Page 71 of Every Chance After

A beat passes in awkward silence.

“Marina, you can say no,” I tell her again. “But humor me first? Let’s check the place out and hear what he has to say. Okay?”

She fiddles with her lap sweater again. “It’s tickety-boo. Relax, Grady.”

Marigold snorts behind me.

The dirt and gravel lot crunches beneath the truck’s tires when we arrive at the G&G. The store sits on the outskirts of Seagrove, where the lake turns into swamps before disappearing into rural farms. It takes four turns and about six miles from the main highway to reach it—it’s not an easy pitstop for anyone except those who live around here.

But those who live here generally don’t stop into the G&G unless they’re residents of The Marshes trailer park to the right and up a gravel hill. For them, it’s the only thing within walking distance.

I park beside the building. Marina slides from the truck before I get a chance to come around and open the door for her.

She doesn’t need your help, Grady.

With a slow circle, she scans the area: the three ancient gas tanks, the rickety overhang, and the Pepsi-Cola sign advertising the store’s name.Welcome to the G&G.The cracked plastic has chipped away at the W, and the colors have faded over the years. I wonder if it still lights up.

Probably not.

Wade hasn’t repaired or improved this place in a decade.

“What does G&G stand for?” she asks when I take her side.

“Grab and Go.”

She chuckles. “That’s not what I heard.”

I huff. Grubby and Gross is the most popular variation when people talk about the G&G. Not that they do anymore.

“Shall we?” I motion to the storefront.

“What about Marigold?”

“She’ll wait in the car. Sensory overload. I’m surprised she wanted to go inside your place.”

“Well, I lured her with cats,” she smiles. “Who can resist?”

“Who, indeed?” I smirk, meeting her eyes again.

I lean into the open window of the truck. “Please, don’t wander.”

“Tickety-boo,” Marigold answers, not looking up from her sketchbook.

The long porch that stretches the length of the building feels narrow with all the junk lining the corridor. Crab traps, barrels, pallets, empty boxes, water jugs, antique Coke and milk crates—it’s like a junkyard vomited out here. She peers inside the picture windows, which are too dingy and cluttered to see through.

“It needs work,” I say, regretting this already.

She smiles but doesn’t answer—probably preparing her hell-no speech, one I’ll deserve.

The door rattles when I open it, and sets off hanging door chimes that lazily clink together like they’re tired of the place.

Inexplicably, my fingers fall on her lower back, easing her inside, as if she doesn’t know the way or I’m impatient.

Her eyes catch mine, offering a warm smile, but my hand drops, and I regret touching her again.

Inside, the smell hits us first—mothballs, cigarette smoke, and stale beer—with clutter covering every surface a close second.

“Fucking hell,” I mumble. Insisting on a tour before agreeing to the deal would’ve been smart. It’s a shit heap, barely recognizable from the G&G of my childhood.

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