Page 40 of The End of Summer

“Got it.”

I don’t know why – I mean, Arrow’s one scary woman – but somehow, it makes me feel a little better. Maybe it’s just the idea of feeling like I’m a part of something, or like someone would stand up for me if came down to it.

If we’re being honest, for as much as my gut tells me not to like or trust any of it, there’s something about this place that makes me feel like I belong.

I don’t know what comes over me, but I feel like the moment might never come again. There’s a crack in the armor. Arrow feels remarkablymortal, if temporarily. A person capable of genuine feelings. My mind swirls with curiosityover her story, over what made her become the way she is, and the only evidence I have is stuck to the refrigerator. Boldly, I turn to Arrow and ask, “Is that your daughter? In that picture?”

She looks at me with an expression on her face that I can’t quite read. It’s… wistful, maybe? But masked by her always-tough exterior. “No,” she says, shaking her head. “That’s my niece.”

“Oh. Well, she’s beautiful,” I say. I’ve overstepped, I know it.

“Thank you,” Arrow replies. She exhales, and there’s so much more behind those two words, but she’s done sharing. Her chest heaves. “C’mon. Get yourself together. We’ve got a job to do.”

I nod. Arrow gets back to the party, and after a few deep breaths, I take off my shoes and inspect my ankles. I’m okay, thank goodness. I rub my butt cheek – I’m sure there will be a bruise tomorrow – and consider what awaits me on the other side of the office door. The guys should be leaving soon, so whatever’s going on between Brady and that girl won’t continue (at least not in my sight), but I’ll be stuck with her for the rest of the night. Food will be here soon, so that will bring the party down naturally.

I’m trying to relax but my heart won’t stop pounding. I peek out the door, looking around for Brady.

He’s dancing with the bride-to-be and – yup, there she is – the one who was “so in love” with Brady. To his credit, Brady is totally facing the bride. The other girl has her mouth up against his ear and is grinding on his bare ass like a rabbit in heat. He’s not pushing her away, but he’s not payingher any attention, either. Still, I feel like I want to stab my pole heel through her eye.

I’ve never really been the jealous type, but I’ve been on the other side of it, once, and it was very unbecoming.

Just after graduating college, I came back home to Eastport to live with my parents. I got my job working at the Mine in the Diamond Excelsior and was getting ready to start online graduate school in the fall. During my free time, I volunteered for the town in whatever ways I could. This act of citizenship was ingrained in me from childhood; when your dad’s the chief of police, you just grow accustomed to showing up at town events, manning a table, helping with a float for Windmill Weekend or running a craft activity for kiddos at the annual Brussels Sprout Festival.

It was during one such event, the Orleans Police Block Party, that I met Keith.

Orleans is a town closer to the mainland by a few miles. It’s way more populated and has things we lack, like a big grocery store and a TJ Maxx. They also have the block party at the end of August every year put on by the police department, and we are obliged to help out in solidarity.

I was manning the hot dog station; that is to say, I was handing out hot dogs to hungry dads and their children and accepting their food tickets, cleaning up the ketchup and mustard station, and restocking the napkins. The grill guy, an Orleans officer named Anthony, was coming off his wiener-cooking shift to go man the dunk tank, and to relieve him was none other than my dad’s newest hire, Keith Fullerton. I knewofKeith – the Cape is small, so everyone knows everyone to some degree – he grew up in Chathamand went to Monomoy High School (I went to Nauset, the other high school out this way), played football, and after graduation, enrolled at 4Cs for an associate’s degree in Criminal Justice. He was a lifer here, just like me, but we ran in very different circles, and he was two years my senior.

“Reporting for duty,” he announced. He pulled on an apron that said, “Proud to Serve” with a picture of an array of barbecue utensils. He stood about 5’10", was thick-necked and muscular, and had several tattoos on his forearms. But he was a master on the grill, insofar as one can master cooking a Ball Park hot dog to perfection. Keith took the job seriously, and only stopped to make small talk with me when the lines died down. He offered me a hot dog, and I accepted it. Then, he asked, “So, are you a ketchup girl or a mustard girl?”

“Relish, actually. And sauerkraut,” I replied.

“Really?” He raised his eyebrows and gave me an approving nod.

Yes, folks, that was it. That was his version of flirting.

We got to chatting, and at the end of our shift together, he said, “You ever been to Depot Dogs?”

I shook my head. “Heard of it, though.”

“Want to try it? I’ll take you after we’re done here.”

“You’re not sick of hot dogs at this point in your day?”

“Nope. I know it may not look like it,” he laughed, patting his belly, “but I can eat.”

“I can, too,” I joked, patting mine in response.

“Yeah? So prove it.”

“You’re on,” I replied. “Just let me check in with my dad.” This was standard operating procedure in ourhouse. I could not go out with anyone without my father’s approval. I didn’t mind it; it was just the way things were.

I shot my father a text:Cool if I go to Depot Dogs with Keith?

Fullerton?he replied.

Yeah. He asked me.

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