ELIZA
Grayson Gold is officially at the top of my shitlist.
An incredible feat, given the stiff competition.
For a long time, my manager held the number-one spot. It’d been a long time coming, but he’d cemented his place there the first time he took credit for a strategy I developed that landed a client millions in sales.
My ex, Kyle, only recently usurped him. Cheating was that powerful. In fact, I thought cheating was such an egregious offense that it couldn’t possibly be outdone by anything else—except for, like, murder.
But Grayson Gold has proven me wrong.
He’d scared the ever-living shit out of me when he’d stormed into the pickup room, barking the way he did. When he’d caught me, I thought that maybe there was a chance he wasn’t a total dick. But he set me on my feet only to make false accusations, and left without a hint of apology.
I’ve gotten used to facing men who don’t like me in corporate Boston, but those challenges were always more subtle. Political games, fake pleasantries, compliments threaded with condescension. Even Kyle, when he hooked up with his coworker, had done so quietly, behind my back, out of sight.
But Grayson is like a bull, loud and unashamed in his assholery that’s seemingly based on nothing other than my existence.
I understand I’m an outcast on the farm. Respect is something earned, and to do that, you have to prove yourself worthy.
The thing is, I’m not being given the chance to prove it.
Then again, there is nothing I need to prove to Grayson. Anson Gold is my boss. Grayson is just an obstacle I have to figure out how to deal with—without physically assaulting him and getting myself arrested.
Fortunately for us both, we don’t cross paths for the remainder of the day.
Fire still lances under my skin as I make the short drive back to the boat. I’m not looking forward to my destination, but I try to let the journey soothe me.
Lush trees frame this stretch of the road, driveways disappearing to houses buried within them.
A few home farmstands pop up along the side of the street before it opens up into a waterside route.
The air breezing through the windows turns salty and familiar, and there are more cars here—though it really isn’t as busy as it should be.
It might have something to do with the lack of commercialization.
Garnet Shores is mostly residential. There are no state beaches; just a single stretch of sand that’s part-private and part-public, and the giant salt pond’s grassy waterfront.
The two towns sandwiching this one are more popular spots, with restaurants, hotels, shopping, groceries, and that idyllic-summer-vacation vibe that pull in tourists like a magnet.
But Garnet Shores seems determined to stay small and discreet, except for the private vacation homes scattered around.
As I take in the serene wetlands on my left and the stretch of salt pond to my right, I don’t blame them. With all its quiet, this might be one of the best commutes within two hours of Boston.
In the city, it’s all car horns, over-aggressive drivers, and people buzzing around like swarming flies. Some people love that energy. I used to be one of them. But lately, it’s just compounded my stress after a day of headaches in the office.
This, here? It’s like a demand to breathe and relax. Like if your mind is racing toward your next destination, you’re disrupting the peaceful vibe. The thought has my hands relaxing on the wheel just as my phone rings.
When I see Kitty’s name plastered across the screen, my entire day flips around. I pull over, parking against the barrier that separates the road from a little swamp.
Kitty calls demand full attention.
I answer and exclaim, “You’re alive!”
Through a crackle of white noise, Kitty’s voice comes through, all smiling sarcasm. “Yes, Mom. I told you not to worry about me.”
“You’re backpacking solo through the wilderness with limited phone service. If I didn’t worry a little, I’d be a shitty friend.”
“I’m safer out here than I am in society. No potential car accidents. No bar creeps hanging around. No flu germs to—” her voice cuts out for a second and returns with— “rather die by grizzly bear.”
My nose wrinkles. “Death by grizzly bear is easily one of the worst ways to go.”
“Disagree. It’s natural. The circle of life.”
“Please tell me you have bear spray on you. Like, you aren’t inviting a grizzly to come hug you, right?”
“Still have to go bungee jumping and skydiving. So no bear hug invitations at the moment. Except from you. I miss my best friend.”
“I miss you too, Kitty.”
I need you here.
I don’t let those words come out, because Kitty’s out West living her earthy-crunchy outdoorsy dreams. She’s always been an adventurous soul, and I love watching her seize it, now that she’s finally free to do so after getting out of her shitstorm of a marriage.
But she’s been my best friend since third grade, so she hears the desperation in my voice anyway. “You doing okay?”
Her service on the trail is extremely limited, so we only catch up when she reaches a rest stop that offers one measly bar of cell data. The last time we chatted was just days after I lost my job and found out Kyle cheated on me.
I scratch my head. “Figuring it out. Long story short, I…um, needed to get out of the city, so I got a contract job for the summer with an oyster farm. I’m currently living on a sailboat, my parents are up my ass about finding a new job, and the oyster farm owner is the biggest douchebag I’ve ever met in my life. ”
There’s a beat of silence. “That’s…a change,” she says slowly.
I laugh a little. “Yeah. Not as put together as I’d like to be.”
She doesn’t hesitate this time. “Doesn’t sound like that to me. Sounds like you’re on a coastal retreat for the summer, challenging yourself with a new industry, and learning how to live on the water, with plans to return to your super-successful-boss-lady life soon.”
“You’re giving me too much credit.”
“You’re not giving yourself enough, per usual,” she shoots back. “And what’s this about the oyster farmer?”
Grayson’s face pops right back into view. “If you come across any bears, ask them if I can hire them for a hit.”
“That dickish?”
“Yep.”
“Is he hot?”
I’m still seeing his scowling face in my head, which makes it unfortunately easy to answer her question. “Aren’t all assholes hot?” When she laughs, I add, “Not my type. Someone else’s, probably.”
Someone who likes rugged-looking men who fill out their clothes well, have golden eyes and tanned skin, and swagger around with easy strength. It wasn’t lost on me that earlier, he’d caught and plopped me on my feet like I weighed nothing.
It truly was a shame all the ovary-stimulating men chose to open their mouths and share their thoughts.
“You’ll put—” her voice disappears again— “his place. Just like you did…Jack when he tried…beat you as class president.”
Her one bar of service seems to be disappearing, as it usually does after a minute or two.
“How much longer will you be out there?” I ask her.
“What?” Her voice is garbled.
I repeat myself, and it must go through, because she says, “Three weeks.”
Only three-quarters of a month, then, until I can get her on a video call. I’ll be counting down the days.
“Call me at your next stop?”
“Of…” there’s a long stretch of static, “…or ten days.”
Maybe I’ll have murdered Grayson by then, and I’ll be asking for tips on how to hide the body. The thought makes me smile as I say, “Love you.”
Her service holds on long enough for her “love you” to come through, and then the call drops.
I pull my phone from my ear to see three new texts. When I read the Boston Bitches group name, it’s like a sack of rocks lands in my stomach. All the Kitty-induced happiness vanishes, and just like that, my day returns to its downward trajectory.
Jane: Margs tn? New taco place in Southie.
Jane immediately notices her mistake, because she quickly follows with:
Jane: Oh shit! Wrong chat lolol
Jane: Love and miss you ellie bear!!
I should return the words. Heart her message at the very least. But I can’t bring myself to do that when Kyle’s initials are in a little circle near the group chat name. It’s the chat our friend group has used for years, until a few weeks ago when it went radio silent.
Apparently they’ve formed a new one.
Without me.
I don’t know why that makes the bag of rocks in my belly heavier.
I know they’re all still hanging out. I met Jane and Sami through Kyle, and while they’re my closest friends in the city, they were close with him first, starting in college.
Sami’s boyfriend is his roommate. I’m living two hours away.
Of course they’d have a chat without me.
But talking that through in my head doesn’t make me feel better.
The rest of my drive to the boat consists of me trying to shove that text thread from my mind and running through the work tasks I’ll do tonight.
The first posts I’ve made are exceeding expectations, and Suzanne doesn’t need me to write any cover letters today, but there’s nothing better for me to do than bury myself in work.
That plan hits a snag when I step on the rickety boat, head to the cooler to grab a snack, and meet a puddle of water and a few remaining scraps of food.
The freezing morning swims have turned me into a horse, and I’m going through food faster than usual.
There isn’t enough here for a satisfying meal, and I can’t handle another major disappointment today.
I’m trying to limit them, if that’s even possible.
A quick restaurant search shows just one open nearby—a spot called Dyl’s Den.
It comes with a picture of a stacked burger, and my decision’s made.
The boat has relegated me to sandwiches, salads, and whatever I can put in the marina office’s microwave, and my taste buds are now salivating at the thought of a fresh, hot, greasy meal.
I grab my laptop, and ten minutes later, I’m pulling into a busy parking lot tucked into the woods.
Dyl’s Den looks exactly how I thought it would. It’s a modest, older building with wood shingles, the kind of small-town spot that’s well-loved but not dingy. A hum of voices emanates as I approach the entrance, the low notes of a blues tune emerging when I hit the landing.
Crossing the threshold is like stepping into a warm hug.
Inside, it’s all tavern-style wood, sturdy round tables, and nineties-coastal décor. An oak bar dominates the right wall, most of its stools taken by people who look like they came straight from work. My gaze roams over the back corner, where a pool table and dart boards are being used by groups.
This isn’t a place where wealthy tourists make reservations for their summer vacation. It’s a local’s spot.
That thought is the only warning I have before a figure by the pool table shifts and I’m graced with Grayson Gold’s obnoxiously strong profile.
Fuck. My. Life.
I just wanted a burger.
I picture the half-eaten tub of hummus and single tortilla wrap left in my cooler, trying to convince myself it’ll hit the spot, and then mentally slap myself. When did I become the person who lets a man run my life?
I came here to eat a hot meal while I work. I’m not going to turn tail and run because of one infuriating person, no matter how uncomfortable he makes me.
Especially because my presence here might just ruin his night, too.
And he seems to be having a good one so far.
The scowl I’ve gotten to know so well is replaced by happy smile lines as he sips a beer and chats with a younger man beside him.
I recognize the kid’s shaggy blonde hair from the oyster farm.
When that recognition locks into place, I realize I know some of the others from the farm.
Know being an exaggeration, unless you count self-consciously smiling and mumbling “hi” as they skirt away as a sign of acquaintanceship.
My discomfort grows.
“Welcome to Dyl’s! Take any open table,” a woman chirps. I jump, spinning to find a middle-aged waitress, hands filled with trays. “Menus are already out. I’ll be with you in two.” Even in her rush, she spares me a kind smile.
See? You’re welcome here.
“Thank you,” I say, but she’s already rushing across the room.
I beeline it to a corner table that’s as far from Grayson as possible and plop my laptop down. Then I pause.
Do I give Grayson my back so he doesn’t notice me? Face him so it seems like I don’t care if he sees me? One says I’m hiding. The other says I’m goading him.
Or I’m just way overthinking this, and Grayson isn’t going to think anything beyond “I hate you” when he recognizes me all the way over here—if he even notices me.
I’ve been standing here so long it’s starting to look weird, so I compromise and scoot one of the chairs so I’m only half-facing Grayson.
It isn’t lost on me that I’m allowing him way too much real estate in my mind, and now my pleasant, grease-filled evening is in terrible danger of becoming yet another tribulation when he probably hasn’t even noticed me.
No.
We’re not letting Grayson do that.
Easier said than done.
When the waitress stops by two seconds later and asks if I want a drink, the answer is an overly enthusiastic yes.