14. June
JUNE
“You can’t be in love with Mark because you’re still in love with Ashton.”
At some point during the night, or perhaps in the early hours of the morning, I considered setting aside my differences with Meredith to ask whether I could disown my brother.
I lean my forehead on the edge of the wall and exhale. Hard.
Today has been a write-off—another day of nothingness.
I don’t know what to do with any of this. Not with the guilt curdling in my stomach, or the confusion, or the mortifying sting of the memory—his mouth on mine, that split second when I let myself believe I was wanted. All while he was trying to win Meredith back.
Could I even trust that memory anymore? What was it that I actually felt in that moment?
Anger. Your stomach flipped. But it was anger.
That feeling of falling, that shock. What was it really? What had I let it become?
It makes me feel sick.
I move to the kitchen and pour myself a glass of water. Thinking absently about food and the lack thereof. When was the last time I ate? Breakfast? Yesterday?
If what Meredith said is true, then what happened between Mark and me wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t a moment of weakness, of wine and passion and heightened emotions. It was a tactic. A manipulation. A way to have something else to hold over her, counting on my shame to keep it secret.
And I fell for it.
A wave of embarrassment washes over me so violently that I have to put the glass down before I drop it.
Idiot.
My phone buzzes on the counter in agreement. I force myself to take a sip of water before I reach for it. I wonder whether I should order something to eat. It’s late already—definitely time for dinner.
The buzzing stops, then starts up again.
I take another sip before I reach for it. And for a full ten seconds, I just stare at the name. Then at the ceiling. Then at the door, as though expecting someone to barge in and stop me.
I could let it ring. I should let it ring.
But my thumb betrays me.
“June,” Mark breathes out, like he’s relieved.
I don’t say anything.
“I assume you’ve talked to Meredith by now.” It’s a careful statement, not quite a question, but with all the makings of one.
I’m immediately on guard. “Why?”
A pause. “Because…I imagine she gave you a very emotional version of things.”
“She gave me her version,” I say, offering nothing.
“And you believe her?” He stops, recalibrates. “You think she’s telling you the whole truth?”
Was she telling the truth now?
I know what he’s asking. He wants to know if I can stand him, whether I can even tolerate him. He’s asking me where my loyalties truly lie and hoping, bizarrely, that they land with him, not my sister.
And do they?
“Do I believe that you’re capable of blackmailing my sister into prolonging your legally recognized relationship just to save face with your father? Yes, absolutely.”
“June.”
“Do I believe you would use me as the proverbial dagger to hold over my sister’s head? Yes, I believe that, too,” I say without hesitation. “I can’t deny that it hurts, but it’s not something I would put past you.”
“Because I’m an egotistical narcissistic psychopath?”
“You took the words right out of my mouth.”
He laughs down the phone, paradoxically relieved as if he doesn’t suspect that my words were said in earnest. That, perhaps, a weight has been lifted by the familiarity of our barbed conversation. That propriety is a mask we both wear and find relief in its removal.
“It’s good to hear your voice.”
The problem with Mark Perez is that I don’t love him.
I don’t. I think I can acknowledge that much now.
I certainly don’t trust him, not with anything in the world.
But there is, inexplicably and undeniably, something like kinship between us.
Whenever he acknowledges it, even in a small, insignificant way, something in me preens under his attention. Something within me is satisfied.
And maybe there’s something within me that he seeks approval from, too.
“It shouldn’t be,” I inform him. “I really despise you right now.”
“Then why haven’t you hung up?”
“Because I’m coming up with something incredibly cruel to say to you that will make you leave me alone for good.”
Another breathy laugh. “Well, before you do, you might want to ask me why I called.”
“To attempt to save face after my sister aired out your dirty laundry to our entire family?”
“I have news about Ashton.”
My stomach sinks. The air thins. My vision blurs for a split second before snapping back into focus. “No,” I say quickly. “No, I told you?—”
“I know you didn’t want to discuss him.” His voice dips into that smooth, practiced empathy designed to hook. “But I think you’ll want to hear this. A third party just came to light. Someone who may have handled transfers that neither Ashton nor you were aware of. It could change things.”
The world tilts under me.
“What are you talking about?” My voice comes out small, and I hate myself for it instantly.
“I can’t explain it all over the phone. There’s too much context I need to bring you up to speed on. But if this pans out, Ashton’s entire case trajectory shifts.”
My heart thumps once, painfully hard.
“I know you,” he says, reeling in his catch. “I know how much you need answers. If you meet me for dinner, I can walk you through everything.”
My mind snags on the word.
“Dinner?”
“Or drinks, or whatever,” he hastens. “Just come over, will you? This could be the break you’ve been waiting for.”
There’s a saying around here—if something sounds too good to be true, it usually is.
My words, from a thousand years ago, to a different man, echo in warning.
“Mark,” I say slowly. “Why do you still care about all this?”
He hesitates for barely a second, but he still hesitates. “Because I want to help you.”
“No.” My voice cracks. “No, you want something.”
“That’s unfair.”
“Is it?” My pulse is hammering now. “After everything you did to Meredith?”
He exhales sharply, irritated. “June, I’m offering you information that could change everything.”
“I’m not buying that you’re willing to just give it to me out of the goodness of your heart when we both know you don’t have one.”
There’s a pause. “I thought we were above all that.”
There it is again. That tiny little acknowledgment, a reminder of our kinship. That we are different and that we understand each other in a way no one else can. And isn’t it nice? Isn’t it easy? Isn’t it lovely to talk to someone who doesn’t need all that pretense?
“We’re not anything, Mark,” I whisper back.
When did I start crying?
“June—”
I hang up.
My hand shakes as I pull the phone away from my ear. The doubt settles in immediately. For a long moment, I just stare at the black screen reflecting my own wide, uncertain eyes. What if he was telling the truth? What if there is something new in the case?
What if going over to Mark’s means nothing more than getting the information? What if nothing needs to change to get it? What if he honors our “relationship,” as he said he would, and asks for nothing in return?
I press a hand to my chest, feeling my heartbeat thud against my palm.
I don’t trust Mark. But I do want answers.
I grab my keys and head out.
There are a million reasons not to and a million more to just do it. All of them argue among themselves in my brain as I make my way across town, letting the streetlights drift over the car to a steady beat.
It’s quiet on the road tonight, despite summer’s arrival.
It must not be changeover day. The island’s inhabitants are currently none the wiser about the next installment of the unfolding Holloway drama, but they will likely start to pick up on it in the days and weeks to follow.
Start prodding at the weak spots, Richard first, probably.
Trent might make an offhand comment at school, and then someone’s mom will hear that the sisters have all fallen out again.
It will be everyone’s business soon; it’s only a matter of time. So why should I care what anyone else thinks? Why should I keep hiding away when the answers aren’t in my living room?
It’s a simple decision in the end.
I slam the car door shut with a too-loud bang, marking my arrival without care. The walk to the door is more challenging to feign nonchalance about, but I manage. I let myself in as if I own the place.
Which, to be fair, I probably have a better claim to than half the other patrons in this place.
“June!” Louisa smiles at me from behind the bar, her patchwork tattoos on full display as she shoots soda into a glass from the dispenser. “I’ll be with ya in just a jiffy.”
I let the faint smell of stale beer and the sound of eighties guitar riffs ease something in my soul that had felt turbulent since I picked up the phone as I made myself comfortable on the barstool.
“Well, hey, stranger,” Louisa says with a warm grin when she eventually gets over to me. “Didn’t expect to see you out.”
“Didn’t expect to be out,” I admit. “Roland about at all?”
“Tucked up in bed by now, I should hope. Wine?”
I nod, accepting both the offer and the answer, watching as she free-pours me a very generous glass. “Thanks.”
It was probably better this way, all things considered. Anything I say to Roland will get back to Eddie. Anything I say to Louisa will get back to Roland, sure, but that’s at least two degrees of separation.
Plus, there’s something about her country accent that makes it very easy to open up.
“Here ya go, doll,” she says as she hands over the glass.
Over the past few months of grinding at the Shack, Birdie’s has been a welcome reprieve when going home alone at the end of the day felt a little too much. Getting to know Louisa was a welcome side effect of my avoidance.
“So,” she says, leaning her elbows on the bar. “What’s got you drinking alone this time?”
I smirk. “Does it count as drinking alone if I’m doing it in a bar?”
She gives me a long, amused look. “That’s exactly what I used to tell myself.”
The comment lands with more weight than I expect. I look up, and she’s got an oddly serious look on her face. “You used to…?”
“Drink alone,” she says casually. “Everywhere, basically. Home, bars, restaurants, friends’ houses, school. Didn’t matter. It wasn’t a healthy time.”
I blink, caught off guard. We must’ve done this at least a dozen times by now, but she’s never opened up like this before. “I had no idea.”
“You weren’t supposed to.” She grins. “I only tell people when they start sitting in bars, alone, nursing a drink like it’s a friend.”
My face warms. “It’s one drink.”
“Sure.” Her eyes twinkle.
“That you overpoured me.”
“I work for tips.” She winks before her expression falls again. “I only bring it up now ’cause I ain’t seen you in here for a few weeks. Figured you’d tried to give the whole sober thing a go.”
I take a slow sip to buy time. It burns a little on the way down, reminding me that I’ve barely eaten.
“What made you stop?” I ask instead of answering the implied question.
She laughs. “You mean beyond the ex-girlfriend who said she was leaving unless I picked myself up off the floor? Honestly, I got tired of waking up feeling like a cracked plate someone kept gluing back together.”
I stare at her for a moment, the image hitting a little too close to home. “Is that why you moved here?”
“One of the reasons.” She taps the bar with her knuckle. “Fresh start. New job. New coast. New people. Roland and Eddie have been a blessing. They don’t ask too many questions.”
“Yeah,” I murmur. “They’re good like that.”
“They’re good, period.” She nudges a glass toward me. Clear, filled with soda and ice. “Here. On the house.”
“I didn’t order this.”
“Didn’t say you did.” She lifts her eyebrows. “Consider it an intermission.”
The ice clinks as I pull it closer. For a moment, I just stare at it, considering, before taking a sip. It’s cool, refreshing. A perfect antidote to the churning in my abused stomach
“Did it work?” I find myself asking when I place the soda down.
Louisa rummages in her pocket a moment before proudly flicking a chip in the air. “Sober for eighteen months.”
“Congrats,” I say with surprising earnestness. “But I meant with your girlfriend.”
Despite the smile on her face, her eyes dim a bit. “Well, she wouldn’t be my ex now then, would she?”
“You miss her?”
“Most days.” The honesty hits a little too deep.
“But one day I won’t, and I look forward to that.
” When I don’t reply, she knocks on the counter again and turns to wipe down the other side of the bar—throwing one last comment over her shoulder.
“Just so you know, if you ever wanna talk to someone who’s an objective third party…
I’m usually here. And I know a place that could get you some chips. ”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” My mouth feels dry all of a sudden. I clear my throat. “Speaking of, you got any packets behind the bar? I’m starving.”
“Davon brought some rolls over earlier. I could stick one in the microwave?”
I make a face. “Ugh, I forgot you’re not from around here. You never stick fish in the microwave.”
“Says who?”
“Says everyone’s noses in a mile radius,” I counter easily. “Besides, they’re so much better cold.”
She mutters something like “y’all are crazy round here” as she slips around the back, leaving me alone with my beverages and thoughts.
Then I open my phone—one new text message. But I don’t read it. If there’s genuinely a break in Ashton’s case, I can find it myself. Court records are public. News travels fast. It’s not like it will stay a secret with the press circulating the way they are.
I don’t need Mark to lead me by the hand.
I set my phone down and let the relief of the decision wash over me. The simplicity of not having to deal with him tonight is a blessing in so many ways.
This is better.
I take a deep breath and open the message.
Sophie: We need to talk.