I swing open the front door and greet Johnathan with a weary smile on an unwashed face. He lifts a Kraft paper bag by its rolled handle while carrying a tray of styrofoam cups.

"Good morning, neighbor," he greets me with a chipper tone like he's been awake since before the sun rose. He flicks his wrist to lightly shake the bag, and its rumbling contents scratch against the material. "I brought breakfast."

"Neighbor? You live on Bristol Bay?" I step aside to clear space for him and he strolls through, eyeing the foyer like it's new to him.

"I live on the water, so, no." We turn to each other as I shut the door. His brows dip momentarily as he takes in my disposition. "Are you feeling okay, though? You look a little pale."

I expected the first night to be hard, but I tried to power through it. I shut my eyes, but creaking floorboards and cawing birds kept me alert. My skin crawled especially around my jaw which I involuntarily clenched with the blanket up to my chin.

Nothing was in the house with me; before Johnathan called it a night and went home, he made sure the doors and windows were locked. Yet, despite the precautions, I couldn't shake the feeling that I wasn't alone.

I sit one hand on my hip and massage my forehead with the other, pinching and relaxing it in slow repetitions.

Fanning away his concern, I force a chuckle and say, "I'm fine. You know how it is in a new place: you toss and turn all night, then wake up sore and cranky." Despite my efforts, he tilts his head and furrows his eyebrows. Crossing my arms for comfort and warmth, I quickly change the subject and stroll past him. "What'd you bring?"

He meets me in the kitchen as I scoot back one of the dining chairs.

"Oh, a classic homestyle breakfast." He places the bag on the surface, then the cup holder. Johnathan sits with me at a ninety-degree angle, the sides across from us pressed to the half-wall. "And medium roast coffee. I didn't know how you take your coffee, so I brought creams and sugar."

I still my body but my eyes wander over the bag, then the drinks. As he unrolls and sifts through it, I slow my speech when I say, "I don't usually drink coffee -- but thank you. I'll have it with sugar."

He hands me a black to-go bowl with a foggy lid. He shares with me how his morning went, doting over a little kid who brought over a single serving of rigatoni as a thank you from his mom. Last week, Johnathan lent her a few eggs and a cup of flour.

"Have you decided yet whether you plan to move back, or no?" We press on the bubbles securing our meals, and the lids fly back. Steam rises from the scrambled eggs and the pancakes, wafting side to side.

"No. I don't know." I give both answers with a silent beat between them. I haven't thought it over as much as I anticipated to do so. Johnathan hands me a few napkins and plastic utensils. "I might have to get used to sleeping here alone first."

I rip the plastic covering, and he grabs one of the coffee cups. When he rocks it free, he lifts it and says, "Well, here's to hoping that it leads to you forgetting all about New York -- or Boston or -- wherever." I chuckle and he grins with his eyes, shielding the remainder of his face with his drink.

"I've never been to either of those places. I live in Chicago." I stab the eggs, then lean in to start eating. Before I bite what's on my fork, I tell him, "And I can't just abandon it," to which he asks me why not. With my index curled against my lips, I drop the fork into the dish and sit back. "My boyfriend is there."

"Oh, Adam." He says it like the name or person is insignificant. He anchors his pancakes with his fork, then cuts it in even parts. When I ask how he knows Adam's name, he tells me, "I met him at your father's wake."

"Oh, so you remember that, but not where I'm from," I say, not as loudly yet not whispering. He side-eyes me, squinting like he's trying to read me.

"His name is as simple as it gets. I don't see how I could forget it, but as for Chicago, I just know you left us for the city life. Where wasn't as relevant." He lifts three stacked slices to his mouth, but before he bites them, he says, "Also, you're from Port-Christi. You can take the girl away from the sea, but you can't take the sea out of the girl."

"I highly doubt that's a real saying." I contort my brows into a blend of half-knitted and half-raised. Johnathan drops his fork onto the food and reaches for his coffee.

Bringing it closer to drink, he mutters, "I saw it on a t-shirt at the general store, so clearly it's a saying."

The rest of our shared meal continues like this. He asks about my life in Chicago, and I tell him about my boss, Alfred Sneed.

He's stout and stands at my shoulder, but his gruff and nasally voice carries like a man as tall if not more so than Johnathan. He hails from New Jersey as a third-generation Italian-American, and a few times on our lunch break, he'd sit and chat with me.

He reminds me of my dad -- seemingly unapproachable but tender-hearted, with overflowing wisdom they leaped at the chance to share.

I mention my first sale. I designed a midnight-inspired gown for a girl's sweet sixteen that was backless for her taste but with muted mesh sewn from the inside to give her parents the modesty they emphasized.

"I'll be back with the can of oil for the doors and windows. I left it on my flatbed." He clears our table, leaving me with my half-finished cup.

𓆉︎𓆉︎𓆉︎

The clock struck twelve, and we decided to have our lunch break at Nielson's Bar and Marina. I left the broom against the dining table, and he set his oil can under the living room arch.

The restaurant sits near the town's border. Despite its wood panels being a faded blue shade and chipped here and there, it became a hotspot for fishers, truckers, and foreigners. Because of this, upon stepping into the dim restaurant of people packed in like sardines, the air is thick with the scent of salt, sweat, and engine grime.

"Let's head out to the patio," Johnathan hollers to project his voice over the cacophony of diners and staff. I follow his lead past the bar where a small TV is mounted on the wall, occupying men sipping beer and whiskey.

My shoulder knocks against a woman's back. She whips around so fast that her hair swings and falls across her chest. Though the establishment is dark, her blue eyes cut through and stare darkly at me.

With wider eyes, I start to apologize, but she interrupts me with an, "Excuse me," though it's evident by her sharp cadence that she's urging me to say it instead.

My remorseful expression returns to neutral as I stand toe-to-toe with the hostile woman, her cloying perfume accosting my nose. Johnathan's attempts to reintroduce me to Port-Christi's hometown charm prove futile by this very exchange.

The gossiping, catty remarks, and general lack of Southern hospitality were both ironic and the straw that broke the camel's back for me. I won't overreact, but this adds a score for my return to Chicago.

Plainly, I tell her, "Excuse me. I'm sorry, I was walking with someone, and," then Johnathan steps back into the building.

"Marie?" I rip my gaze off hers and look up at my former classmate towering over us. He cranes his neck and squints at me.

"Yeah. I'm here, Johnathan." I return my attention to her. I start to passive-aggressively tell him about the altercation, but her demeanor shifts.

"Wait. Johnathan?" I blink back at her softened tone. How suddenly she changed from wanting to launch me through a window to speaking with a gentler southern twang leaves me with my lips agape.

"Julie," he calls out, and my mouth hangs open further. I take a step back to scan her, but with only a glint of light from the TV and lit candles on each table, all that's decipherable are her pale blue eyes with specks of hazel green.

I'd forgotten the sound of my childhood best friend's voice.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟