13. Meredith
MEREDITH
Waking up the day after you confessed your darkest sins to your family is surreal. The adrenaline crash was a knockout, and part of me wondered if I’d ever wake up again.
But the light flickers in through the window of my childhood bedroom, and the world keeps moving, whether I deserve to move along with it or not.
“You’re looking so beautiful today, baby,” Mom says as I get her ready for the day.
I smile, choosing to believe she’s using the endearment earnestly and not because she’s forgotten my name. “I tried something with my hair.”
“You should wear it like that for that boy of yours,” she insists, misinterpreting my flinch as embarrassment. “He’s always in here, asking after you.”
I turn away to hide my face, folding up tonight’s bedclothes. “Yeah? You think he fancies me, too?”
“A mother always knows.”
There’s enough time to breathe once, twice, before the smile returns to my face and I can start pulling her now-shoulder-length hair into a low bun. “Well, that’s pretty fortunate for me, isn’t it?”
“You should see him while you’re visiting. He was so sad when you went to Boston,” she continues. “But I told him, you see. I told him that my Meredith would always find her way back home.”
By the time I reach the car, my hands have stopped trembling.
I drive without thinking. Muscle memory takes over, and before long, the beach house is miles behind me.
Nantucket appears slowly, as if it’s reluctant to see me. I can’t blame it; I haven’t been here in months, not since I got back from New York. The only place I’ve been consistently is the hospital.
I turn onto Main Street and ditch the car, needing fresh air, a walk, and the distraction of sounds that aren’t the beating of my own heart. The storefronts blur past until one stops me, like a hand to the chest.
Aiden June Fine Art Gallery.
The darkened windows stare back at me. The sign on the door, in June’s handwriting, still reads Be Back Soon, as if she stepped out for lunch and simply forgot to return for almost a year.
Guilt presses beneath my ribs.
Of course she hasn’t reopened it. Of course she hasn’t found the strength to reclaim this space, not after what she went through.
And I’d tried, I’d tried so hard.
But it wasn’t enough. Not really. Not when her accusations still ring in my ears, not when my lies only caused her more pain. I made it worse, and her silence today, in the aftermath of my confession, is only further confirmation.
I wouldn’t blame her if she never trusted me again.
Linda’s coffee shop sits on a corner, with a familiar, welcoming ambiance and unlimited access to caffeine.
It seems like an excellent place to bunker down for a while.
That is, until the bell over the door jingles, and there’s Linda herself, wiping her hands on her apron, eyes widening in recognition.
“Well, I’ll be darned,” she says. “Meredith! How are you? How’s Eleanor?”
I huff something that vaguely resembles a laugh as I approach the counter. “Mom’s doing well; I could use a latte though.”
“Coming right up,” She gives me a look that is half-fond, half-nosy. “I haven’t seen June in a while either, you know. I swear that woman single-handedly kept me in business all these years.”
“I know,” I say quietly. “She’s…dealing with a lot.”
Linda softens. “Aren’t we all, honey.”
She seems to know not to pry any further and sets about the task as I find a seat in a corner.
The glow of my laptop screen feels both comforting and accusatory. How long has it been since Mark first tipped me off? Days? Weeks? How far had Ashton’s case progressed in the meantime? How much closer were the feds to uncovering his generous investment in the Holloway Lobster Shack?
Mark’s file is thorough, frustratingly so. Every page is neatly organized, every relevant statute highlighted, and every potential consequence circled twice. It’s enough to cover our bases, though not enough to navigate the tightrope of the law.
This will take time.
“Here you are, my dear,” Linda says as she drops the latte on the table next to me.
I shoot her a grateful smile. “I might need to start a tab.”
But she waves me off. “Just let me know when you need another.”
She leaves before I can offer any protest, and I mentally make a note to leave a few bills on the table on my way out.
With a sigh, I take a sip of coffee and resign myself to the wonderful distraction of mind-numbing legalese. And so I read. And read. And read. I search. And I read some more. I try to consolidate my findings and give up, then read some more.
Hours pass.
None of it helps.
If Ashton’s money is found to be part of fraudulent activity, the Shack becomes an asset. Assets get seized. Auctioned. Redistributed.
I sip my third coffee as I comb through Ashton’s original documentation again, searching for any overlooked clause. Any loophole. Any shred of legal leverage.
Nothing.
I tap my pen against the table.
When I first started studying law, it was an adjustment, learning the limitations of my own knowledge, when to ask for help, and when to defer to someone else for a more expert opinion.
The instinct now is to call someone. Someone with more current experience.
Someone who hasn’t taken a career-long sabbatical, who knows more about federal law.
But the thought makes my stomach clench. I refuse to need Mark.
Another hour passes—or maybe two. I lose track as I work, as the day slowly bleeds into evening and the café empties. The light shifts from gold to blue to that late-summer lavender.
The file remains stubbornly unchanged. No solutions magically appear.
I’m halfway through rereading a clause on asset forfeiture when the bell over the door jingles. I don’t look up at first—Linda’s been cleaning up behind the counter, humming softly, and a couple of stragglers popped in earlier for pastries to go.
But something shifts in the air—a familiar tension.
I glance toward the entrance.
And oh, how I hate how small this island is.
My body reacts before my brain does; I slide down in my chair like a child hiding from a teacher, hoping my laptop does a good enough job of obscuring my face and praying that maybe he’ll order coffee and leave.
But he spots me instantly.
Mark’s smile appears over the top of my laptop. “Meredith?”
I grit my teeth. “Dang it.”
“What are you doing down there?”
Now would be an excellent moment for the earth to swallow me whole.
“Stretching,” I offer as I wriggle back into the seat. “Been at this all day.”
“Work?” He nods toward the screen. “How are you getting along with it?”
“Fine,” I mutter.
He pulls out the chair across from me anyway.
“What are you doing?”
“Waiting for my coffee,” he replies easily, like there aren’t a dozen other places for him to sit.
I snap my jaw shut and decide it’s probably best to just ignore him.
His stare, however, burns too much for such a thing.
“You know,” he says lightly. “You don’t have to struggle through this alone. I’m happy to take another look.”
“No, Mark. I don’t want your help.”
Out of the corner of my eye, his expression narrows. “Mer, come on. You don’t have to be stubborn. This is complicated material. I even struggled to get my head around it.”
There it is. The gentle condescension. The subtle push. The implication that without him, I’m floundering. That his offer is pragmatic and simple.
“I said no,” I repeat, louder this time.
Behind him, Linda stops cleaning the counter.
Mark leans back, studying me. “You don’t need to be dramatic, I’m just trying to help.”
“You showed up in my space,” I snap. “I’m allowed to react.”
“This is a public place. I can be here, Mer. I thought we were past this tension.”
“No.” I slam the laptop shut. “Don’t you dare start that.”
He blinks. “Start what?”
“That tone.”
He laughs. “What tone? Meredith, I’m not your enemy. Come on.”
Isn’t he? Has he not been a thorn in my side ever since I returned to Boston and made that stupid agreement with his father? Has he not, time and time again, made everything worse?
Has he not stood in my way every step of the way?
The man I do not want. The man I do not need, despite his insistence that I do. The man I divorced. The man I’ve said no to over, and over, and over, and over. But it’s done now. He can’t hurt me anymore. Everyone knows what he did.
And sure, Ashton’s investment problem sucks, and I can’t figure it out right now. But there are other lawyers in the world. Other experts who would be far more objective and far less like my ex-husband, whom I could rely on.
I’m done now.
It’s almost funny how simple the thought crops up.
“Get out.” There’s no room for argument in my tone.
But he finds it anyway. “Don’t be ridiculous, Mer. Come on.”
“Get. Out.”
Linda is done pretending that she’s not eavesdropping now that my voice practically reverberates through the room.
“Meredith—”
“No! I’m done being polite to you, Mark. I’m done letting you dangle favors over my head. I’m done entertaining all your little schemes that I want absolutely nothing to do with.”
He scoffs. “You’re being dramatic.”
“Dramatic?” I laugh. It’s a sharp, humorless sound. “I told my entire family about what you did. About the deal you pushed on me. About the kiss you guilted me into. About the divorce finally being real. I told them about every single line you crossed.”
His face drains. “You what?”
“Don’t worry,” I say. “They already hated you.”
Behind him, Linda’s mouth falls open so far I’m worried it might hit the counter.
“You’re making a mistake, Meredith.” He scrambles to regain control. But he can’t.
Because he doesn’t control me anymore.
“No. Staying silent was the mistake.” I lean forward, my voice dropping to a cold, steady whisper. “You have done nothing but manipulate me at every turn because you can’t stand the fact that you’ve lost.”
“I love you, Meredith.”
“No, you don’t!” And I’m laughing at the truth of it. “You never would’ve done any of this if you loved me. No, Mark. You love the idea of us. You love that perfect little life we had, the one that made your father oh-so-very proud of you.”
His nostrils flare. “If you want to paint over every good thing I’ve done for you?—”
“Oh my God, Mark!” I rub my temples. “You don’t do good things! You do transactional things. You do them because you want something in return. That’s not good. That’s not being in love with me. That’s being a narcissistic psychopath!”
There’s a long, simmering silence.
Linda has had the good sense to cover her mouth at some point.
“You know, it’s funny,” he says softly. “I thought you knew me after all those years. At least June never pretended I was something I wasn’t. You only ever wanted me to be him. Well, guess what, Mer? I’m not. I go after what I want, and I don’t let other people’s hang-ups get in my way.”
“Oh, please?—”
“And I will never apologize for chasing after you. Never.”
I stare at him. “Do you even think of me as a person? Or are you just mad that someone else is playing with your things?”
He stands abruptly, smoothing his jacket like he needs the motion to collect himself. But he can’t resist the final blow. “At least June was always appreciative of my help.”
Ice floods my veins. “Get out.”
He gives a shallow, mocking bow. “Always a pleasure, Meredith.”
Then he leaves.
The door jingles behind him.
Silence settles. And I’m done.
I’m done.
I’m done now.
Linda walks over slowly, towel still in hand, eyes wide as saucers as she collects my discarded cup. “Honey. I don’t know what that was about, but I hope you charged him double for breathing your air.”
And I laugh properly for the first time in months.