The little girl’s blonde hair is in messy, braided pigtails. She’s laughing. So carefree, it hurts to look at her. The little boy is more serious, a solemn counterpart to her airy delight. His hands are steady as he shapes a turret with a plastic shovel. His eyes aren’t on his work, but on the girl sitting across from him.
I remember that day.
Remember Flora snapping the photo. Remember Jaxon running down the beach like a wild thing, flattening our masterpiece into a lumpy mound in two seconds. Remember Miguel telling us not to cry, because sand castles aren’t meant to last forever. The incoming tide would’ve swept it away soon enough. And, after all, wasn’t the real fun in building it?
I set the frame back on my desk, swallowing hard to clear the lump from my throat.
Okay, Universe — you win.
Message received.
I asked for a sign.
No need to keep hitting me over the head with them.
Sinking down to the floor, my fingers curl tightly around the pendant hanging from my neck. The gold knot digs into my palm with a sharpness I feel all the way down to my bone marrow. With a screech, I drop my head into my arms and curse myself for ever seeking divine interference.
When am I going to learn to stop tempting fate?
I sigh. “Maybe when I start listening to it.”
TWENTY-SIX
archer
A low whistlegreets me as I step past the chain-link fencing, onto the field.
“Well, well, well! Look at this handsome devil!” I can hear the grin in his voice. “Who are you and what have you done with my friend Reyes?”
I rub my clean-shaven chin, still not used to the sensation. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Tomlinson.”
“I’m serious! I almost didn’t recognize you.” He steps out from the dugout holding a bucket of baseballs, a bat tucked beneath one arm. He’s in a faded Exeter t-shirt and a black cap with the outline of a wolf — our old mascot — embroidered above the brim. “Not that the man-bun look wasn’t working for you. It’s just nice to see you looking more like your old self. Less scruffy. Out of rubber fishing gear.”
“Stop, you’ll make me swoon.”
“Is that a new Henley you’re wearing? Just for me? I’m flattered.”
In truth, the haircut was a spontaneous decision, made without any forward planning on my walk through downtown Gloucester this morning. I passed by the barbershop on a corner in the square just as the window sign flipped from CLOSED to OPEN. Before I knew it, I was sitting in a red leather chair with a warm towel wrapped around my after-shaven face as a cheerful, chatty man named Jerry trimmed a year’s worth of overgrown mop from my head.
When he’d spun me around to look in the mirror thirty minutes later, a stranger was peering back at me through the glass. With cropped brown hair and clear hazel eyes, he bore a striking resemblance to the guy once known around these parts as Archer Reyes… if you could overlook the faint scar at his temple and the new wariness in his stare.
“What prompted this radical change?” Chris asks.
“Radical? It’s a haircut, not a face tattoo. Relax.”
He rolls his eyes and walks toward home plate. “Grab those mitts in the dugout, will you? I need to get the field set up before the team arrives.”
I do as he says, ferrying the equipment toward the patch of ground reserved for home plate. There’s an uncomfortable tightness in my chest as I move across the infield, my sneakers smudging the fading white lines chalked on the dirt. It’s been a long time since I stepped foot on a baseball diamond — even a small one like this.
Owned and maintained by the city, the field at Stage Fort Park lacks the luster of the Exeter Academy sports arena, with its state-of-the-art overhead lights, solar-powered scoreboard, and imported astroturf. Here, the grass is overgrown, the bleachers are rusting, and the dugout benches are splintering. Obviously, not much was left over in the town’s beautification budget for little league parks.
Despite its somewhat neglected state, the location can’t be beat — perched beside the harbor, every player from shortstop to the distant outfield is afforded sweeping water views from just about every angle. I let my eyes scan the coastline, squinting against the morning sun. Early-risers stroll along the paved boardwalk, passing beneath a row of American flags waving proudly in the wind. An outdoor yoga class is gathering by the gazebo. Families meander toward Cressy Beach, folding chairs tucked beneath their arms and colorful coolers in tow.
“What are we doing here, Tomlinson?”
“I told you on the phone — my little cousins signed up for a summer tee-ball league. It starts in an hour.”
“And you volunteered to help with the gear?”