Harbor’s Edge, here I am. Ready or not.
Chapter 11
Kelly
Soon I’mon my bike, pedaling away from the town hall, the sun inching closer to the horizon. Wind whips through my hair, and the air tastes of freedom and possibilities, Harbor’s Edge unfolding around me. So much has changed, but then so much has stayed the same, and familiar buildings and landmarks flash past, an old film reel playing scenes from my past.
There’s Sweet Current Bakery, where the smell of fresh croissants could fix any bad day, and the boardwalk, where we’d meet as teenagers under cover of darkness. The Tidal Tavern, where we’d try unsuccessfully to sneak in when we were underage, and the old wooden pier, where I had my first kiss.
And Jake is there in so many of those memories, of course.
I remember summer nights, both of us barefoot, racing down the beach until we collapsed breathless in the sand, the stars spread out above us, closer than they’d ever felt before. We’d lie there, his hand in mine, our fingers tracing patterns in the sandas he’d talk about the things he wanted to do after school, the places he’d see, the wide world waiting beyond Harbor’s Edge.
I never told him that sometimes I couldn’t focus on a single word, too distracted by the way he looked in the moonlight.
Then there were the quiet afternoons we’d spend on the bleachers after school, his arm draped around my shoulders. I’d pretend to study, but mostly, I just waited for him to lean in, to kiss me softly. Because back then, we thought we had all the time in the world.
I can still hear his laugh as clear as if it were yesterday, echoing off the walls of the old roller rink where we’d have date nights, him showing off, holding my hand as he skated backward, only to lose his balance and pull us both down in a tangled heap.
But of course, nothing lasts forever—not those carefree nights or the promises we’d whisper, half in jest and half in hope.
Of course, Jake’s face is right there with me when I make the turn, the one that leads me to where my heart’s been pulling me all along. I brake hard, my bike skidding to a halt, hitting an invisible wall, the wind knocked straight out of me.
There it is, the house that shaped me, sitting at the end of a quiet, tree-lined street. An old friend—its windows, clouded with age, gaze, eyes tired, and the wide front porch stretches out, weathered but inviting.
The once-vibrant blue shutters are chipped now, fading into a muted gray, and the front garden, perfectly manicured under Mom’s care, has grown a little wild, with tufts of weeds creeping over the stone path and punctuating the lawn.
I cycle closer and coast to a stop. The creak of the chain is swallowed by the stillness of the street, where nothing moves but red and yellow leaves in the breeze. My gaze lingers on the front door, half expecting it to swing open, half scared it might. But it stays shut, as silent as a grave.
A lump forms, hard and fast, as memories claw their way up—Mom’s laughter echoing from the porch, the way she’d come into my room and give me advice when I needed her. It’s all so close, the ghosts of those moments just out of reach, brushing against my skin but slipping through my fingers before I can grab hold.
I breathe out, the sensation soft against the sharp pain starting in my chest. Because this? This is part of coming home I was never going to be ready for—the ghost of her everywhere, in everything. I swallow hard, pushing down the tears because strength is the Charleston way, and I’ll be damned if I break now.
“Hey, Mom,” I say to the cold, quiet street, half-expecting an answer. But the breeze doesn’t carry her voice, and the silence is a punch in the gut. One I was expecting, but that doesn’t stop the pain.
Everything else leaks away—Jake, the festival, my return to Harbor’s Edge—and at this moment, I’m just a girl who lost her mom, standing outside the house that holds too many memories. I slump down on the curb, eyes fixed on that weathered front door. The soft laughter from those kitchen dance parties comes back, so real I almost spin around expecting to catch her swaying behind me.
I close my eyes, and there she is—Mom, humming some old tune, her hands deep in the soil, nurturing life into every damn plant and flower. She was always busy, filling every spare moment with something. Because there’s no point wasting time if you want to achieve everything in life.
“Miss you more than words, Mom,” I whisper to the empty street, to the ghosts and memories that linger in the overgrown lavender and peeling paint. It’s as if she’s just stepped out and might stroll back any second, ready to tell me it’s alright—to say the words I’ve craved for so long:I love you. I’m proud of you.
“I started my new job today. I think it’s going to go great. My team is awesome, and the mayor has so much energy. But I wish you were here to see it.”
She doesn’t answer, of course, and in the quiet, I let myself sit with the pain, the love, the raw mess of it all because sometimes you’ve got to wade through the muck to see the clear water beyond. Mom always used to tell me that. Keep going. Never give up.
“I miss you.” I shuffle my feet against the curb, kicking at an errant weed daring to crack through the concrete. “I’m going to make this festival a success, but...” My voice fades into a whisper, thebuthanging there. “It’s hard. Everything is so different without you.”
The breeze picks up, shuffling the leaves in a hushed whisper. For a heartbeat, I let myself believe it’s Mom. That somehow she’s sending me this little rush of wind as a sign that I’m headed in the right direction, that she’s happy I took this job and moved back to Harbor’s Edge.
The ache in my throat intensifies. I’m supposed to be the strong one, right? That’s what we agreed on. When her cancer started calling the shots, she told me, “Kelly, no waterworks,” in that stern tone that meant business. So, here I am, keeping the dam from breaking because Charleston women are made of tougher stuff.
The tightness in my chest begs for release, but promises are promises.
A new hurt tugs at me, not just grief but something sharper—Jake. How did I let him back in, even for a night? It was a stupid, impulsive mistake. But that night at the wedding is lodged there in my brain, stubborn, making my pulse quicken and my head confused. I push it down, trying to shove that night into some quiet corner of my mind, but I’m trying to contain wildfire.
Breathe, Kelly. Just breathe through it.
A car drives by, probably wondering why some woman is having a silent standoff with the old Charleston place. They don’t know the half of it, and never will.
