Downtown Ludington after midnight the day before the 4th of July was quieter than I imagined it would be. A few bar goers stumbled along the sidewalk, but most would be a few blocks down James Street at the main stretch of pubs.

            Was that named after me, you think?

            Meredith introduced us to her hometown in 1998. Reintroduced Dad, I should say. He went a bunch when he was a kid, with my perpetually traveling grandparents. It was hard not to get hooked on this slice of small-town America. A main strip named after the town. Murals on the sides of shops and restaurants. A candy store selling ice cream and fudge. A beach with golden sand, clear water, and no sharks. Not one, but three lighthouses. Fishing. Kayaking. A state park for camping and hiking. It was simple and peaceful. Maybe my next job was working for the local chamber of commerce. After the tenth vacation, Dad and I felt less like tourists and more like locals, as much as anyone can make that claim without growing up somewhere.

            There are no rules to these things. Read the room, go with the flow, and stay the course. 

            My therapist was in my head, or was it James again, his red beard tickling my synapses, reminding me it’s okay to use cliches, especially if they confirmed the answers my checking in revealed.

            I turned onto Lakeshore Drive, did a quick loop along the beach drive thru, and drove north a quarter of a mile, turning down Dad’s driveway just before the Chuck Wagon, a local pizza joint I’d be devouring sooner rather than later. Pine trees lined the wide driveway. Dad could have paved it but kept the pebbles to retain the beach feel. 

            My chest grew tight with the final cut of the engine. “Thanks, Larry. I don’t know how long that would’ve taken me without you.”

            “Scavenger hunts, huh? Only Brett.”

            “It was fun.”

            I took out my backpack and suitcase. Larry slung the duffel over his shoulder. It wasn’t a small house on the lake, but it wasn’t grandiose, either. We visited several houses along the shore back in 1998. Dad told his realtor he wanted space for friends and family to be comfortable, but he didn’t want to get lost. A musical prophet predicting his own future.

            At night it had no color. During the day it was white with pale blue shutters with six bedrooms and four bathrooms. Two decks, with a wooden boardwalk accessing the beach from the bottom one. Picture windows on every lakeside wall. Skylights. It was a great house, but I was too tired to think about anything other than sleep. 

The front door opened. Meredith stepped outside and shut it quietly. I saw her kind face and started to cry. 

“Hello, gentlemen.” 

Larry dropped the duffel and engulfed her in his big fella arms. I wiped the tears away and couldn’t help but laugh. She walked up to me. 

            “Thank you,” I said, hugging her. “Seriously.” 

“I can’t wait to hear all about it. Beds are made, but I figured you’d want the hammock. Brett’s asleep. Sleep. Lots to catch up on. Larry, there’s a bathtub next to your room if you want to soak first.” 

            His eyes lit up like fireflies. 

            “Welcome home, Fender.”

            She led us inside, taking Larry down a hall. I left my suitcase and backpack by the back door and went outside on the deck. The water was a black slate against the night. A hammock hung from the ceiling in the corner. I kicked off my sandals and fell into it, the weight of my body gone. Tension evacuated. I swayed, settled, and floated, eyes closed, crickets chirping, the smell of beach grass faint like distant stars.