Chapter 5: Madeline
When I head back downstairs, the house is quiet again—quiet in that way old houses are. Everything creaks like it’s thinking about something. The wood groans underfoot, the wind whispers around the windows, and the salt from the sea settles into the bones of the place like it belongs here more than I do.
Charlie’s near the bottom of the stairs, crouched to tie her boots tighter. She’s already got gloves on, mismatched and worn in, and a jacket draped over her shoulders that looks like it’s older than both of us combined. It’s forest green and patched at the elbow, and somehow still manages to look cool.
“Going somewhere?” I ask as I take the last few steps down.
She looks up, her eyes lighting. “Grocery run. It’s my turn to make dinner tonight.”
Dinner. Right. People still eat those.
I shift my weight. “Can I come with you?”
Charlie blinks like I’ve just handed her a kitten. “Oh my God, yes. Obviously.”
There’s no pause, no hesitation—just that yes, bright and sincere.
She stands and brushes off her jeans, and I jog back up to my room to grab one of the thicker jackets I just unpacked. It’s my go-to: a brown canvas chore coat lined with flannel. Heavy. Dependable. I pull on a knit hat, too—charcoal grey, slouchy, warm enough to make me feel brave.
When I come back down, Charlie gives me a nod of approval. “Okay, layering queen.”
I laugh under my breath. “I dress like a lumberjack with abandonment issues.”
“Perfect. That’s basically the town dress code.”
We head out through the front door, the air instantly biting. Crisp and damp and briny. The sun’s starting to lower in the sky, casting gold over the rooftops, and we climb the same narrow stone steps I walked down earlier that day. Somehow, it feels different going back up with someone beside me.
“So,” I ask as we walk, “do you guys all take turns cooking?”
Charlie huffs out a half-laugh. “Not always. People work weird hours, and sometimes we’re assigned to different boats. Schedules don’t always line up. But today, everyone’s back by dinner, so—I volunteered.”
“Very noble of you.”
“I’m a woman of the people.”
We fall into step together, her boot catching against mine once or twice as the stone path narrows. It’s steep, and a little slick from the constant sea spray, but neither of us seem to mind.
“Is it always like that?” I ask. “The schedule thing?”
“Pretty much. It’s like managed chaos. But Sundays—if the weather’s not hell and the work’s not urgent—we kind of treat it like our reset day. Whoever’s in charge of dinner cooks for everyone who’s home. It’s kind of… tradition, I guess.”
I nod. My heart’s beating faster, but not from the stairs.
“And how many people live in the house?”
Charlie thinks, lips pursing. “With you? Five.”
My stomach flutters. Five. That’s three people I haven’t met yet. Three people who already know how this whole thing works, who probably won’t hesitate or second-guess every move the way I do.
“You’ll meet them tonight,” she says, bumping my arm lightly with her elbow. “Don’t overthink it. Everyone’s chill. A little weird, but good weird.”
“Good weird is the best kind,” I murmur.
We reach the top of the path and step out onto the narrow sidewalk that runs through the center of town. The buildings are all painted in soft colors—greens and blues and whites—like they were chosen specifically to look good on overcast days. Everything leans a little, sags a little, like it’s settled into place after years of surviving storms. But it feels… alive. People hang flower boxes beneath windows, signs swing gently in the breeze, and there’s a friendliness to the mess of it all.
Charlie waves at two older women sitting on a bench outside a little café. “Hi, Mrs. Denny. Hi, Mrs. Denny’s sister.”
They wave back, one of them lifting a paper cup in greeting.
“You know everyone?” I ask.
“You get to know people fast here,” Charlie says. “Mostly because you run into the same twenty faces every time you leave your house.”
“And everyone’s related?”
She smirks. “Or dating. Or used to be dating. So, tread carefully.”
I snort. “Noted.”
The town smells like coffee and old wood and something sweet—fudge maybe. A little sign swings above us: Salt Water Taffy – 50+ Flavors! Charlie gestures toward it with a grin.
“That place is dangerous. Like, financially. Don’t go in without a plan.”
We pass a little bookstore tucked between two shops and then reach the corner grocery store—painted red with a crooked “OPEN” sign glowing in the window. It’s small, but packed. The kind of place where everything is stacked on top of everything else, and the floors creak like they’re telling secrets.
Inside, Charlie walks with purpose.
“I’m making lasagna,” she declares. “Big ones. Because half the guys in the house eat like they just got back from war.”
We pick out pasta sheets, tomato sauce, garlic, a block of mozzarella, a tub of ricotta, a small mountain of fresh basil.
“I will literally marry this basil,” she mutters, sniffing the bundle with reverence. “Do you smell that? This is what love should smell like.”
“You’re so real for that,” I say, holding back a laugh.
She throws a can of soda in her basket. Then a second one.
“This is for later,” she says, voice mock-serious. “We’ll drink it cold and bubbling and we’ll romanticize our seasonal depression.”
“Perfect.”
“Also, do you like olives?”
“I respect olives,” I say, which is technically true.
She nods. “Good answer.”
When we check out, the older man behind the counter gives Charlie a fond look.
“Cooking again?” he asks.
“Trying,” she says.
“She’s a first-timer,” he says to me, gesturing toward the basil.
“I believe in her,” I tell him.
Charlie beams.
We step outside, arms full of bags, and the air hits different.
The light’s gone full golden now—spilling between the houses, sliding across the tops of signs and windows and rooftops. The ocean glimmers at the end of the street, soft and endless. And for a moment, everything slows.
It’s so quiet I could almost forget the world is still turning. The buildings glow like they’re lit from within. There’s a breeze that smells like salt and sugar and sun-warmed paint.
And I think—this is it.
This is the first time I feel it: that I’m not just visiting. I’m here. This is mine now. This street, this light, this weird little grocery run with a girl who laughs at basil and wears mismatched gloves like a fashion statement.
I don’t know what tomorrow looks like yet. I don’t know what the sea will bring or what my job will ask of me.
But tonight, I’m walking through a golden-lit town with a girl who already feels like a friend.
And I think maybe I’m going to be okay.