9. June
JUNE
Losing time was not an uncommon experience for me. Before the no-contact order was lifted, I’d lose hours, frantically trying to keep up with the case, only to realize I’d been staring at my laptop long enough for the sun to rise again.
It was almost a blessing when it happened, my thoughts entering a state of dissociative numbness. But, for whatever reason, no such state of purgatory graced me last night. I was forced to experience every devastating second between leaving the hospital and arriving at the Shack.
Work was the only thing I could think of doing that made any sense. Rest wasn’t coming, and pacing my home, stressing myself out, would only lead to opening a bottle of wine. Then I’d really start losing time.
Halfway through the second round of bleaching the countertops, Trent unlocks the Shack’s back door. It’s nine in the morning. We don’t open until eleven.
He says nothing when he steps inside. He just sets his backpack down, pulls on his apron, and starts setting up the fryer station with a competence earned through almost a year of repetition.
But for the first time since he started, he doesn’t immediately reach for his phone to connect it to the speakers.
We don’t look at each other. The silence is only disturbed by the apparatus we prepare. It feels comfortingly respectful while Eleanor’s name sits between us like a ghost.
Davon arrives an hour later, immediately filling the air with cheerful noise, either oblivious or overly aware of the atmosphere between us.
He compensates by talking too loudly, clapping Trent on the back, and overly explaining his new ideas for the menu—insisting that he and Mia would be more than happy to work on them together.
Little by little, the familiar rhythm of the Shack takes over.
Pop songs crackle through the speakers, and the smells of fresh bread, clam chowder, and fish hit me in a way that makes my nostalgia for years gone by long for more.
But it’s the chirping and easy banter of the team that really brings it home.
I’m in the middle of cutting limes when the front bell jangles, and Roland’s gravelly voice announces, “Well, if it isn’t the prettiest bunch of seafood dealers on the whole island.”
Davon beats me to the kitchen hatch, beaming when I try to elbow him out of the way. “Roland! My man! Did you finally ditch your jailer?”
Since his hip surgery, he’s struggled to make the trip over, especially now that Eddie’s banned him from working at Birdie’s. So it’s a pleasant surprise, a wonderful one, really, to see him up and about and in such good spirits.
The older man dramatically pats his chest. “Sure did, so quick—load me up with four stuffies before he realizes I’ve gone.”
“One stuffie,” Mia corrects over her shoulder from where she’s already assembling the order. “One. And June will pretend she didn’t see you eat it.”
I manage to raise a hand through the hatch before Davon wins our tussle, and he pushes me away. “I see nothing. I hear nothing. I report nothing.”
It’s only when I turn back to where Trent is quietly shucking that I realize I’m smiling. With a sigh, I make my way over, nudging his shoulder affectionately. His gaze barely leaves his hands.
“You know, I think we’ve got things covered here if you want to head home,” I say quietly. It’s unnecessary, given how loudly Davon and Roland are blathering, but it reinforces the subtext. It’s okay if you need to leave.
But he just shakes his head. “I’d rather be doing something, you know?”
Yeah. I do.
With one last nudge, I leave him be—content to lose myself in muscle memory and turning over tickets. The hum of the grill is a happy companion when I’m not needed at the register.
Summer is coming; that much is evident in our customer base, which seems to be increasing by the week. But things aren’t as intense as they will be in a few months, so the downtime is expected, if not sporadic.
Davon ropes me into a game of tennis through the hatch. The ball is made of compacted aluminum, and the rackets are laminated, misprinted menus. With my back pressed against the register counter, I can just about get the angle right to make the shot about seventy-five percent of the time.
It’s by no means professional, so when I hear the door open, I’m fast to turn on my heel, hide the menu behind my back, and pretend to have been examining something on an order pad.
The aluminum ball flies past my ear and lands at our new customer’s feet.
“I’m so sorry.” The words are out of my mouth as I hit the floor to pick up the ball. A hilarious anecdote is on the tip of my tongue to soothe this all over. Or else a lobster roll on the house. I don’t have time to even register the customer before someone stomps out of the kitchen.
Davon seemed to have no trouble registering him. The day manager might have lagged behind Trent since his latest growth spurt, but his shoulders were wide-set, and without a smile on his face, showing off his dimples, his thick, dark brows made for an intimidating picture.
Taking up most of the door frame, his voice goes eerily calm. “You’re not allowed in here.”
I look up, only to find Mark Perez above me with a bemused smile, hands raised like he’s approaching a wild animal he hopes won’t bite.
“Well, isn’t that a sight for sore eyes?”
He’s lucky I only punched him in the groin as I stood up.
The groan of pain is the only thing leashing my anger as the man doubles over, face flushing almost lobster bright. I can hear Davon sniggering behind me.
“What was that for?” Mark wheezes, eyes satisfyingly damp as he finally looks up at me.
“Making inappropriate comments. Now leave.”
“June,” he says, coughing, then straightening, composing himself. “Come on, can’t we talk?”
“No.” That comes from Trent. He steps forward, planting himself between Mark and the counter with a protectiveness I am not prepared for. “You’re barred.”
Mark takes in the teenager with an irritating smile. “My, my, Trent. Look at you, must’ve had a growth spurt since I last saw you.”
In Trent’s defense, I would also want to punch him in the face. Davon, however, seems to think better of it and manages to restrain the teen before he goes too far.
“If you have a point, make it.” I turn my attention back to the man before me, hoping to de-escalate and get him out of here before he starts suing us for grievous bodily harm.
“Did you really bar me?” he asks, with an almost paradoxical innocence in his expression, reminding me that he has no idea what I know. He has no idea why I’ve cut him off like this.
Despite everything, there’s a pang of guilt in my chest.
Because it is, objectively, all Mark’s fault. He was only ever interested in getting his ex-wife back. What happened between us was…well, it was just friendship, wasn’t it? Until it wasn’t.
“Yes!”
He can’t really expect things to go back to the way things were before he kissed me…right?
“But I’m not here to cause trouble,” he says, very reasonably, as if he’s the one put out by all this. “I just heard about Eleanor. I wanted to offer my condolences. If there’s anything I can do?—”
“Don’t talk about her,” Trent snaps somewhere off to the side.
But I’m too busy staring at Mark to properly acknowledge the comment, wondering how so much audacity could fit into such a tiny, bitter man—he’s of average height, but the point stands. How did he even find out? If Meredith?—
I slam a wall down on the thought.
“Davon? You and Trent take five,” I shoot over my shoulder, realizing belatedly that Mia is watching through the hatch. I give all three a meaningful look. “I can handle it.”
It takes a moment for the team to back down, and they’re not exactly quiet about it, either.
I cross my arms and lean against the counter, glad that the dining area is empty for once. “Why are you really here?”
He blinks. “I just told you. I’m sorry about your mother. And I thought we had this thing going where you would talk to me about all the crap in your life, and I would talk to you about all the crap in mine.”
“I’ve ghosted you since January, or did you not get the message? We’re not friends, Mark.”
“Fine,” he makes an indulgent gesture with his hand. “Reluctant allies. Midnight co-conspirators. Drinking buddies. I don’t care about the label.”
“Don’t.” My voice cracks. “Don’t act like nothing’s changed. I’m not doing this with you.”
“June, what’s going on? Is this about?—”
“Stop it.”
His eyes bulge in a mockery of disbelief. “You care about that? June…that was months ago. Come on, we both know it didn’t mean anything.”
I can’t help the laugh that escapes. “Evidently!”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” He takes a step back, as if needing the space to work it all out. Then he stops cold. “Don’t tell me you actually wanted it to mean something.”
Ice shatters through my veins. The sheer humiliation of his words rendered me speechless for a moment.
I can feel my face contorting into disgust. I draw on the anger instead.
“I don’t care what kind of trophy you think you’ll get from kissing all three Holloway sisters; you touch Sophie, and they won’t find your body. ”
My words seem to have the opposite effect than intended, putting him at ease enough to let out a breathy laugh. Belatedly, I realize that death threats are a far more familiar territory for both of us.
“Look, I’m sorry, okay?” His tone suggests he’s waving a white flag. “I didn’t come here to upset you. I know things must be rough with your mom and everything.”
“Then why are you here?”
He scowls at me. “Well, I just got some new information about Ashton’s case. But now I don’t really want to tell you about it.”
That’s it. That’s what undoes almost a full day’s worth of distraction and focus.
The mention of his name.
The anger is almost immediately flooded out of my system by the sheer weight of anxiety, as familiar now as it was last night in the hospital.
I need an exit.
My lungs seize. My throat closes. The room tilts sharply to the left as my pulse slams into my ears. I need an exit, now.