Curiosity filled her. For years she had not asked questions about her favorite spots, mostly to avoid the feeling of being homesick, but also so she could forget. The less she knew, the better. The less she longed to return, the easier it would be to create a new life. That was what she needed to do: start over, put the past behind her, and move on.
At the red light, she closed her eyes. It only took her seconds to tell Carly she would come back, even though, deep down, it wasn’t what she wanted to do. Yet, she owed the woman and could never tell her no. Brooklyn was content with the life she was living. She was one of the most sought-after home renovators, with homeowners paying her top dollar to come to them, to transform their visions into their dream homes. Her job afforded her many luxuries, except roots. She didn’t rent a home, let alone own one. Each town became her stomping ground, until the next job came in. She traveled thousands of miles, back and forth across the country, leaving her mark everywhere she went.
The honking horn startled her. Her eyes flung open, and her foot automatically touched the gas before she slammed her foot back onto the brake, earning another long horn and probably a few choice words from the car behind her. She would never care about someone’s overeagerness to punch the gas as soon as the light turned green. Her reasoning was asleep in the seat next to her, and she would never trust other drivers to stop at red lights. She watched the cross traffic before pulling into the intersection to continue down the road.
The slow pace she kept allowed her to take in the sights. The storefronts were all familiar and decorated red, white, and blue for the upcoming holiday. People lingered on the sidewalks, talking to friends; others wove through the foot traffic to get to their destinations. And then there were the tourists, stopping and taking pictures to capture their vacation memories: on benches, in front of the whiskey barrels holding various colors of tulips and the statues of Lewis and Clark and Sacagawea. Brooklyn saw a young couple go into Susie’s Sweet Shoppe, the 1950s soda fountain, which served locally made ice cream, the best she had ever had until one of her jobs had taken her to Vermont, where she had tried Ben & Jerry’s for the first time. Now they were her favorite with all their crazy flavors and different concoctions. Back when she lived here, she and her friends would meet at Susie’s after school, on Friday nights, or after a game, whether football, wrestling, basketball, or baseball. Of course, the girls would become giddy when the guys showed up, especially in their baseball uniforms, stained with grass and dirt. Susie’s always reminded her of the movie Grease, except with a black-and-white tiled floor and red vinyl booths. One year for Halloween, the owners hosted a sock hop, and everyone in town came out for the party. Next to the ice cream parlor was Ellie’s, the local florist; Washington Savings Bank; and the family-owned deli, O’Maddi’s. But it was the commotion across the street that got her attention. The open market on the corner displayed fresh fish, resting on packed ice, and the cafés had their wrought-iron tables and chairs outside, allowing patrons to enjoy the warm weather. People sat there, chatting happily among themselves, enjoying the fresh air and ambience of this small town.
At the next light, she stared at the fish market. It was busy; people waited in makeshift lines to place their orders while some had their cell phones held high, likely set to record the salmon being thrown over the stand and caught easily behind the counter, much like they’d see in Seattle at the Pike Place Fish Market. If things were still the same, it was the owner’s sons—and now maybe his grandsons—who threw the ordered fish behind the counter to teens, who wrapped the product in paper and cashed out customers. This had been her first job. She had wanted to hate it, but the camaraderie had kept her coming back. She loved her coworkers, but the smell! Teenage girls did not like to smell bad in any way, let alone smell like fish. After each shift, she’d rush home to shower and change, and she washed her work clothes every night. Her mother begged her to quit, but Brooklyn loved the job. It gave her independence and money in her pocket.
She smiled at the scene and let her eyes rove over the people milling around. She did a double take at the woman standing on the street corner. Waiting to cross was her old friend Monroe Whitfield. Brooklyn recognized her instantly. Her friend hadn’t changed one bit, with her strawberry-blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail. She couldn’t recall a time when Monroe wore her hair down, unlike her sister, Mila, who never put hers up. The sisters were as opposite as night and day, from what Brooklyn remembered, yet best friends and inseparable. What is Monroe up to these days? Is she married? Does she have any children? If she were a better friend, she would’ve known these things. If she had kept in touch, if she had come back when expected, maybe her heart wouldn’t feel as if it were about to escape the confines of her chest out of fear that Monroe might somehow figure out she was staring at her. The emotional part of her wanted to push the button to put her window down, stick her arm out, and call the name of the woman who used to be her friend. The logical part of her knew she shouldn’t, and that saddened her. She knew the confrontations were coming; she expected them. She had no business going to look for them, though.