That Summer

The darkness never really rested in Ash Harbor. It lingered long after morning should have broken through, and it crept back early, before the loggers even made it home to their supper. Fog clung to the rooftops like regret.

Jules hadn’t seen the coast in years—not since that summer with Liz. She’d stayed inland where the weather was honest, where the sun rose when it said it would. But some memories settle into the past like headstones on a hill, always visible from the pasture of your daily life. Some summers don’t stay buried.

And so she returned.

Jules looked out of place in a town like Ash Harbor. She walked into the diner with a light blue teacup dress that cinched neatly at her waist, white heels that were worn thin at the sole but polished daily to preserve a little dignity. Her hair was pinned back, not a strand loose.

Ash Harbor, much like its name, had a gray tint to everything. The ashes stayed in fireplaces, yes—but they also lived in the clouds, in the siding of the buildings, in the quiet resignation of its people.

The crowd today was the usual: rough-voiced loggers, seagull-burned fishermen, and women with sun-leathered necks and tired eyes. There was laughter, there was a jukebox humming low in the corner. It was not a cruel place, exactly, but Jules had never found it kind either. Liz had shown her the gentleness in hard hands once..

She felt Liz before she saw her.

The heads didn’t turn the way they once had—Ash Harbor had grown used to Liz. Used to her short-cropped hair, her overalls smeared with oil, the cigarette dangled from her mouth even when her hands were busy with a wrench or a coffee cup. She walked like someone who expected to be left alone, and most people obliged.

When she saw Jules, she paused—just for a moment. Then crossed the room with that same crooked smile Jules remembered.

Liz went for a handshake. Jules leaned in for a hug. They met somewhere in the middle, bodies awkward in reunion.

“Jules,” Liz said, smiling too wide. “You made it.”

Jules smiled back, more carefully. “Of course I did, darling. Been too long.”

They slid into the booth. Vinyl seats squeaked beneath them. Liz stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray with a practiced flick.

Outside, the fog pressed against the window like it was trying to listen.

Jules’ practiced smile lit up the table, soft and steady like a candle flame. Across from her, Liz was at war with a paper napkin, scrubbing oil from her cheek with the kind of determination that could strip paint.

Jules reached across the table and gently stilled her hand.

“You alright?” she asked, voice soft but direct. “Does me being here stir up any… hysteria for you? Or—what was it the doctor said—‘battle stress reaction,’ something like that?”

Liz’s expression hardened. Her eyes snapped up, sharp and wounded,“You been talkin’ to doctors about me?”

She pulled her hand back. “I don’t like those types. Haven’t since—” she faltered, the words clumsy with memory. “Since they tried to shut me away. Sedate me. Make me sleep through everything. I ain’t interested in bein’ somebody’s specimen, Jules.”

Jules leaned in slightly, voice calm, hands open, “No, no, darlin’. Not like that.”

She waited a breath before continuing, “I never said a word about you, not really. Just talked around it. Said I knew a gal once—came back from war. Lost her folks, lost someone she loved. Got quiet after that. Little jumpy. Couldn’t stand crowds or sirens.”

Jules’ eyes met Liz’s, soft and steady, “I just wanted to understand. That’s all. Not to fix you. Just… to see you better.”

Liz relaxed, shoulders dropping as she let out a small laugh, “What brings you back to me, huh? You seemed in a mighty rush to leave, after we spent the summer together.”

She leaned in, eyes lighting up like someone catching a warm draft of memory, “Campfire after campfire, no destination. Bar after bar. Diners from here to Maine and back.” She smirked. “Remember when I punched that fella in Oklahoma? Big guy, covered in ink. Tried sweet-talkin’ you after you told him plain to leave you alone.”

Jules smiled, soft and distant, “He looked like a circus strongman, tattoos up his neck and down both legs.” She gave a small shake of her head, “Couldn’t believe you actually hit him.”

Liz grinned, pride blooming behind her teeth, “Didn’t even hesitate.”

The air between them shifted—not tense, not yet, but tender in the way only old memories can be. For a moment, the diner didn’t smell like burned coffee and fryer oil. It smelled like pine smoke and cheap whiskey. Like nights on the road.

Like before.

Jules stirred her tea absently, “You always did show up when it counted.”

Jules traced her fingertip around the rim of her mug, “We didn’t stay long in Oklahoma.”

Liz shrugged. “Didn’t need to. Got what we needed out of that place.” She reached for another napkin, but stopped short this time. Hands stilled.

Jules didn’t look up when she said it, “You remember why we left, right?”

Liz blinked slowly, “There were a lot of reasons.”

A pause. Just long enough to notice.

Liz flicked at the edge of her stubbed-out cigarette, “Mind?”

Jules gave a quiet nod.

Liz lit up with practiced ease, exhaling like it was the first real breath she’d taken since Jules walked in, “Didn’t matter where we went,” Liz said. “We just went.”

She smiled, distant. “That fire… I think we watched it for hours. We talked about everything under the sun. Your Ma. My Pa. Thomas. That fire… felt like starting over. Like it burned away what we couldn’t talk about. Like it made things safe again. You're David we talked about him to.”

At the name David, both of them turned to look out the window. Gray fog. A passing truck. The sound of gulls.

They turned back.

“Still with him?” Liz asked.

Jules nodded. “Mmm.”

Liz took another drag, eyes half-lidded, “Good.” She said it like it meant nothing. Like it meant everything, “You still haven’t said why you’re really here.” She tapped ash into the tray, watching it scatter. “We haven’t spoken in years, Jules. You don’t owe me a damn thing.”

Jules blinked slowly, holding her like it mug might answer for her.

The ceramic was warm in her hands, but her palms felt cold.

She almost said it.

Because I remember.

Because I need to know if you do too.

Because you looked right at me that night and said nothing.

Instead, she took a sip and said, “I had the time. Figured it was long overdue.”

Liz looked back down at her cigarette,“That was the stillest I think I’ve ever been.” She crushed the cigarette slowly, deliberately, like she was putting the fire out all over again. “Like if we moved too much, we’d break the spell. Like something was gonna crack wide open if we did.”

She paused. Her voice got softer, “You didn’t ask questions that night. I always… always appreciated that.”

Jules stared at her across the table. Her heart thudded once, hard.

She wanted to ask, Did you think I didn’t know?

Instead, she said nothing.

Liz’s eyes found hers again “That fire… it felt like starting over.” She smiled, but her hand trembled slightly as she reached for her glass of water, “Only time I ever felt clean, I think.”

Jules wanted to amuse this little walk down memory lane. To hold the warmth of it while it lasted. The chaos of those nights had swirled around them like a storm with no eye—but that fire, that one fire in Nebraska, had felt stillness. Like a held breath.

Her voice softened as Liz drifted deeper into recollection, “That trip brought out the best of us… but it brought out the worst, too.” Jules remembered the smell. Not just smoke. Something heavier beneath it. She paused, eyes distant, “God was not happy with us on that trip.”

Without thinking, Liz reached across the table and took Jules’ hand.

Familiar. Immediate.

Jules looked down at their laced fingers—once a comfort, now a wound. She remembered what those hands had done. And worse, what her hands had done. Their fingers had been intertwined just like this, watching that fire burn, saying nothing as the world around them smoldered.

Her voice was sharp, low, “Don’t touch me.”

Liz froze. Pulled back. Her face cracked—not in anger, but confusion. Hurt, “Why are you here, Jules?”

Not gentle anymore. Not curious.

Just: Why now? Why open this box?

Jules didn’t answer right away. She reached for her purse instead, movements precise, rehearsed—her armor slipping back into place.

Liz watched her. No more smiling. No more memories. Just eyes wide, trying to read the woman she used to know.

“You came all this way to sit in silence?” Liz asked, voice cracking at the edges.

Jules stood. Smoothed her dress like she hadn’t been clenching her fists under the table.

“I shouldn’t have come,” she said, not quite looking at her. “I thought I wanted answers. But I think I just wanted… something simpler.”

She turned to leave. The diner door felt a mile away. Her heels clicked against the floor like a metronome counting down something inevitable.

But Liz reached for her again. Just a touch—a brush of fingers against Jules’ wrist.

And in that second—it was there.

That flash.

The firelight.

The blood.

That smell.

Liz’s hands trembling under the stars. Jules’ own hands shaking but steadying Liz’s. Their fingers laced, neither of them speaking. Just breathing. Just watching the world they’d set in motion burn down.

She yanked her arm away.

Liz didn’t stop her this time.

But her voice followed, soft as smoke, “He woulda hurt you. Us.”

Jules stopped at the door, but she didn’t turn around.

Didn’t nod.

Didn’t cry.

She just opened the door, and the gray light of Ash Harbor spilled in like an apology.

She walked out into it—terrified not of Liz, not even of what happened… but of the kind of love that bleeds.