Fucking tourists.

This town is exactly the same as it was. The same Main Street full of kitschy shops, the same Commercial Street down by the piers with the touristy shit, and the lobster roll joints, and the booth selling whale-watching tickets.

And of course, it’s summer, which means fucking yuppies and day-trippers choking the place up, out to see the “historic old port” of Shelter Harbor.

They can drink Guinness and wear fucking Celtics hats and see the house where Whitey Bulger allegedly killed someone back in the eighties. And they can slum it at a cheesy dive bars by piers and feel like a local, even though the actual locals wouldn’t be caught dead in those places, and are busy drinking Bud Lights up the hill at the actual dive bar for half the price.

I left this place for eight damn years, and even just being back a week, I can already see that it’s exactly the same.

Well, except now I’m a ghost. Eight years away from anywhere will do that, no matter who the hell you are.

Why the hell am I even back here.

Well, I know why I’m here. I’m here because the one person in this town who managed to remember I existed asked me to be here for the park dedication in honor of his dad.

The man that told me to leave all those years ago.

And as much as Jacob probably still hates me for the what happened back then, he’s still the closest thing to a father I ever had after my parents died. Certainly more than my uncle who watched me after.

Blood runs thick in Shelter Harbor.

Thick like these fucking tourists.

I growl as I shove past a middle-aged couple in matching fanny-packs with the Red Sox logo and t-shirts with a portrait of Benjamin Franklin and something about the fucking Freedom Trail on them.

Oh, you’ve been to Boston. Good thing you’ve decided to tell the entire fucking world about it.

I’m trying to make it to the steps to the lower docks to see old man Conlin about the rental, but a ferry’s just come in from Boston, vomiting tourists onto the pier. I’m muttering and grinding my teeth as I get shouldered by some idiot tourist for the tenth fucking time, when suddenly something catches my eyes.

Something that looks fantastic in tight black leggings, heels, and that sleeveless top.

I stop for a moment, temporarily ignoring the flood of dumb yuppies swarming past me as I lock eyes on the girl with the soft golden hair tossed back over one shoulder.

She is every inch exactly the type of girl I make a point of avoiding. Fancy clothes, ridiculously nonfunctional shoes, hair that she’s clearly spent time on, and flashy, bangled jewelry.

And yet, I’m still looking at her, seemingly unable to look away.

She’s struggling with something, and I realize after a second that it’s her luggage, caught on the ramp from the ferry.

Her absurdly large, expensive looking baggage.

It looks genuinely stuck, too. She’s kicking it with her high-heeled toes, and yanking on the handle of the bag that doesn’t look like it’s going anywhere, all the while with her ear on her shoulder, yapping into her cell phone.

God, it’s like every tourist cliché I’ve ever seen rolled into one. Well, minus the fanny pack.

I roll my eyes at the city girl here with the rest of these stupid people, but for some reason, something stops me.

After all, I am here to try and at least start the process of making up for the crimes I’ve done and the hurt I’ve caused, right? I mean, that’s the entire reason I let Rowan talk me into coming to his father’s dedication ceremony.

I groan, glancing at the thinning crowd, and the steps to the lower docks that I can actually see now.

Oh, fuck it.

Might as well help.

I sigh as I move my way through the last of the crowds pouring up the pier from the ferry, until I’m right behind her.

“Yep, uh-huh, yeah. Nope, that shouldn’t be a problem.”

I roll my eyes again as she yaps into her phone, yanking fruitless on the suitcase, which I can now see has a wheel wedged into the side of the ramp.

“Hey, you need a hand?”

“Yeah, no, we can- hang on.” She half turns, flashing a frown I can’t even half-see behind those huge Hollywood sunglasses she’s wearing.

Of course she is.

“I’m good, thanks.”

She turns her back to me again as she kicks at the suitcase. “What? No, just some local.”

I frown, not sure if I should be more offended at being called “some local” like that, or at the fact that I’m not a fucking local. Not anymore.

“Look, do you want a hand with that bag?” I growl, stepping towards her.

“Ugh, hang on,” she mutters into the phone again. “I’m fine, okay?”

She puts her full weight into the handle as her body strains.

“Oh, this is fucking ridiculous, just let me get that for-”

“I said, I’ve got-”

I want to say it happens in slow motion, but it honestly happens so fast I don’t even have time to blink.

The handle on her fancy luggage gives way with a snapping sound, and before I can even move, her whole arm jerks back with the full weight of her pulling.

Right into my face.

I go sprawling backwards, knocked right off my feet onto my fucking ass right there on the pier, my hands clutching the elbow-mark on my cheek right below my eye.

“Oh shit!” she screams, gasping as she whirls. “Oh my God!” She drops to her knees right next to me. “Fuck, are you-”

And right then, she stops.

Because right then, two things happen. I pull my hands away from my face, because that tone in her voice has just changed, and she pulls her ridiculous sunglasses off.

And right then, we both know.

Oh what the fuck.

Somehow, I remember to breathe.

Somehow, I remember to grin as I look up into the face I haven’t seen in eight fucking years.

Ivy Hammond.

The girl I left behind.

The girl I’ve never managed to get out of my head or my damn heart.

Oh, right…

And the girl who’s my wife.