Chapter 268: Madeline
Jammed shoulder to shoulder on Main, the whole town glittering under strings of fairy lights and lobster-red bunting, I walk between them and try not to float right off the pavement. Every few steps someone calls my name—Mrs. Keating from the post office with a watery, relieved smile; a pair of deckhands from the Grayling who hug me so carefully you’d think I’m made of sugar glass; a shy teenager who asks if I’m “the whale girl from Instagram” and then blushes when I say yes—and through all of it the twins move like my own personal current, steering me around knots of people and, without making a thing of it, angling our bodies so alleys are nothing but harmless slices of shadow I never have to look into.
They said one snack, just us, before we meet the crew, and they mean it; Jake’s hand is warm on the small of my back, Reid’s palm cups my hip, and they herd me toward the boardwalk stalls like they own the street. Which, honestly… in those sweaters and low voices and that watchful, captain energy, they kind of do. Jake’s in a navy ribbed crewneck with a white tee peeking out at the hem, sleeves shoved to his forearms, veins a whole architectural study, and Reid’s in heather gray with dark trousers and clean sneakers, mouth quirked like he knows exactly how many heads we’re turning and plans to enjoy every last one of my blushes because of it.
“First stop?” Jake asks, leaning down so I feel the brush of his breath against my ear. He smells like cedar and clean laundry and a little bit of my shampoo because he stole it this morning just to be a menace.
“Lobster roll,” I say, because obviously, and then, because I’m me, “Also kettle corn. And lemonade. And—what do you think—do I dare fried dough without disgracing myself?”
Reid’s thumb strokes a line over my hipbone, all faux-consideration. “You can disgrace yourself on my watch any day, trouble. But we’ll start with the roll.”
They station me at a high-top with a view of the harbor and a safe distance from the edge, then tag-team the stall like they’ve been training for the Olympic finals of Getting Their Girl Food. While I people-watch—glossy balloons bumping the night, a fiddler sawing out something wild, a little kid asleep on his dad’s shoulders—I catch sight of them at the counter, identical profiles bent toward the same order, and am struck all over again by that doubled beauty: same jaw, same hands, same ruthless focus turned on something as soft as making sure my lemon is fresh and my roll is toasted.
Jake gets back first, setting down lemonade and ginger ale like a magician showing his best cards. “Your pick.”
“Ginger,” I admit, because the week has been rough in the mornings and I promised to be honest with them, and his eyes go gentle in that way that makes my ribs ache.
Reid arrives with the plate, and oh God, it’s obscene—split-top bun brushed with butter, hunks of sweet lobster meat kissed with mayo and herbs, a lemon wedge like a bright little moon. He slides it toward me, then brackets my stool with his palms and leans in, voice low and sinful. “Bite.”
I do. I take a ridiculous, greedy bite and I actually hum, because it’s warm and briny and perfect, and both of them watch me like I’m their favorite show. Reid’s mouth slants in satisfaction; Jake’s thumb sweeps a dot of sauce from the corner of my lip, and he licks it off like he can’t help himself. Heat shoots through me so fast I have to chase it with a gulp of ginger ale.
“You’re going to start fights,” Reid murmurs, not looking away as I take another bite.
“Over a sandwich?” I tease.
“Over you,” Jake says simply, a glance slicing toward a group of college boys who’ve been trying—and failing—to pretend they aren’t staring. He doesn’t posture or puff up; he just rests his palm a little heavier on my waist, and somehow it’s louder than raising his voice.
We share the roll—Reid insists on feeding me the last two bites because he’s bossy and because he likes watching my mouth, the menace—and then I insist on kettle corn. We wander as we eat, stopping to play a rigged ring toss that Reid somehow wins anyway, which earns me a ridiculous stuffed lobster I immediately christen Butter. A brass band barrels past and I tuck closer between them, the world a whirl of copper lights and salt air and praise I don’t know how to carry—so glad you’re back, kiddo—while their hands keep returning to me, as if to remind themselves I’m solid, I’m warm, I’m here.
We pass the alley behind Murphy’s and both of them pivot, so smoothly it’s almost choreo, to angle me toward the street performers instead—the fire juggler throws a bloom of light into the air and someone cheers—and I send up a silent thank you that they don’t make a big deal of it, they just make it easy.
By the time we reach the end of the row of stalls, my boots are clicking happy little rhythms, the night is cold enough that Jake tugs my sweater off one shoulder to kiss the place where my pulse flutters, and Reid is already pulling out his wallet for funnel cake because he claims he can smell my next craving before I know I have it.
“Okay,” I say, squeezing their fingers until both of them look down, their mouths already softening in that way that melts me. “Snack number one? Eleven out of ten. What’s next, captains?”
Reid tips his chin toward the far end of the street where the ferris wheel lifts and lowers like a slow heartbeat over the harbor. “Next? We take our girl to the top of the town and make her gasp at the view.”
“As if I’m not already gasping,” I mutter, but I go where they guide me, tucked safe between their shoulders, and for the first time in a long time the dark doesn’t look like a threat. It looks like a sky we can fill with whatever we want.