4. June
JUNE
The wind might whistle outside, but in here, it’s only the clink of glasses, the low hum of the soda fountain, and the painful tick of the clock as another eternity slogs by.
I’m on my own tonight. Meredith’s off wrangling legal paperwork for the Shack—some new permit, or maybe the required blood sacrifice for Nantucket’s health inspector, who knows.
It’s always something. Davon clocked out after dinner, and the kitchen’s been silent for nearly an hour.
It’s just me, the shine of the linoleum, and Mark freaking Perez, parked at a table by the window like a discount Halloween decoration no one’s bothered to throw away.
He’s already devoured his sandwich. There’s nothing left but a couple of neatly stacked napkins and the glass of water he’s been nursing. But I can’t figure out why he’s here. Why he won’t leave.
Every time the clock ticks forward, my heart keeps pace.
Just leave. You’re not welcome. You’re not wanted. This isn’t a difficult message to grasp.
But I’m not stupid. He’s a lawyer. He can literally outwait anyone, and if that doesn’t work, he’ll bore them to death with his constant chatter. Maybe he’s betting I won’t do anything—that I won’t say anything or kick him out.
I check my watch. Again. Eight fifty.
My eyes flick back to the dining room. One table left—Mark, lit by the watery afterglow of the streetlight through the glass. He’s looking out, oblivious to the rest of the world.
I have a list of closing chores. Most are finished, but if I rinse another basket, the sink might file for a restraining order.
Still, I can’t stop. I grab the spray bottle and attack the counter.
Again. My rag traces circles so obsessively that I nearly wear through the vinyl.
Each time I get brave enough to glance up, Mark is still watching the island go dark.
His profile is all clean lines and a careful haircut, and underneath that, an energy that makes my skin crawl. He’s here because he wants something.
But I don’t engage. I don’t ask if he needs anything. I treat him like a stack of receipts I can’t face until morning. But I also don’t tell him to leave.
The silence swells.
I go through the motions. Wipe, rinse, repeat.
I stack the chairs on the tables closest to Mark, hoping he gets the hint so I don’t have to be the one to escort him out.
The bell over the door tinkles as a breeze slips through a gap in the frame.
Still, he doesn’t move. He just sits there, arms folded, face a blank slate.
I check my watch because my nerves won’t let me do anything else.
He clears his throat—just enough to be heard, just enough to remind me I haven’t gotten rid of him, not that I need reminding. He doesn’t say anything, though. The tension is uncanny. I can feel him preparing for something, lining up his words.
But I’m not interested in whatever performance he’s gearing up for.
No more tiptoeing.
“We’re closed,” I say, voice clipped and cold.
He raises an eyebrow, like my declaration is some kind of riddle. “It’s not nine thirty yet.”
I level him with a look. “Seriously, Mark? The kitchen’s cold. The fryers are off. There’s nothing left but the floor cleaner, and I’ll start running it the second you’re out.”
For a moment, I’m sure he’ll argue the point; lawyers live for this, don’t they?
But instead, he gives me a look that’s almost apologetic, then pushes back from the table in a clean, performative movement.
He slips on his jacket, collects his phone, and for a heartbeat, I see a flicker of something vulnerable behind his eyes.
Then it’s gone. He’s Mark again—polished, precise, already moving for the door.
As he passes the counter, there’s a beat where he hesitates—like he’s going to say something, offer a truce, or slip a knife between my ribs with a smile. But I meet his eyes and refuse to blink, and whatever impulse he’s fighting dies on the vine.
He just nods. “Good night, June.”
I say nothing.
He’s gone a second later, and the air finally uncoils in my lungs.
Irrational relief slams into me so hard that I have to sit on the nearest stool. My hands shake as I double-check the door, then check it again, twisting the deadbolt just to be safe.
After that, I do a perimeter check because, if my paranoia has taught me anything, it’s that you don’t trust a half-done job.
Each window gets the same treatment, tugged and checked.
The kitchen door is locked, the side entrance buttoned up tight.
I even peek into the walk-in just to be sure—half-expecting to find a ghost, an ex-husband, or maybe just the echo of all the ways my life refuses to be simple.
The Shack is empty, but the emptiness isn’t comforting.
Every surface gleams. The chairs stand on their heads like rows of soldiers. The only things left are the faint scent of fryer oil and the trace of lemon from the cleaner I overuse when I’m stressed.
I linger by the register, fingers tapping on the housing. My bag waits by the counter. I sling it over my shoulder, then freeze again, just for a second.
The window opposite the counter faces the street, and in its reflection, I see nothing but the dimly lit interior and my own warped likeness.
Still, I look twice. I half-expect Ashton’s silhouette—tall, arrogant, arms folded—waiting outside.
The anxiety is clawing and irrational, but it’s there all the same.
My skin prickles at the imagined possibility.
Of all the things I thought I’d be scared of, Ashton’s ghost was never on the list.
It’s fine. He’s not here. He’s not anywhere.
I haven’t heard a peep from him since he was acquitted, which makes me question his declaration of love at our meeting while he was in custody.
And I hate that. I hate that everything circles back to whether or not he loves—loved—me.
Present, past, future—who knows? Somehow, that feels pitiful instead of romantic.
Because if he didn’t, then I got hosed. But if he did—does—then maybe it’s that fairytale love worth waiting for.
God, I’m a mess. Clearly still clinging to a delusion instead of the truth.
I shake off the mental weight Ashton left me with and fist my keys. I finally step out and lock the door behind me, pausing to wiggle the handle, just to be sure.
The night has settled hard on Siasconset, but the lights from Birdie’s blaze across the street, painting the front in gold and white. The sound of laughter and glasses clinking leaks through the windows. It’s familiar, steady.
I cross the street with my head down. The air is spiced with grill smoke and saltwater. Every step farther from the Shack feels like closing a door behind me, like stepping into the only place left on the island where the ghosts aren’t waiting behind the fryer and life isn’t trying to get me.
Birdie’s door opens on a gust of warmth and noise and something that, just for a second, feels like coming home. Because the truth is, it’s a home away from home. And it has always felt safe.
The place is packed, in the way only Nantucket off-season ever gets.
Half the regulars cluster at the bar, elbows out, voices low and cozy.
The windows are fogged, trapping the glow of the overhead lights and turning the air into a golden sea thick with conversation and the faint, sweet bite of gin.
Immediately, I feel every nerve in my shoulders twitch—like the inside and outside of me haven’t quite re-synced after the gauntlet of closing the Shack. My hands clutch the strap of my bag, but I push forward anyway.
Roland spots me before I’m halfway to the bar.
Nothing slips past him for long, but he doesn’t say anything at first. He just gestures me down to the far end, where the stools are padded and I can try to hide from the hustle.
I slip onto my usual perch, back to the crowd, safe in the blind spot of a man who’s been protecting people longer than I’ve been alive.
“Rough shift?” he rumbles as he slides behind the bar.
I nod. There’s no point wasting words. The day’s been one long string of frayed nerves, and the quiet feels like mercy.
He slides over a small cutting board, a pile of lemons, and the knife with the orange handle that’s sharp enough to demand respect. “Wanna do the honors?” He never fails to ground me with pieces of my past that will always be in my future.
I fight a smile, peel off my jacket, and get to work. The rhythm is soothing, just as it’s always been. Citrus oil sprays in tiny bursts, so crisp it wakes my tired senses. It scrubs the last of the grease, Mark’s cologne, and the heavy paranoia of closing the Shack alone right off my skin.
Louisa, seemingly out of nowhere, slides a plastic cup filled with soda in front of me. She doesn’t say a word—none is needed—just a smile, then she moves back down the bar to take care of the other regulars. I would’ve preferred a glass of wine, but this will do. For now.
Roland comes back around and takes his usual stool, two down from where I’m sitting. He moves more slowly than he used to, but the care never slips. As he settles in, he gives me a nod, quietly saying, I see you, and I’ll keep watch.
We don’t talk more than we have to. We never have. That’s what’s great about Roland. He always knew when to speak, when to listen, and when to simply be still.
I slice, line up the wedges, and sweep them into a bowl, then start on the next lemon, losing myself in the color and the sticky tang coating my fingers.
A moment later, Eddie steps out of the storeroom.
His hair’s more rumpled than usual, sleeves rolled high.
I watch his eyes sweep the crowd in a silent scan before locking on me.
The mutual nod he and Roland share is barely a flicker, but I catch it.
He takes up a post two stools away on my other side, arms folded, casual as ever—but even I know a guard when I see one.
If this is a rescue, I don’t mind it. Not tonight.