Sundays in Nantucket (The Lobster Shack #5)

1. June

JUNE

“Ashton’s been cleared of all charges.”

Those words have echoed in my head for days. No matter how hard I try to focus on anything else, it’s all I can think about. But I don’t have the answers.

I don’t have the answers because I’m too scared to find out.

I’m afraid Ashton will show up. I’m afraid he won’t show up.

I’m scared I’ll hear from him, and I’m afraid I’ll never hear from him again.

No matter how I look at it, I don’t know what I want. The truth is, I want it all…but without the mess. And gosh, was I a mess.

The doorbell rings as I pick at the remnants of my dinner, moving them around the plate without actually eating any of it.

I don’t jump to answer the door. There isn’t much point.

There’s a ninety-five percent chance it’s one of the neighbors with a lukewarm casserole and a side of half-hearted condolences.

I appreciate the sentiment, but I don’t have the stomach—or the patience—for people who want to tell me how great my mom was.

I already know. That’s why I’m grieving.

But the bell rings again. And again. A rapid-fire staccato that tells me, very clearly, this is not a casserole situation.

So, I shuffle to the door, yanking it open with the kind of lethargic, I-haven’t-slept-in-over-a-week energy that only full-body grief can provide.

I hope that sentiment reads all over my face.

To my surprise, Sarah stands on my front porch.

My best friend. My forever crisis-in-waiting.

But not like this. Not with her ponytail half undone, not with mascara smeared in streaks down to her jaw, not with her hands locked around a pink-and-blue drugstore box that every woman would recognize.

The large block letters on the front spell out pregnancy test.

For one long, slow second, we just stare at each other.

My first instinct is to ask if she’s okay.

She’s breathing in fast, shallow gulps. Her panic is a living thing, buzzing between us. I can tell she’s doing everything she can to hold it together.

“Don’t—” she croaks. “Don’t ask. Just let me in.”

I react on muscle memory. My hand shoots out, fingers latching onto her wrist, yanking her inside, away from the prying eyes of anyone who might be peering through their windows tonight. Then I kick the door shut with more force than necessary, the thud ricocheting through my skull.

“Bathroom,” I mutter. I struggle to complete thoughts these days; full sentences don’t stand a chance, but she gets the point.

She nods, eyes wild, pressed to the entryway wall as if she’ll slide off the planet if she moves.

It’s only then that I really see myself in the entryway mirror.

Hair a mess—I don’t want to think about how long it’s been since I washed it—my face drawn and pale except for the purple-brown rings under each eye.

The cardigan I’ve been living in since the funeral hangs off one shoulder, and I realize I probably don’t smell great.

I look like I crawled out of a long tunnel and am still adjusting to the light.

Sarah gives me a look that’s half-hysterical, half-pity. “God, you look?—”

“I know.” Then, softer, because I haven’t been able to say it to anyone who matters, I add, “It’s been…a week.”

She nods, clutching my arm with the box pressed against her chest like a lifeline.

She doesn’t say anything else, but she doesn’t need to.

There’s nothing to say. Grief is a living, breathing thing that’s taken over my life, and she clearly sees it.

I wonder if she’s feeling some of her own, considering how she’s holding that box and the tears threatening to spill.

I lead her into the hall, glancing toward the living room as a dull thrum of a brewing headache sets in.

Trent and his friend have colonized every inch of available space.

He’s flat on his back on the rug, one arm flopped over his face, the other angling a can of Coke toward his lips.

Danny’s wedged beside him, limbs everywhere, texting one-handed while shoveling popcorn into his mouth.

Neither of them notices us at first. The screen is filled with helicopters crashing and villains getting obliterated. Testosterone plus sodium. It’s so loud it rattles my brain.

“Trent.” I try to be heard over the noise, but my voice comes out more like a croak. “I’m helping Sarah with…something. Don’t burn down the house.”

He doesn’t look up right away, too preoccupied with the spectacle of a building exploding in glorious slow motion. But then, as if he senses the weight behind my words, he lets his head loll to the side and meets my eyes.

His gaze lands on Sarah—her wild, red-rimmed eyes, the way she’s gripping the test so hard the box might burst. Then on me, in my own brittle state.

For a beat, he looks like he might ask. Might question.

His mouth parts slightly, like he’s only just noticed I’ve lost my grip on reality.

Then he thinks better of it and turns back to the movie.

He already knows why I look the way I do. He just doesn’t have a way to fix it.

Behind him, Danny argues with the screen about whether Vin Diesel could survive a fall from the top of a burning building. As if reality and the silver screen ever go hand in hand.

“Don’t eat all the popcorn,” I call back, more out of obligation than belief.

A lazy thumbs-up is all I get. Trent doesn’t bother to look back. He has his way of grieving, and I have mine.

I nudge Sarah onward, and she stumbles after me. She’s still a wreck, but she’s regaining a hint of composure.

Finally, we reach the bathroom. I shut the door behind us. And somehow, just like that—Vin Diesel, the boys, the house, death, even the void that’s followed me since Mom’s last breath—all of it fades away. It’s just Sarah and me, and that stupid pregnancy text.

She tosses the box onto the counter and leans against the edge of the vanity. I wait as she stands there, her hands braced on the counter, her eyes closed, steadying her breathing as she tries to regain control.

Then she starts pacing in the tiny space.

She can’t go more than a couple of steps before she has to turn back, and I have to press myself against the wall to give her room to move.

Finally, I settle on the toilet lid and just watch her.

I’m too tired to do anything, but I also know I’m probably the only thing holding her together right now.

She finally meets my eyes, and the details pour out. “I’m never late. I should’ve started last week. I don’t know why this is happening. Why is this happening, June? It’s not even possible, except it clearly is. Oh God, what am I going to do?” She’s barely hanging on, just about to lose it.

I perch on the edge of the toilet, one knee tucked to my chest. Somehow, this whole scene grounds me.

It’s the most normal I’ve felt since losing my mom.

My hands are calm and steady as I gesture for the box.

No one would suspect I’m a woman held together by willpower, caffeine, and the guilt-hardened bones of my mother’s lessons.

“Hey.” I keep my voice low, soothing. At least, I try. “We’ll figure it out. Let’s start by reading the instructions.”

She moves to my side as I flip open the cardboard. Her eyes are glued to every word, even as her fingers flutter at her sides. Then she starts in with the nervous laughter again. “What if I screw it up? What if I don’t go enough, or?—”

I let out a mirthless laugh. “You can’t screw it up.” Let’s be honest, these tests are kind of idiot proof. “Worst-case scenario, we buy another one. They come in packs of two for a reason.”

She huffs, but I can’t tell whether it’s humor or resignation.

Then she tugs the elastic from her hair, smooths out the frizz, and pulls it back into a neat ponytail.

“I mean, it’s not like I’d mind being a mom someday.

But I thought I was smarter than this, June.

I thought I could at least make it through a year without doing something monumentally stupid. I took precautions.”

I’m not sure who she’s trying to convince, but I’m guessing it’s herself. “None of this is stupid.” The words come out, but I wonder whether I believe them—for her or for myself. “You were careful. You take your pills. Sometimes these things just happen.”

She stares at the test for a second like she’s trying to set it on fire with her mind. Like, maybe if it spontaneously combusts, the problem will solve itself.

I’m not unfamiliar with this kind of panic. I think most women experience it at least once. It’s like grief, but with the possible punchline of a life you didn’t ask for instead of losing one you begged to keep.

She grabs the plastic-wrapped stick like it’s a live grenade. “Okay. Here goes nothing.”

I excuse myself to give her some privacy and close the door behind me.

In the hall, I lean against the wall and close my eyes.

I massage my temples, trying to keep the oncoming headache at bay.

Half my brain is in the room with her, the other half somewhere else entirely.

Either still hovering in the spaces where my mother’s voice used to be, or in the corridor by the funeral home, or in the stifling reception hall where Mark’s shadow found me.

There’s a flush, the sound of water running, and a moment later, she opens the door to let me back in, holding the test at arm’s length as if she’s afraid it might explode.

I take it and set it on the counter, not wanting to be responsible for whatever comes up.

Then I roll my eyes, knowing that’s not how this works.

“Timer?” I hold up my phone.

She sighs, and somehow, it carries a physical weight. “Yeah, three minutes.”

I set it. The seconds pop on in digital blue, more relentless than my own heartbeat.

She collapses onto the bathmat, knees up, arms wrapped tightly around herself. Sarah looks so small, so young, so unprepared. For a while, we just exist in the bubble of our separate miseries.