As I unravel the duct tape and press it to the box's flaps, I struggle to forget how my boyfriend of seven years spoke to me. Though we didn't argue while I was in line, my heart began to race at the idea of angering him.

I saw how little things swelled to catastrophe when my parents argued. His arriving late and smelling of what she thought was perfume or beer drove a wedge between them.

I was too young to understand it, and I'll admit that my naïveté and desire to believe that he was faithful still keeps me from seeing things from her perspective. I don't think I took sides, but those moments shaped my worldview.

Any tiff between me and Adam, I scramble to resolve it before he too decides to find a mancave far from home -- far from me.

"Are you okay?" I blink out of my trance and notice that I'm staring at the wall the dining table is pressed against. Looking over my shoulder, I see Johnathan squatting at the living room arch, staring at me with a crease between his brows and his lips twisted into a smirk. "You've been taping the same box for a while now."

I follow his amused gaze to the brown box on the dining table. As he correctly noted, I've layered the lid three times.

When I drop my hands, the roll dangles by the tape, ready to be cut. Instead of doing so, while stepping toward the front door, I run my fingers through my mess of curls to comb them off my face and shoulders.

"Do you think I should move back here," I ask, mostly to myself with my arms crossed. The sun sits along the horizon, painting orange across the sky as a warning of nightfall approaching.

I watch the white birds swarm the sea like vultures. Some dive beak first to secure their dinner.

"If you want an unbiased opinion, I'm not the guy to ask." I look at the orange light and shadows of tree branches casting on his face and arms. Next to him is a pint of Solvite. He returns his focus to his sporadic brush strokes behind the leaning wallpaper, his mouth slightly open. "Why'd you leave?"

I pause as if I need a second to think, but I have more than enough reasons. It was primarily my family that drove me away, but that's too much to share.

Instead, I tell him, "This place always felt so -- calm and small." I watch the people below pack their belongings and trudge through the sand toward the parking lot. They kick up mists of sand. "Maybe limited is the best word. I don't know. I just figured to be a fashion designer, I'd have to go somewhere else."

"I can see why. I can't think of any jobs for that here or in the surrounding area." I don't respond, but mentally I nod in agreement. It's been my dream since middle school to design outfits to display on the runway, but even at that time, I knew it was pointless here. I'd end up bagging groceries at the general store or waitressing at Nielson's. "Then again, if there's no other business like that, then that means no competition." I blink and tilt my head like he'd just cut on a lightbulb in my head. I turn my head to him not far behind me. "You could start your own company."

"I don't know the first thing about running a business," I say, heaving a solemn chuckle with a smile to match. He slides his gloved hand across the wallpaper like it's delicate, his gaze fixed on his handiwork.

"Well, luckily for you, you have a fellow entrepreneur." Finally, he looks at me again and grins with his top row. "I can teach you the trade."

Instead of returning the elation, I squint at him. He and I weren't as close as I was with Julie Vernon, but we were friendly toward one another in class and when we passed each other through the halls.

He even attended my dad's funeral, and I'll admit it felt nice to have someone there for me who wasn't family.

Though Adam stood alongside me at the wake, he found himself too drunk to be the support I knew I'd need for the funeral.

I never asked Johnathan why he was there or why he stuck beside me and let me grieve on his shoulder, because I figured since my dad knew him, he felt it was right.

Now, besides helping me restore a memory that's withered in the weeks that he's been gone, I don't understand what leaves him obligated to me.

"Why? Why would you help me? Why are you helping me?" I stutter through each question, not knowing what to expect. He just blinks at me from a slightly turned angle like a mentor admiring their protégé.

"Maybe I figure if I rush to your aide, you won't leave thinking this town is full of selfish people." I exhale into a slouch. As he explains himself, he gestures from the wall adjacent to the kitchen to the living room between us and says, "Maybe by gluing this wallpaper and caulking mouse holes, you'll stay. I miss having you here -- as an old friend."

We stare at each other like two people waiting for the other to speak, but though my mind is clouded, I don't say anything else.

I tuck my curls behind my ears and return to the wide box covering the dining table. I hug it to my chest and grunt as I barely lift it off the surface. My smile drops at the sight of a light green grasshopper lying lifeless where the box sat.

"Um, Johnathan, could you please get this?" He sets the wide brush on the paint tray, then pushes himself up with his hands on his knees.

Johnathan steps to me with his eyes on the box slipping from my arms, and though I mean for him to dispose of the dead bug, I allow him to take it from me.

"Did you want me to load this on my truck to take somewhere?" I shake my head, not fully listening to him. I know I left the window open, but I've never known a grasshopper to leap as high as would be required to intrude.

My dad collected a diverse variety of species, but after checking tanks and boxes, none of them lived from the time he passed to now.

"Oh, um, yeah. I'll probably drop them off to my mother," I say, sparing him a glance as he turns on his heels. When I ask, "But could you please throw this away," he stops and follows my gaze.

Scrunching his face, he bends to set the box at his feet, then steps closer.

"Is that a cicada?" I shake my head again, this time attentive, and correct him. "Oh. I've been seeing them pop up all over town. I found two dead on my porch and another on my boat, but it was alive. I suppose Spring brings them around."

"I suppose," I mumble. Johnathan walks toward the box of tissues next to the sink, then plucks a few to grab the dead bug.

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