resurface

The mid-May sun beat down on Seaside, a familiar heat that clung to my skin and made my t-shirt damp. It was a Thursday, and the town, though stirring with the promise of summer, remained mostly quiet. Only the year-round mainstays like Anderson's Market and the Sheriff's Station were open, serving the few locals who endured the winter.
I rode my bike down the empty boardwalk, relishing the mild ocean breeze. Every year, this time brought a knot of dread and anticipation to my stomach – the quiet before the storm of tourists. I hated it, and loved it, this town that knew no in-between.
Sleigh bells jingled as I pushed open the Sheriff's Station door, their year-round presence a quirky joke of Beth's. The station was empty, as usual, save for the layers of dust on the deputy desks. I dropped my backpack, a familiar ritual, and headed for Sheriff Platt's office.
Beth shrieked, jumping up from the Sheriff's couch, her black hair a sexy, messy knot. "Emma!" she laughed, recovering. "Didn't hear you come in. You scared me half to the grave."
"The bells don't work if the TV's too loud," I countered, leaning into the room where rotating fans only seemed to stir the warm air. "Post office still open?"