9. June #2
“June?”
But I’m already stumbling backward, out the front door, gulping air that won’t fill my lungs. The cold salt breeze hits like a slap, and I stumble around the side of the building, away from the street and prying eyes.
I brace my hands against the siding of the Shack and double over, gasping, trying to anchor myself again. Come on, June. You can do better than this.
Footsteps crunch on gravel behind me.
I flinch, expecting Mark.
But it’s Trent.
He doesn’t say a word. He just steps beside me, close enough to offer steadiness without forcing it, and stands there quietly. Hands in his pockets, keeping watch as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
And finally, my lungs start to work again.
Trent stays exactly where he is, staring out over the dumpsters like he’s contemplating the deep mysteries of industrial waste. After a minute, he nudges my elbow with his. “You wanna bail?”
I bark a feeble laugh. “You probably shouldn’t be saying that to your boss.”
He shrugs. “Yeah, but you offered first, so I figured I’d return the favor.” He looks hopeful in that cautious, puppyish way he has when he’s trying to make a depressed adult feel better without being obvious about it. “Davon and Mia can cover. They’ve been doing most of the work today anyway.”
“Mark—”
“He left already. He said something about the Holloways being insane, by the way.” He sneers, as if those same words haven’t left his mouth a half-dozen times. “You think he brought a car with him? I could key it.”
I exhale shakily. “Yeah. Okay. Fine. Let’s go.”
His grin is instant and bright. “I’ll get the car.”
I sink into the passenger seat of his Defender, trying not to make it evident that I’m clutching at the door handle, as he turns the engine over.
“Where to?” he asks.
“No idea.”
“Cool.”
And we just…drive. No plan, no destination, no emotional agenda. Just the island unfolding around us. The scrubby dunes, the weather-beaten fences, the quiet roads, the sea arriving to greet us after only a few turns in either direction.
The hum in my chest softens with every mile. I think I’m lulled in and out of sleep.
Eventually, we come to a stop on a sandy pull-off. I blink, surprised at where we’ve ended.
Tom Nevers.
The ocean sprawls out endlessly under a washed-out sky, and just down the path, perched on its lonely patch of sand and stone, stands the lighthouse. My lighthouse.
Trent follows my gaze. “Wanna go look?”
I swallow. “Yeah. I do.”
We pick our way down the weathered boardwalk, the salt wind stinging my eyes pleasantly. The closer we get, the more real it feels, the chipped paint, the narrow black railing. Details that were once sketched for me on the back of a postcard.
“I was going to buy it,” I hear myself say.
Trent blinks. “The lighthouse?”
“Yeah.” I stuff my hands into my pockets. “Before everything went south.”
A small, incredulous smile tugs at his mouth. “You were gonna live in a lighthouse?”
“It would’ve made a great studio.”
He gives a thoughtful nod, as if evaluating the acoustics. “Yeah. Totally. Natural light. Haunted vibes.”
I huff. “It’s not haunted.”
He raises a brow in response, and I can’t help the twitch at the corner of my mouth.
“I told Ashton about it once,” I say quietly. If Trent notices how hard it is for me to say the name, he doesn’t comment. “About how I wanted it. How it felt like mine, even though it wasn’t. I’ve been fantasizing about it since I was your age.”
He hums in response, but otherwise seems content to explore the circumference of the lighthouse.
“He used to say”—my voice wavers—“that he’d buy it for me someday. He used to offer me so much, right on a platter. I wasn’t exactly easy to get to know, so he was tearing his hair out trying to figure out ways to make me talk to him.”
“Must be fun, being that rich.”
I let out a strangled laugh. “I used to imagine living here with him. I think I would’ve been happy.” The wind whips my hair into my eyes, but I don’t bother brushing it away. When I risk a glance at Trent, I find him watching the waves with a thoughtful wrinkle between his brows.
“I don’t know anything about the law stuff,” he says with refreshing honesty. “Or what’s going on with trials. Or…whatever happened with Ashton.”
“No one does,” I mutter.
“But…” He scratches his cheek. “That seems like a lot of effort to put into someone unless you love them.”
The words hit deeper than I expected.
He continues, voice softer now. “And I don’t think you’re a bad person if you still love him. Even if everything’s…you know, messed up. If he lied to you, or whatever.”
“Or whatever,” I repeat, a little numb. Grateful I can stare at the lighthouse instead of having to maintain eye contact. Grateful Trent seems to sense I need a minute to process.
“It’s hard when people lie to you,” he says suddenly.
Something about the way he says it makes my eyes snap to his. “What do you mean?”
He exhales. “Sophie’s been…weird.”
“Okay?”
He finally tears himself away from his investigations to look back up the beach toward where we parked. “Last night, after the hospital, she waited until she thought I was asleep. Then she snuck out.”
“Weird.”
“I asked her about it this morning, and she just lied. Said I must’ve been tired and imagining things.”
I note his side profile, the way his jaw tightens. “Very weird.”
“I hate it,” he admits quietly. “I hate when people pretend everything’s fine when it’s not. I know it’s harder for you guys, but what would she need to keep from me? Why lie about it?”
“Yeah, I have no idea, either. I’m sick of lies, too.” Without fully planning to, I stick out my hand. “Truce? You and me? No lies. Ever.”
He stares at my hand like he’s not entirely convinced I’m not joking. Then he slides his palm against mine and shakes it with solemn sincerity. “Deal.”
The wind gusts again, blowing hair back across our smiling faces and rattling the railings.
And I look back at the lighthouse—at what could’ve been mine, at what still feels tethered to my ribs—and something inside me loosens.