4. Meredith
MEREDITH
“One hot, one cold—griddle for the buttered roll, fridge for the mayo mix. No skimpin’ on the meat!”
June’s brow furrows. “Who’s ordering mayo?”
“Just smile and do it.” I wave her off.
“That better not be Roland.” June groans, then, says it again, only louder. “That better not be you, Roland!”
A sheepish voice comes through the hatch. “Butter is bad for my heart.”
“The stuffies you had earlier are bad for your heart.” She always has to have the last word.
“Ay, ay, ay. Quit harassing my customers.” Dad’s eyes catch mine. “And quit crowding the pot, Mer.”
“Why don’t you get back here and do it yourself?” I grumble but shove the lobster back into the freezer anyway, then slam the lid on the already overfull stockpot.
“You’ve been front of house all summer. People have been wondering where I’m at.”
I roll my eyes at him. “Like they can’t hear you yelling.”
The lunch rush had ended an hour ago, and I was, honestly, delaying my return to the shucking station to prepare for dinner. Dad and June have always been better with their hands, and no matter how many times I wrestled with the quahogs, they could always finish in half the time.
“Two rolls, one butter, one garbage,” June announces as she pushes the two dishes through the hatch before turning to face our father. “I’m going on break.”
His eyes widen. “You had a break an hour ago.”
“What are you gonna do, old man, fire me?” June grins and sidesteps Dad when he goes to ruffle her hair. As soon as she pushes through the swinging door, I hear her berating Roland again.
Dad just shakes his head, wiping his hands on the edge of his apron.
His dark, salt-and-peppered hair has slightly fallen from the headband he uses to push it back from his face—a fashion choice we’ve always ridiculed him for.
Yet he’s never acted self-conscious about it.
Nor did he really need to. There’s nothing more inherently masculine than a fisherman—or an ex-fisherman.
At some point, there might have even been muscle under his stocky build, but these days, it’s neither here nor there.
“Don’t toss that brine, okay? We need it for chowder and stuffing.” Dad nods toward the shucking station before pushing through the door and returning to the restaurant.
I groan to myself and look around the now-empty kitchen—the lobsters boiling in the stockpot, the mess left after Roland’s order, and the fridge that’s a cranberry pie short after another one of June’s breakups last week.
I don’t look at the shucking station. Instead, I follow my dad out front. “Hey…”
He holds up a hand to stop me. “Oh, no you don’t.”
“I’ll redo the signage,” I plead, trying to negotiate.
“If you can’t handle a bit of shucking, you’re no daughter of mine.”
“And the menus.” That one should at least get him. I know how much the “clam choder” typo has been bothering him, and he’s far too proud to ask how to fix it on his computer.
He hesitates, and with a battle-weary sigh, he throws an arm around my shoulder, bringing me in for a side hug. “You girls will be the death of me.”
“I thought I was your treasure,” I reply with a furrowed brow.
“You’ll always be my greatest treasures.” He presses a kiss into my hairline, relaxing the creases I had forced along my forehead. “Except for the chest?—”
“You buried out in Wauwinet.”
A sharp pfft blows past his lips, accompanied by his eye roll. “Well, there’s my backup plan blown. I’ll have to move it now.”
I snort lightly into his chest, breathing in his familiar, homely scent. I’d long since grown accustomed to the stench of fish and sweat. I now find it comforting. “Like I couldn’t find it.”
“Not if I hide it under the shucking station.”
I shove him away at that, playfully roughhousing until he tosses his apron at my face.
“Go on, work the register.”
Excitement—and considerable relief—fills me. “Really?”
“Not like I can stop you from staring at Eddie all night anyway.”
I busy myself with tying my apron to hide the flush I know must be glowing on my cheeks, deliberately avoiding the front window where Roland and Eddie are setting up the bar at Birdie’s across the road. “I’m not staring.”
“He’s staring at you.”
That made me look.
Of course, Eddie wasn’t looking.
“Dad!” I swat at him.
He laughs to himself heartily. “You could do worse for yourself, treasure. You know he’d follow you anywhere.”
“Could you even imagine him in Boston?” For some reason, I find that thought funny.
“Easier than imagining him here without you.”
I couldn’t imagine myself here without him, either. The only difference is, he’d never ask me to leave. “Yeah, well. Still got a few more years. Maybe less—the tips have been good this summer.”
It’s a feeble attempt to change the subject, and Dad has no trouble picking up on my sudden mood shift. “Don’t worry about it, Mer. You’re exactly where you’re supposed to be right now.”
I pin him with a pointed stare. “And when I leave?”
“Then you’re supposed to be wherever you end up next,” he says with a smile as he retreats back into the kitchen. “The world’s your oyster. Even if you don’t shuck ’em.”
“Ugh, Dad!”
June 2025
I wake up alone, grasping mentally at the fading comfort of the dream. But its warmth disappears too quickly, leaving me emptier than I’ve felt in a long time. An impressive feat, considering I’m in my old bedroom.
Or at least a version of it.
The same cracks in the ceiling. The same four walls. The same bed with the fluffiest pillow resting on top of three others.
But there’s nothing left of me here. The walls, once covered in posters and pictures, have been stripped and painted over in a neutral blue, matching the nautical theme of the bedsheets, curtains, and the cute display of trinkets on the windowsill.
A guest room for Meredith Perez, built on top of the memory of Meredith Holloway.
I avoid Richard and my mom as I head out for the day, knowing Sophie had errands to run before we’re supposed to meet at the Shack, and I’m in no mood to deal with them alone. Thankfully, the Jeep sputters back to life, despite years of sand buildup.
The road down to Sconset Beach feels painfully familiar, and for a moment, I let myself pretend that the years haven’t disappeared. That I’m heading back for another shift, hoping I’ll get to work front of house and that someone has already prepped the clams.
I lose myself in a daydream until the second I pull up.
The Holloway Lobster Shack looks smaller than I remember.
Not just because I’ve grown, but because time has pulled at it, worn it down, and left it slumped against the wind like an old fisherman too stubborn to come in from the storm.
The red paint, once as bright as a boiled lobster shell, is faded and cracked, peeling away from the salt-stained wood.
The hand-painted sign over the entrance is barely legible, with the last brutal Nantucket winter having scraped away most of the letters, leaving only “H-O-L-O-W-A-Y” clinging to the wood.
There’s no light on inside, despite the “Open” sign—Mom clearly forgot to flip it nine months ago—and the old screen door groans when I push it open.
Inside, the air smells of stale salt, old fryer grease, and the lingering ghost of last summer’s brine. It still smells like home, even if the life has drained out of it. Through the hatch, I make out the prep bar and fridge, cringing slightly at the thought of what might still be inside.
I don’t look at the shucking station. Instead, I turn back to the restaurant—only to find that I’m the last to arrive.
June and Sophie’s attention suddenly shifts to me in unison as I clear my throat. They have their heads close together, leaning over the booth in the corner, just beyond the small maze of chairs stacked on top of tables.
There’s an awkward pause, and I realize they’re expecting me to break the silence.
“I’m gonna check out the back room. See if I can get the computer up and running.” With a nod, I start toward the back, trying desperately to ignore the heat of their gazes on my neck.
“Wait a minute. Don’t go running off.”
I don’t bother turning back to June. “We need to see how the books are looking.”
“Right. So you can determine how much this place is really worth and strike a better deal with those developers.”
I should have known better than to think the temporary truce we’d formed at the beach house would still last. It’s exhausting to constantly be the subject of her mistrust. But if I’m being honest with myself, I guess it’s not entirely unfair.
“Is that what you think?” I turn on my heel. “That I’m about to sell you all out?”
She shrugs. “What else would you be doing here?”
“To stop Richard from selling this place. Obviously.”
However, she still doesn’t seem convinced. “Don’t you need to be back in Boston?”
“We’re all on the same side,” Sophie half-yells, likely trying to break up the impending fight. “This is bad enough without being at each other’s throats. Can you two just calm down for five minutes?”
June glares at me, and I have to resist the inexplicable urge to stick out my tongue.
Sophie takes a deep breath as she steps out of the booth, clearly realizing she needs to mediate before things get worse. “Obviously, Richard’s trying to manipulate Mom. I don’t know what that was yesterday, but he didn’t seem to expect us to stand our ground.”
“Can you blame him, though?” June slumps back into the seat. “It’s not like any of us have been interested in coming back here for, what, fifteen years?”
The silence between us is nearly suffocating. The ghost of that unspoken weight presses against my windpipe so hard my next words come out in a near choke. “I’m gonna look around the back. If you guys are serious about getting this place up and running again, we should start with a deep clean.”
“Of course you’d expect us to do it.” June rolls her eyes. “You never wanted to get your hands dirty.”
“If you want me out front scrubbing floors, just say so. Will it make you feel better? To see me on my hands and knees?”
“It won’t make me feel worse!”
Sophie puts her head in her hands. “Guys!”
But June is already gone, gesturing wildly. “You know I’m the only one who stayed, right? I still have contacts here. If you actually used your brain, I need to be ’round back getting in touch with the suppliers.”
“That’s not fair,” Sophie snaps, her rare anger flashing across her face.
June blanches. “I didn’t mean?—”
“You know, I heard this insane rumor that the Holloway sisters were all back in town.”
We all freeze and look toward the open door.
Something deeply painful stirs in my chest. An old wound, mistreated and buried beneath layers of more urgent injuries—family, sisters, stepfathers, and Aiden Holloway.
Grief upon grief upon grief. But at the bottom, hidden and forcibly forgotten, lies a different kind of emptiness.
The wreckage of hope. The destruction of dreams. Something good that could have been great, but instead, faded into obscurity.
Eddie Jones shoves his hands into his pockets as he leans against the doorframe. “I told Dan it couldn’t be true ’cause I figured at least one of you would’ve let me know.”
Part of me had hoped he’d changed, that he’d moved on with his life like I had. That he’d become someone different, someone I didn’t recognize, so I wouldn’t even realize it was him if we passed on the street.
But of course, he didn’t. Eddie was always Eddie—always wearing that grin, that old flannel, and that constant five o’clock shadow. Always gentle with his eyes, a little sassy with his words. Always content to be exactly where he was and who he was meant to be.
“Eddie!” Sophie reacts first, throwing herself into his arms.
“Hey, squirt!” He laughs into her hair.
June grins, slapping him on the shoulder. “I haven’t seen you in forever.”
And I’m left standing there, staring at the man I used to love, with nothing left to say except, “Hi.”
Cinnamon curls are pulled back by calloused hands. “Hey, Mrs. Perez.”