4. June #2
Eddie doesn’t crowd in, and neither does Roland. They let me exist without drowning me in concern or poking at the freshly healing scab on my nerves. The only thing they do is keep my soda topped up when it runs low and subtly shift the bar’s noise so it never gets too loud.
I finish cutting the lemons and let myself lean on the bar. It’s easy to melt into the unremarkable churn of Birdie’s on a weeknight. My spine uncoils. The weight on my chest lifts, just a hair.
If I could bottle this—the light and noise and lemon zest, the presence of people who won’t let you fall off the map—I’d drink it every night. It’s intoxicating and better than any bottle of wine.
But then?—
I spot Meredith through the glass before she’s even inside. She pushes through the door and slides onto the stool beside mine, slanting a small smile my way as she settles in.
I don’t need to ask if this is a coincidence. I catch the tells—Eddie’s quick glance toward the door, the flicker of something unspoken that passes between him and Roland. The way Louisa promptly slides a seltzer Meredith’s way, clinking it down with the kind of care only she bothers to show.
They called in reinforcements.
I roll my eyes at their subtlety. But I’m not mad. Not even a little.
There’s something about the three of us that finally lets me go still. My hand goes slack around the base of my glass. I rest my arms on the bar, shoulders brushing Meredith’s, and let the warmth of her presence work its quiet magic.
She nudges me, just a little. “How was your day?”
I consider lying, then decide it’s pointless. “It ended better than it started. Slow night, but Mark staged a sit-in until I nearly called the cops on him.”
That gets a real laugh out of her—short, sharp, edged with something dangerously close to pride. “He’s persistent, if nothing else.”
“Oh, he’s definitely nothing else,” I snap, and she covers her snort with the rim of her glass.
It’s easy to let the bar noise swallow us. But once the banter tapers off, the real thing floats to the surface—heavy and cold, a constant, embarrassing hum in my bones.
Meredith picks up on it. She always does. “You okay?”
I stare into my drink. The light from the hanging lamp glints off the rim, catching every fingerprint and flaw.
I trace my nail along the edge. “I know it’s nuts.
” I hate the wobble in my voice immediately.
It sounds too much like a confession and not enough like absolution.
“But since the verdict, every night I close the Shack, I keep looking over my shoulder, like Ashton will materialize at the counter and act as if nothing happened. It doesn’t matter that he’s cleared.
I can’t shake the feeling that he’s still coming for me. Or maybe just that he could.”
My cheeks burn. I know I’m flushing all the way to my collarbone, but I can’t bring myself to look up. Instead, I press both hands flat against the bar, as if I could steady myself through the wood.
Meredith is quiet for a long beat. When she speaks, her voice is low and certain, the way I imagine she talks to panicked clients.
“It’s not nuts. He might be innocent of the charges, but he still left you hanging in the wind.
And you still haven’t heard from him. Let’s be honest—that’s strange.
You’re allowed to feel wary and hurt and any other emotion that bubbles up. ”
I finally sneak a glance at her. She’s staring straight ahead, jaw set, but there’s a softness at the corners of her eyes. It isn’t pity. It’s the kind of understanding that can only be earned by having your own life blow up in the most public, humiliating way possible.
I let out a careful breath and let the words sit there, ugly and honest, between us. “Thanks,” I mumble. “I just…don’t want to be the person who spends all her time running scared or hoping for something that never existed.”
I don’t want to be the girl waiting for the guy to stay.
“You’re not,” she fires back, sharp as a shot. “You got through everything, June. It’ll take time to trust again. And I’m not just talking about him. You’re going to have to learn to trust yourself.”
For a minute, the whole bar drops away. It’s just the two of us, sisters again—messy, fragile, and fierce in equal measure. If only we had a cranberry pie…
The thought vanishes with the slam of the front door as Sophie blows in. She’s wind-struck and dramatic as always, hair escaping her ponytail, cheeks flushed. There’s a look in her eyes I can’t quite place, but I know she’s here on a mission.
She stalks over to our corner, slapping her hands on the bar. “All right. Emergency sibling meeting. I need backup, and I need it now.” She’s a live wire, and I don’t know what set her off. If I had to guess, I’d start with Trent.
Eddie raises an eyebrow but says nothing. He just lines up another pair of glasses and starts pouring. Roland grunts in amusement, then gives us space, heading off to pick another song on the jukebox.
Sophie drops onto the stool beside Meredith, squirming so close I have to scoot over. “It’s time,” she says, voice low and deadly. “I have to tell Trent about Noah and me.”
I should’ve seen this coming when Sophie mentioned her relationship with Noah last week, but I was so consumed by my own Ashton-sized turmoil that I hadn’t clocked the implications of dating Trent’s best friend’s dad. I look at Sophie. Then Meredith. Then Sophie again.
I go to comfort her, but she barrels on.
“I can’t keep living like it’s a Cold War spy mission.
” Sophie huffs, shoulders slumping. “Trent already knows something’s up, and I’m sick of lying to his face.
I love him more than anything, but—” She swallows, eyes glassy for a second.
Her truth is about to spill over a full cup, one she deserves to have overflowing with goodness.
“I like Noah, too. I don’t want to be embarrassed about it.
But if I try to tell him alone, I’ll probably have a stroke.
Or say something so awkward it follows me to the grave. ”
Meredith shoots her a questioning look. “You want us there.”
“I want the full table,” she confirms. “I want it to be impossible for him to get up and storm out. Maybe even put him in a bit of a food coma first.” She tries to lighten it, but we all hear the nerves underneath. The fear.
Trent means everything to Sophie, so for her to risk this, Noah must rank pretty high, too.
I tap the bar with the flat of my palm. “So. What’s the plan?”
She exhales, relieved we’re willing to help.