Page 8 of Sometimes You Stay

“Rice? Is that a verb?”

“Apparently so. You think this is enough?”

Jasmin chuckled. “I don’t even know what that is.”

At least he wasn’t the only one out of the technology loop. But her response didn’t answer his question. “Hang on. I’m going to get some more.” He ran back to the shelf and grabbed the last three bags. Just in case.

“You going to need a sack for these?”

He looked at the twenty pounds of rice and frowned. “Yeah.”

Jasmin rang up a green reusable grocery bag—just like the five he had at home—and filled it.

Swinging the bag over his shoulder, he waved and headed back to the inn. On the front porch, he picked up Cretia’s backpack and headed for the mudroom, where he quickly found a plastic bucket. After filling it halfway with the long-grain white rice, he shoved her phone in until it was covered. Then he opened her backpack.

Digging through a stranger’s personal effects felt like an invasion of privacy, so he peeked inside first.

Each of the three sections in the main pocket were carefully organized. The sleek silver laptop in the middle sloshed when he pulled it free, and he grimaced. He didn’t see how rice could combat that, but he shoved it into the bucket anyway. Then came a tablet about three times the size of her phone.

Next was a stick with a claw on one end and an elbow of some sort in the middle. It didn’t look like any piece of electronics he’d ever seen. But better not to risk it. He shoved that into the rice too. And every charging cord he could find in the main and smaller front pockets.

When he reached into the front pocket, his fingers brushed something that wasn’t electronic and that felt a whole lot like soggy bread.

Jerking his hand away, he peered in. Water-logged white paper outlined the shape of a dark blue passport. With precision pinching to avoid the paper, he pulled the passport free.

He had no business opening it, but he did anyway.

Lucretia Sonora Martin. Hometown: San Luis, Arizona, USA.

Every wrinkled blue page was covered in colorful stamps.At least, they had probably once been identifiable as stamps. Now they were smeared, ink running and blending together into a messy watercolor.

Thankfully the passport was made of better stock than the mushy printer paper he’d come in contact with. Carefully smoothing the pages, he hung it over the edge of the bucket, praying it would dry enough that it wouldn’t need to be replaced.

He didn’t even know the closest place she could apply for a new one. Certainly not on the island. Maybe Halifax. But that was a full-day trip.

To make sure he got all the electronic equipment out of her bag, he turned it upside down and dumped out everything else, which clattered to the mudroom floor.

The fob for her rental car—thankfully the kind that had a physical key snapped inside so she’d be able to drive it back to the airport in Charlottetown. A stainless-steel water bottle, which clanged and bounced and then rolled away. A soggy pair of rolled socks and a wad of fabric that looked suspiciously like underclothes.

Not that he was in the habit of looking at women’s unmentionables.

With a nudge of his boot, he pushed them all into one pile, including a wet clump of paper. It looked like the island map given out at the airport rental car counter.

He gave the bag another shake, but nothing else broke free, so he poked his head inside one more time. There had to be more in there. A purse of some sort? Keys to her home? Lip gloss? A snack, maybe?

The only thing inside was a single photograph—an old-school Polaroid. The woman in the picture looked like anolder version of Cretia, but the setting didn’t make sense. She appeared to be sitting on a recliner, a giant cat curled up in her lap. But something was piled up on her right. And her left. And behind her.

The more he stared at it, the less the photo made sense.

Suddenly the Polaroid was snatched from his fingers.

“Who said you could look through my things?”

Three

Cretia slapped the old picture to her leg, away from Finn’s prying gaze. Though his eyes looked more remorseful than curious at the moment.

“I’m sorry. I was just...” He waved a hand toward her wilted backpack and a small pile of her things. Including a once-fresh pair of underwear.

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