, ten minutes. I’m meeting Scarlett at Shelby’s house.”
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
“Nah,” Andrew says and lets go of my hand to take out his wallet. Andrew pays before I even get a chance to reach into my pocket. “I can’t go out every night like you.”
“Have fun . . . ,” Curtis says, though the word is drawn out and it’s clear “fun” is code for something
7:28.
7:29.
No red pickup truck. Maybe he won’t come?
I peer down the street, lift my chin, and even rise up on my tiptoes.
“Come on, Star Girl, I’m hungry.”
My head whips straight ahead to Andrew, looking at me from behind the wheel of the red pickup. Wow, how could I miss his car? He’s rolled the window down and is leaning his arm on the passenger seat.
I slide in next to him. My knee jumps up and down and I worry that Andrew will notice.
“You like seafood?” he asks. He has strong hands—I can tell from the sculpt of his forearms as he grips the steering wheel.
“Definitely,” I say. I like fish and chips and Nancy’s lobster bakes. I only brought twenty bucks; I hope wherever he’s taking me has a cheap eats section.
“Ever had grilled scallops?” he asks.
Dad grills at home all the time. Every time we barbecue, he wears his MEAT IS MY LIFE apron. Tucker always showed up at our cookouts. Sometimes Trish came too. It was a thing. We would grill, Tucker would come over. I guess he won’t now. Not anymore.
“I love scallops!” I say, but it’s a lie. I’ve never had them before.
“Great. I have an idea.”
“What?”
Andrew pulls out into Main Street traffic and we’re barely on the road for two minutes before he’s pulling off into a parking lot that abuts the fishing docks. I’ve been here a thousand times; is there some secret restaurant that I don’t know about?
I get out of the car, and right next to the docks and marina office is a big sign that reads: HATCHMAN ’ S FISH MARKET .
“This is a restaurant?” I ask.
“No, just a market. You can buy fish straight off the Orleans boats.”
The sun hovers above the ocean and it’ll be sunset in a couple hours. Little pops of light glimmer across the water and onto the parking lot making everyone walking to and from the market look like they should be in a Monet painting. I guess anyone can look beautiful if they’re in the right light. Ahead of me, sparkles of sunlight roll over the harbor and golden shimmers lick the boat docks. I hesitate, walking slower. I still feel like there’s something I’m forgetting to do.
“What’s up?” Andrew asks.
“You know that feeling? Like you forgot something, but you can’t remember what it is?”
“Yeah . . .”
“I can’t remember what it is!”
Andrew laughs and I do too. “Maybe dinner will help jog your memory,” he offers.
Andrew extends his arm. His palm is open to me; I place my hand in his and let him lead me inside. The sour smell of fish and salt water overwhelms me and I can’t imagine how I thought this was like a painting. This is how it smells in the cafeteria when they make fish sticks, but worse. I bring my wrist to my nose and breathe in the Egyptian Musk. I note that Andrew hasn’t mentioned the foul odor in here. I guess he’s used to it, working on a lobster boat.
“Andrew!” It’s Scarlett’s Curtis. I immediately survey the market for my sister. The only other people in here are an elderly couple. Curtis looks me up and down, a smile creeps over his face.
“American flag string bikini,” he says with a slow drawl.
What the hell does Scarlett see in this guy?
“Scallops, I need, like, a dozen,” Andrew says to the guy behind the counter.
“You going to beachcomber tonight?” Curtis asks, shooting another glance my way. “I get off in, like, ten minutes. I’m meeting Scarlett at Shelby’s house.”
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
“Nah,” Andrew says and lets go of my hand to take out his wallet. Andrew pays before I even get a chance to reach into my pocket. “I can’t go out every night like you.”
“Have fun . . . ,” Curtis says, though the word is drawn out and it’s clear “fun” is code for something
Similar Books
