“I know a place.”
I know all the places. Even being away, I know nothing changes in Shelter Harbor. The same New England beach town north of Boston. The same tourist-filled summers, the same cold, snowy, empty winters. The same active harbor, the same lobster boats. The same knick-knack shops, lobster take-out places, and “dive” bars for tourists. The same actual dive bars for locals. The same historic house where George Washington allegedly camped, the same Congregationalists church up on the hill where my dad’s been giving sermons every Sunday since before my siblings and I were born.
“Oh, and Active wants the nail polish displayed by the water too, actually.” Ainsley frowns. “They actually all want that ‘New England chic’ look, come to think of it.”
“Well, Shelter Harbor has that by the shit-load,” I say, belting down the rest of the vodka.
“You sure?” I raise the second nip, and Ainsley goes green all over again.
She takes a shaky breath. “And then of course, management wants your new line in as many shots as we can get.”
I grin - the new yoga line. I actually worked my damn ass off to get to the point where I’m going to have my own line. I’ve spent years now pimping the latest green juice smooth cleanse fads, and active wear, and sneakers, and no-mess makeup, and sports bras, and running shoes, and basically anything else that fits the “fitspiration” social media trend. Basically, if you’ve seen it marketed to you by a girl on Facebook or Instagram in sweatshop-free sportswear at some yoga retreat - and it is being marketed to you - I’ve probably sold it.
“And then when Blaine gets in, you’ll do some shots together of course.”
Right, for the high ratings. For the massive number of likes we get when my boyfriend - an Instagram star in his own right managed by the same agency - joins me in pictures. Blaine’s the outdoorsy type of product placement - hiking boots, surf boards, kayaks. And he’s been home with me to Shelter Harbor before, but its always strange, bringing him here.
Here where the history runs deep.
Here where the boy from my past - the ghost of my time in this town - still haunts my thoughts.
Silas Hart.
The boy that I fell for all those years ago, and the thief that stole my heart when he left.
The harbor is getting closer now. I can see the docks, the lobster boats, the crowds of tourists along the piers. The engine throttles as the boat starts to turn to make a backwards approach. Ainsley shuts her eyes, her knuckles white on the railing.
But I just take another big breath of sea air, letting the memory of home fill my lungs. And when I exhale, I let the last little thoughts of Silas Hart that come with being here out with my breath.
And at this point, that’s all they are - a lingering breath of sea air blowing out and away with the breeze.
The ferry clanks against the docking port, the engine throttles, and the gangway lowers, and once again, I’m back in Shelter Harbor.
Welcome home.
Chapter Two
Silas
Fucking tourists.
This town is exactly the same as it was. The same Main Street full of kitschy shops, the same Commercial Street down by the piers with the touristy shit, and the lobster roll joints, and the booth selling whale-watching tickets.
And of course, it’s summer, which means fucking yuppies and day-trippers choking the place up, out to see the “historic old port” of Shelter Harbor.
They can drink Guinness and wear fucking Celtics hats and see the house where Whitey Bulger allegedly killed someone back in the eighties. And they can slum it at a cheesy dive bars by piers and feel like a local, even though the actual locals wouldn’t be caught dead in those places, and are busy drinking Bud Lights up the hill at the actual dive bar for half the price.
I left this place for eight damn years, and even just being back a week, I can already see that it’s exactly the same.
Well, except now I’m a ghost. Eight years away from anywhere will do that, no matter who the hell you are.
Why the hell am I even back here.
Well, I know why I’m here. I’m here because the one person in this town who managed to remember I existed asked me to be here for the park dedication in honor of his dad.
The man that told me to leave all those years ago.
And as much as Jacob probably still hates me for the what happened back then, he’s still the closest thing to a father I ever had after my parents died. Certainly more than my uncle who watched me after.
Blood runs thick in Shelter Harbor.
Thick like these fucking tourists.
I growl as I shove past a middle-aged couple in matching fanny-packs with the Red Sox logo and t-shirts with a portrait of Benjamin Franklin and something about the fucking Freedom Trail on them.