Page 3 of Fixing Up My Love Life

“These should do the trick,” I say.

She bats her lashes. “Are you new in town?”

Dad strolls up and claps me on the shoulder. “You remember my son, Jackson, don’t you, Gladys?”

She turns, hand to her mouth. “Oh my, this is Little Jack? I remember when you were building sandcastles with that Hensley girl. The one who runs the beach store now?”

Hazel. That name hits like a wave I didn’t see coming. Sunburned cheeks. Windblown hair. That quiet laugh when she leaned in close. Our last kiss before I left—before I broke both our hearts, thinking I had to escape this place to breathe.

I force a nod, jaw tight. “I remember.”

Dad walks her to the register, and the bell above the door jingles just as Mom walks in with a lunch pail like a woman on a mission. Her curly gray hair is swept off her face, lipstick fire-engine red.

She finds me loitering by the power tools. “Brought you two some sandwiches.”

“With the sourdough you baked last night?” Just thinking about it has me salivating.

She nods, practically glowing. “And the leftover ham from Sunday dinner. You got a minute?”

Dad finishes checking Gladys out and gestures with his watch toward the back door—his code for “take your break.”

I give him a thumbs-up and follow Mom through the storage room, past pallets and boxes.

Out back, the old picnic table still stands—barely. One leg’s growing moss and the wood’s splitting, but the view of the Intracoastal hasn’t changed. Sunlight glints off the water like it’s trying to lure me back for good.

We sit, and she hands me a sandwich and a thermos. “Lemonade,” she says with a knowing smile.

“Aw, Mom. You didn’t have to.”

“Yes, I did. You hush.” She waves me off. “You’ve been a wonderful father to Caroline, especially with all her suspensions and those boys. You deserve happiness too, Jack. It’s been a hot minute since I’ve seen you with anyone.” She peeks over her sandwich. “Maybe someone local?”

I shake my head. “I’m fine.”

“Maybe.” She lays a hand over mine. “But you’re lonely. And don’t say you’re not. I know you have Caroline, but that’s not the same. You’re pouring everything into her and leaving nothing for yourself.”

“You’ve got that backwards.” I bite into my sandwich, the tangy sourdough mixing with smoky ham and spicy mustard.

“Just try putting yourself out there. See what happens.”

There’s something about being back in TwinWaves that’s been gnawing at me. I left to chase something bigger—freedom, ambition, space to breathe. And I found it. I built a company, then sold it, making more money than I know what to do with. But now? All I feel is the hollow weight of what I left behind.

The Rusty Anchor is quieter tonight without the Valentine’s crowd. I swing by to pick up the fish sandwiches I ordered for me and Caroline. Greasy air thick with fried seafood hits me as I cross the floor to the bar.

At the counter, I spot Brett—broad shoulders, tousled hair, half a plate of shrimp and fries in front of him.

He grins and cuffs my arm. “Hey, man. Staying out of trouble?”

“Not even trying. How’re those permits coming?”

“Stalled again. Bureaucracy at its finest.”

“What about Seashell Avenue? Did you close today?”

He shakes his head. “Still haggling with the sellers. How was the shop?”

“Dead. Not sure how Dad keeps the lights on.”

Working there’s just a placeholder. We’ve got property lined up to renovate with big plans. I could’vestayed gone, bought a place anywhere, done anything. But an unfinished part of me brought me back. Dad’s slowing down, and maybe I need to see if this town still fits.

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