---

Galveston in late August tasted like sunburn and something left too long on the stove. The air had thickened, and even the waves crashed with less conviction. Topher knew summer was ending—not just on the calendar, but in every look Valerie wouldn’t return.

She moved differently now. Checked the phone before answering. Stared out the window longer than she used to. Her smiles had become lighter—like they couldn’t carry weight anymore.

One night, the two of them sat on the porch drinking iced tea that neither of them finished. A distant thunderhead blinked over the Gulf.

He spoke quietly, like asking too loudly might break something.

“I could stay, you know. Get work here. Find a place. It doesn’t have to end just because the calendar turns.”

Valerie closed her eyes. He saw her jaw tense before her lips moved.

“My husband’s coming home.”

The words were soft, but they slammed like a door.

He didn’t speak right away.

“So this was just… what?”

“What it had to be,” she said. “I told myself I wouldn’t let it go that far. Then I did. And I don’t regret it. But I can’t live a double life.”

Topher stood, paced to the edge of the porch, then turned back.

“You could’ve told me.”

She looked up at him, eyes catching just enough porchlight to glint.

“I didn’t want to lie. But I didn’t want to lose you either.”

A few days later, she drove him to a car lot on the eastern edge of town. The sun blistered the painted windshield prices, and gulls circled overhead like bored salesmen.

Crab Shack Motor Cars was less dealership than salvage yard in denial. Sun-bleached flags strung between rotting poles. Hand-painted signs promising “ONE OWNER!” and “ACTUAL MILES!” on everything from a ’64 Fairlane to a maroon Studebaker that looked like it came with its own ghost.

The owner introduced himself as Captain Wendell Buck Lawhorn, though no ship had likely ever survived under his command. His face was a walnut shell, his nose ruby-red, and his eyebrows practically braided.

“Need somethin’ cheap, huh?” he said. “Or somethin’ fun?”

Topher didn’t answer. He just wandered.

It sat near the back, half in shadow, sunshine licking at its fenders. Lemon Yellow 1971 Volkswagen Karmann Ghia Convertible. The kind of car that didn’t care if it was fast. It just wanted to be admired.

Chrome overriders. Black top folded down. Cracked dash but honest bones. The kind of tired beauty that still made your heart tug.

Topher rested a hand on the fender.

“You like her,” Valerie said.

“I do.”

Buck appeared beside them. “Got a dash like an old church pew and a headliner that smells like the ‘60s, but she’ll get you where you’re goin’. Long as where you’re goin’ don’t require air conditioning or quiet.”

Topher laughed. It was the first time he had in two days.

The price was fair. But the payout from the Buick wreck didn’t quite stretch far enough.

Buck shrugged. “I can hold her for a week. But if ol’ Denton over in Port Arthur comes sniffin’ again—”

Valerie interrupted. “We’ll take it.”

Topher turned. “Val—”

She pressed a hand to his chest. “Let me.”

He nodded.

That night was quiet. They shared leftovers and barely spoke. He packed in the morning. No drama. Just neat stacks of shirts, his journal, and the scent of her clinging to his pillow.

Valerie came to his room. No knock this time. No words either.

She kissed him.

They moved slowly, like dancers who already knew the steps but didn’t want the song to end. Her blouse came undone under moonlight. His fingers traced the outline of the scar above her hip he’d never noticed before.

The curtains fluttered. Her breath hitched. And together, one last time, they disappeared into each other like they’d never known anything else.

She fell asleep beside him. He watched until dawn.

He loaded the Ghia with quiet reverence. The passenger seat held a tote of cassettes she’d given him. The glove box clicked shut over a goodbye note he hadn’t dared read yet.

She kissed him once. Said, “You were more than a summer. Just not more than a past.”

He nodded. Then drove.

At the Toot & Totem, he filled the Ghia with regular unleaded. The morning haze hadn’t burned off yet. The sky was still a dull pewter.

He felt her everywhere. On the dash. In the breeze. In the song stuck in his head.

A Buick rolled up to the opposite pump.

Mr. Downing stepped out in pressed slacks and a wide-brimmed hat that made him look like he belonged to a different century.

“Well, look at you,” he said. “Convertible and all. Island’s been good to you.”

Topher nodded. “Heading out today.”

“Back west?”

“Fort Stockton.” He hesitated. “Figured I oughta leave before Valerie’s husband comes home.”

Downing paused. Set the nozzle. Then turned.

“Her husband’s not coming home.”

Topher’s stomach dropped.

“What?”

“Killed overseas. Couple years ago. Heart attack or something official. Never got the full story. But he’s gone. Been gone. Thought you knew.”

Topher didn’t respond.

Downing finished pumping, replaced the handle, and climbed into the Roadmaster. He gave a little wave, pulled away.

Topher stood there, fingers resting on the Ghia’s chrome mirror. Mind racing.

She lied. Or she didn’t. Or Downing lied. Or he didn’t.

Did it matter?

He slid into the driver’s seat, turned the key. The Ghia coughed, then settled into a soft rumble.

He didn’t look back.

The road west stretched like a promise and a warning. He lit a cigarette he didn’t like, rolled the windows down, and let the sea wind tug at his collar.

Somewhere past the causeway, he reached for the note in the glovebox.

Didn’t open it.

Just kept driving.

Toward a future he didn’t understand.

And away from the only mystery he didn’t want to solve.

---

---