The final bell had barely finished ringing when I shouldered my backpack and started toward the line of buses waiting by the curb. The crowd funneled into noisy clusters, some sprinting for the ride home, others dragging their feet. I’d just stepped onto the sidewalk when I heard someone call out behind me.
“Hey—wait up!”
I turned to see Gabriel jogging to catch up, guitar case slung over his shoulder. He fell into step beside me, looking a little hesitant.
“You headed to the ferry already?” he asked.
“Yeah. Gotta catch it before it sails without me.”
He glanced toward the buses, then back at me. “What if you didn’t—just for today? I could show you around Barnstable a bit. Might be better than sitting on a boat with commuters.”
I tilted my head. “You offering the grand tour?”
He shrugged. “Call it… a detour. You’ve been here for weeks and haven’t really seen the place, right?”
I thought about it for a moment, then nodded. “Alright. Show me something worth seeing.”
A small smile tugged at his mouth. “Come on, then.”
We cut through the parking lot and onto the sidewalk along Route 6A, the old King’s Highway. Barnstable Village was close enough to walk. Old clapboard houses with wide porches lined the street, their weathered shingles silvered from decades of salt air.
Gabriel slowed in front of a low, timbered building with a brass plaque by the door. “Sturgis Library. Oldest public library in the country still in its original building. Been here since the 1600s.”
I brushed my fingertips along the rough wood of the doorframe. “Feels like it’s seen a lot.”
“It has,” he said quietly.
We moved on toward the harbor. The scent of salt and seaweed thickened as the street dipped downhill. A cluster of small white buildings came into view, including one with iron bars on its narrow windows.
“That’s the Old Jail,” Gabriel said, nodding toward it. “People say it’s haunted. Used to be part of the Customshouse. Supposedly the ‘Witch of Wellfleet’ spent time there.”
I glanced at the dark doorway. “Yeah… I can see why no one would want to stay long.”
We left the road for the worn path down to Millway Beach. The harbor opened wide before us, boats rocking gently at their moorings. We kicked off our shoes and stood where the cold water lapped at the sand.
“I come here when I need to think,” Gabriel said, looking out at the horizon. “It’s… quiet.”
“I get that,” I replied. “Less people. Less noise.”
We stayed like that for a while, not talking, letting the breeze carry the sound of the water between us. On the walk back, we passed a row of colorful artist shanties near Hyannis Harbor. One booth had wooden guitar picks carved with whales and anchors.
Gabriel stopped to pick one up, running his thumb over the smooth edges. “Not my usual style, but… I like it.”
“You keeping it?” I asked.
He glanced at me, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes. “Maybe. I think I’ll remember today either way.”
When we reached the bus stop, he gave a small nod toward the ferry terminal in the distance. “Guess this is where you bail.”
“Guess so,” I said. “Thanks for the tour.”
“Anytime,” he replied, and I knew he meant it.