5. Sophie
SOPHIE
By the time we hit the road leading up to Nantucket’s one and only high school, Trent’s slouched so low in the passenger seat he’s practically one with the upholstery.
“You know,” I say, keeping my eyes on the turn in just ahead, “if you sink any lower, I’ll start to think you don’t want to be seen with me.”
“Maybe that’s the point,” he mutters, tugging the hood of his sweatshirt up. “I could have walked.”
I don’t bother replying. We both know why I wouldn’t let him walk: the kid was a flight risk, and neither of us could afford for him to be kicked out of school again for truancy.
I drum my fingers on the steering wheel. “You’ll like it. I promise, it was a good school.”
“You went like a million years ago.”
“A decade isn’t that long.”
“It so is,” Trent argues. “Do you know how much we’ve developed as a society just from a technological standpoint?”
I suck at my teeth. “I know the GDP in Nantucket is high, but I doubt they’re handing out hoverboards at the door.”
“And environmentally,” Trent continues, ignoring me completely in favor of kicking the door with his foot. “This thing is destroying the planet.”
“This Jeep is an antique.” The defensiveness isn’t entirely for show.
I’d been driving this thing around since before I knew Trent existed—Meredith and June for years before that.
The only reason it was still even functional was because it was being held together by Roland’s obsessive tinkering and sheer force of will.
It’s more a part of the family than I am at this point.
Trent, however, doesn’t seem impressed. “Exactly.”
“Well, then, maybe you can take your concerns to the environmental club,” I say pragmatically as we finally turn to join the back of the queue of cars pulling up to the school. “Or you can take up track again. Football.”
“Or the chess club, or the glee club. Oh! I’ll join the lobster shucking team as well, shall I?”
I send him a withering look. “You need to stop hanging out with June.”
“Well, you’re in luck there.”
My hands clench around the wheel. In the chaos of Trent’s first day, I’d allowed myself to forget about my sister.
The weeks that now buffer the day of her arrest have done little to ease the ache.
My only respite has been the sheer amount of stuff I’ve been left to deal with in the wake of it all.
It’s been more than a welcome distraction.
“If anyone says anything–”
“I’ll beat them up, blame it on the biggest kid I see, and start a fire on the bleachers as a distraction.”
“–You’ll talk to me about it, won’t you?”
He sits up, pulls his hood down, and for a second, he doesn’t look like he’s hiding at all.
We’d talked about it, therapy. It wasn’t a particularly productive conversation, more of an acknowledgement that when things settle, when it feels like we’ve got both feet on the ground, we should probably talk about it again.
But talking was a good first step, at least that’s what the online forums were telling me.
“Sure,” he says, turning away to look out the window. “Okay, you can just stop here. I’ll walk the rest.”
“We’re literally thirty feet from the front doors.”
“Exactly,” he says, hand on the door handle. “That’s thirty feet less of me being seen exiting a car with my sister hovering.”
“I don’t hover.”
“Like a Mom,” he says. “Do you want me to start calling you Mom?”
I roll my eyes. “Fine. But I’m at least pulling up to the curb, so you’re not dodging SUVs. I can’t afford you breaking another wing mirror.”
He grasps his chest dramatically. “Too soon, Soph.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
We inch up. He fidgets with his door handle, watching a group of boys toss a football across the grass. I hope he’s thinking about joining them. I hope he’s thinking about doing literally anything to engage with his school career.
“Text me if you need anything,” I say, keeping it neutral.
“I’ll be fine.” He opens the door, then hesitates. As if reading my mind. “I… I want this to work, too, you know?”
I look at him, the young boy—man—I really, really, really want to trust this time. I have to, or else I’ll go mad with worry.
“I know.”
He nods once and swings out of the car. His boots hit the pavement with a satisfying thud.
I watch him join the flow toward the doors, hood down now, shoulders squaring as he gets closer. Just before he disappears inside, he glances back, and I give him the smallest wave I can manage.
Then he’s gone, swallowed up in the hallway crowd.
While I swallow down the surge of emotion prickling in the corner of my eye.
The line of cars ahead inches forward, brake lights flaring and forcing me to put the Jeep back into gear. I roll a few feet, stop again. The smell of someone’s coffee drifts in through the cracked window.
Maybe when things settle, maybe when we have both feet on the ground, I will let Trent walk. Save me from dealing with the traffic.
It’s not that far from our cottage in town to the school. The one-bed one-bath had been a steal considering the accessible attic was big enough for Trent to have his own space, too. Still, the apartment in LA barely covered the down payment.
Not that money was exactly the most pressing issue anymore.
The Jeep pulls forward another painstaking inch.
I’d never really considered the phrase ‘all press is good press’ until I’d shown up to the Shack that first Monday after June’s arrest to a queue wrapping itself around the side of the building.
Turns out curiosity’s a hell of a marketing tool, and the people want to see the Holloways in the flesh, like we’re some living, breathing soap opera.
Even now, with the summer season drawing to a close, Davon’s still being run off his feet.
The line moves again, and I’m at the exit a left turn into a tide of traffic. I wait, hands loose on the wheel.
The solution to our hiring problem had quite literally shown up on our doorstep in the form of Mia Abrams. The poor girl had been working at the Aiden June gallery the day the feds showed up to clear the place out and was anxious to know when she’d be able to get back to work.
Despite my personal hesitations (namely about her mother), Mia turned out to have a sensible sort of head on her shoulders.
The kind that recognized that in order to escape her mother’s influence, she needed some semblance of financial independence.
Or else wind up at the country club with Marlene and the rest of her gaggle of socialites.
Trent certainly hadn’t minded showing the older teen around the grill. Though I doubt Mia would have ever willingly spent her gap year trailing after Trent had she not been desperate to get into art college.
The memory of June making fun of her first failed attempt, back when we confronted Marlene, chafes uncomfortably these days.
Speaking of… I glance at the dash. Meredith should be calling soon with an update.
Not that much seems to be happening in New York at the moment, though I suspect it’s just an excuse to check in without actually asking how I am.
I haven’t seen either of my sisters since the Shack opening, and it’s been a blessing in disguise.
Too much to do, too much to keep running, to let myself sit in that feeling.
I finally ease out of the parking lot, already planning to drop by Maya’s ice cream place for a not-at-all-guilt-driven pick-me-up for Davon and Mia when?—
Thunk.
The jolt shudders up through my seat, jerking me forward. My foot slams the brake out of instinct. For a second, I freeze, staring at the glint of sunlight off someone else’s hood in my side mirror.
It’s my right of way.
Slow-moving crawl or not, there’s a fresh, ugly dent in the passenger-side door.
By the time I move over to let the congestion behind slip past, I’ve got my jaw set tight.
The other driver’s already out—a man, late thirties maybe forties—and inspecting the minimal damage to his own car.
I slip out with a steadying breath. Mistakes happen. I can forgive a slow-motion fender bender if he just apologizes and offers to cover the repairs. Clean slate, no drama.
He’s taller up close, broad-shouldered, with the kind of square jaw that looks stolen from a movie poster. The sort of guy the other moms probably sigh about over wine-fueled gatherings. Had I been a decade older and invited to those sorts of things, I imagine I might too.
As it stands, the flashes of silver in his dark hair are already calling me ‘girl’ before the man even opens his mouth.
“You didn’t look where you were going, did you?”
And if that doesn’t tick me off.
“I had the right of way,” I smile serenely, girlishly. I wore my hair down today, broadcasting my bright blond-ness to the world like a beacon (I barely restrain myself from twirling it around my finger). “Or did you not read the sign?”
He barely even glances at it. “You shouldn’t be on the road if you don’t know how to drive.”
“Perhaps your eyesight is going in your old age, but I’m telling you right now that you’re wrong.”
“My old– excuse me?”
“Do you want to take this up with my lawyer, or are you going to give me your insurance details?” I hold my hand out expectantly, mentally making a note to mention this to Meredith. It would be nice to know if she has any traffic experience, and if my threats actually hold any weight.
But the man just backs away, shifting his weight toward the car. “Yeah, no.”
I gape at him. “You hit me, and you can’t just?—”
Slam.
And he’s back in his car… driving away.
Leaving me behind with a dented door and a bruised ego. I’m so shocked I don’t even think to get his registration until he’s already gone.
“Hey, are you okay?”
I blink, suddenly unsure how long I’ve been standing there on the side of the road, gaping after him.
I turn to see a woman in a crisp linen blouse stepping out of the sedan parked behind me. She’s got this warm, concerned expression and sunglasses perched on her head, but I struggle to place her.
“I’m fine,” I say, forcing a tight smile. “Just… mildly homicidal.”
She laughs softly. “I saw the whole thing. I can’t believe Noah would do something like that.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Noah?”
“Noah Short. His son’s a junior with my daughter. He’s…” She glances in the direction he drove off. “Let’s just say he keeps to himself.”
“Wonder why,” I comment sarcastically.
Only my new friend doesn’t pick up on it.
“Oh well, it was quite the scandal. Apparently, Noah had Danny while he was still in high school, now the mother’s not in the picture, and that poor kid…
well. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course.
It’s just that the PTA has tried everything to bring him into the fold. I think he’s just… private.”
Or a jerk, I think, looking at the dent in my car.
Instead of commenting, I change the subject. Eager to put her side glances and backtracking around the concept of teen pregnancy to bed before she has a chance to speculate. “My brother, Trent, is a junior. Just started today.”
The woman beams at me, relaxing. “Oh! I’ll tell my Becky to look out for him then.”
“That would be great.”
She sticks out her hand. “Caroline Aisling.”
“Sophie Holloway.” I shake it, managing a genuine smile when she doesn’t react to the surname. It seems Caroline’s jurisdiction of gossip doesn’t extend much beyond the school boundary.
“Well, Sophie Holloway, welcome to the club,” Caroline says with a wink before heading back to her car. “We’ll have to grab a coffee sometime!”
I get into mine with a wave, muttering under my breath as I start the engine. “Yeah. Can’t wait.”