Back To Nantucket, Part one.

*Disclaimer: I don't usually title my stories, so this is only a temporary title.

It was midday, ninety degrees, and Nell was beginning to wonder why she’d ever gotten a skylight in her kitchen.

She turned off the stove and dumped her scrambled egg whites, which were apparently a lot healthier than regular scrambled eggs, onto a chipped blue plate. She leaned against the kitchen counter and began to sort through her mail.

Downstairs, she heard the bell chime. Couldn’t they read? The sign on the door clearly said ‘closed.’ She tossed an electricity bill, a water bill, and a rent payment onto the kitchen table, which was more of a place to pile books than somewhere to eat. She’d deal with those later.

“Nell?” a familiar voice called.

“Upstairs!” Nell called back. It wasn’t a customer after all.

“Hey, babe,” Hank appeared in the frame of the kitchen doorway. He was six foot two and much too tall to fit through the small doorway without hitting his head.

Nell took a bite of her eggs and immediately choked and spit them out in the sink. The egg whites-only recipe may have been healthier, but it definitely compromised taste.

Hank laughed easily.

“What?” Nell glowered before blowing him a kiss.

He rolled his eyes at her, and saw the pile of mail. “Any news from New York?’ It was a question Hank asked every day. Nell had sent out her first novel to several large New York publishing houses seven months ago. The answer to Hank’s question was always no.

“Well, what’s this?’ Hank came over to Nell and leaned his arm on the countertop; his other arm resting lightly on the small of Nell’s back. “It looks important.”

Nell examined the fancy envelope addressed with elegant script. She rarely received any mail besides bills. She read out loud. “Ellen R. Georgia, Seventeen Stoneybrook Lane, Nantucket.”

“Must be something big. They used your whole name,” Hank noted. He opened the refrigerator and took out a beer. He didn’t bother to ask if Nell wanted one. She didn’t drink.

Nell nodded absentmindedly, tearing the envelope slowly so not to destroy it. She removed a fancy piece of cardstock paper, embellished with the same elegant script. “You are cordially invited to,” Nell read aloud, “celebrate the holy matrimony of. . . ” she stopped suddenly. She felt herself exhale loudly. She stared at the name on the paper.

“What?” Hank looked up. “Who is it?” He plucked the invitation from her limp hand.

“No!” Nell exclaimed, snapping back to life. She grasped the air where the paper had just been, but Hank was already reading it.

“You are cordially invited to celebrate–”

“Hank, I really don’t think you should read that!” Nell said loudly.

“–the holy matrimony of Malcolm R. Duncan and Elizabeth J. Rollins–” he stopped abruptly and looked up at Nell. His confused eyes reminded her of her five-year-old nephew, Elliot, when he wasn’t allowed a cookie after dinner. It was a very sad look.

“What?” Hank said softly.

“I told you that you shouldn’t have read it” was on the tip of Nell’s tongue, but she held it back. Instead, she reached forward and hugged Hank. The hug was just like all of the others of the past few weeks. Instead of melting right into him, she felt like there was a brick wall separating them – a brick wall they were both trying to ignore. And now it was a million times worse.

Hank held on for a few seconds, then hastily pushed her away. His eyes were on his feet and he looked dazed.

“Oh, Hank,” was all Nell could think of to say.

“I’m going to go,” Hank said quietly, slamming his beer bottle down on the counter. “I need to. . . think.” And he pushed past her and out the door without another word.

After she was sure that Hank was gone and the bells of the front door were silent, Nell began pacing around the kitchen. Too many thoughts were racing through her mind. She couldn’t think straight. But one thing was clear.

“Who does she think she is?” Nell exclaimed to her toaster. “She abandons me when I most need her, I don’t hear from her for nine years, and she sends me an invitation to her wedding!? Just like that. Who the hell does she think she is?”

Nell picked up the invitation and tossed it into the recycling bin. “She’s not a part of my life anymore,” she reassured herself. “This isn’t anything important to me. I don’t even know who this guy is.” But then she broke. She could feel her face turning red and blotchy, like it always did when she cried. She fell onto her couch and hugged her knees. “How can I not know the guy she’s marrying? I should be the first one she’s calling when she gets engaged! How is this even possible?” Nell’s sobs turned to hiccups, and she wiggled her body under her soft wool blanket and closed her eyes, silent tears still pouring down her face. Hopefully, no one in Nantucket would have an urge to buy a book that afternoon, because she was going to be there for a while.

Feedback and critique would be great:)