Everyone was telling me so. Grams harped on me constantly to eat something, demanding to know what was wrong. Though she probably suspected the reason behind my emotional demise. One Mr. Josh Thomas. The summer was winding down with Labor Day weekend coming to a close, and that meant the major slow down of tourist season. I was miserable, hadn’t heard a word from Josh and didn’t really expect to. I’d made it plenty clear I wanted nothing more to do with him. So really, I had myself to blame for my misery. But for some reason I seemed to love to torment myself and drive past Fisherman’s Feast all the time. To figure out if it was being torn down or maybe to catch a glimpse of the big boys from the city in their black suits and expensive shoes. Each time I drove by, it was life as normal, just a bunch of locals and the few tourists that were left. And I was doing it again today, sitting in my car, which was parked across the street, breathing in the smell of fried fish that wafted from the open doors.
