5. Sophie
SOPHIE
June’s kitchen table has doubled in size, a Frankenstein’s monster of leaves and lopsided extensions, shored up by a stack of coasters wedged under one leg.
At least eight mismatched plates are stacked at one end.
I have no idea how many people she plans to feed, but it must be more than just the Holloway siblings.
June is everywhere at once—hair in a loose bun, eyes wide, hands jittering as she wrestles with a rogue tablecloth.
The cloth itself is too small, so she’s layered a second one at an angle, which somehow makes the chaos look deliberate.
It’s all very artsy chic, just like everything June touches.
She keeps muttering under her breath, sniping at invisible critics, rearranging forks and napkins, then undoing it all and starting over.
“Need a hand?” I ask, though I don’t dare edge too close.
She yanks a chair out from under the table, nearly upending a saltshaker. “I need about six hands and maybe a Xanax. But if you could—actually, wait…” She bobs away from me, almost colliding with a folding chair. “Where do you think people will want to sit?”
“It’s not the U.N., June. It’s dinner. People will sit wherever there’s space. The idea is just for everyone to be at the table together.” I watch her flit about. “Not to mention, shouldn’t I be the one who needs the Xanax?”
She ignores my last comment and focuses on the first, sucking in her cheeks. “You think so? I was trying for…not quite formal, but not, you know, disaster, either.”
I hitch a shoulder, settling into the scene. “Aiming for ‘controlled chaos,’ then?”
She snorts, but her gaze flicks over the table, scanning—for what, I don’t know. “Yeah. Is this too much?” Her hands flutter over the plates again, like she’s tuning an instrument nobody else can hear.
“It’s perfect,” I promise. “If you’re expecting the queen, maybe move the mustard.” She misses the grin that lifts my lips because she’s busy scrutinizing the table layout and the possibility that the mustard really is in the wrong place.
She moves it, then hesitates and shifts it back two inches. Classic June.
I’m about to offer to chop something, just to keep my hands busy, when Meredith sweeps in, a casserole balanced on a folded kitchen towel.
She’s in one of her “casual” blouses—all crisp lines and sleeves rolled to reveal a blindingly expensive watch.
Eddie’s right behind her, a bottle of wine in each hand, grinning like he’s just won a bet.
“Smells amazing.” His gaze lands directly on June, as if she’s the only one who could possibly pull dinner off on a weeknight. “Am I early or just efficient?”
“You’re both,” June mutters, grabbing the casserole before Meredith can protest. “Table’s ready, but I can’t find any of the good spoons. Or maybe I never had any good spoons.” She throws her hands in the air and spins off to continue her search.
Meredith arches a brow. “Are you sure you want to do this here? It’s a tight squeeze.”
June’s smile falters. “Well, considering my place is the biggest out of all of ours, it’ll have to do, now won’t it?”
Eddie laughs, and I drown my panic by rearranging water glasses. Meredith peels off her jacket, drapes it expertly over the back of a chair, and surveys the room like she’s inspecting it.
“Wine?” Eddie sets one bottle on the table, another on the counter, then searches for an opener.
“Drawer to the left,” June and I say in unison.
The kitchen is barely big enough to house a good fight, let alone all of us, but Meredith moves with easy confidence, folding napkins, setting out trivets, eyeing every detail. Her eyes keep flitting to June, and I can tell she’s already noticed the nerves running like a current through her.
I’m just about to steal a corner wedge of bread when the front door opens, and Trent’s shape hovers in the hall. Shoulders up, hood half-raised, one foot perpetually angled toward the nearest exit.
He mumbles something that barely registers as, “Hey.”
June, ever the cruise director, bounces a little. “Hey, you. Dinner’s almost ready. Did you want?—”
“I’m good.”
He doesn’t wait for instructions. He just gravitates to a corner of the table, with his head down and his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He radiates “leave me alone,” but he also manages to glare at the far window in case anyone misses the point.
Meredith catches my gaze, and I offer a small shrug. I don’t know what I expected. A group hug was probably too much to ask.
Not two minutes later, Noah enters, followed by Danny. He notices Trent’s position instantly and, with delicate passive aggression, claims the chair at the opposite end. No attempt at hello—just a nod at the adults and an even longer one at the food.
So, yeah. The vibe is less family reunion and more mediated custody drop. How fun.
I have no idea what the tension is between Danny and Trent, but whatever it is, I wish we could squash it for tonight.
June hovers, eyes flicking between the boys and the plates, hands smoothing her jeans. Meredith, still barely settled into her seat, taps at her phone. She’s clearly itching to be useful.
Eddie tries to break the frost. He’s got a dimpled smile and a confidence that’s all Nantucket pride and bartender bravado. “Big training week, right? Island Cup tryouts?”
Danny shrugs. “Supposedly.” He’s not looking at Trent—he’s not looking anywhere but the table.
Trent doesn’t even pretend to care. He just grunts, hunching lower.
I want to smack him for being so rude, but since I don’t know what’s going on, I try to salvage the thread. “Didn’t you guys crush it last year, though? I remember hearing the coach was impressed.”
That earns me a look—muted, but deeply unimpressed—from Trent.
Danny jabs a fork into a roll. “Coach Harmon basically gives out medals for breathing. But if you can actually play, he still benches you if you tick him off.”
Not deterred, Eddie leans in, forever the optimist. “All the more reason to work together, right?”
Neither boy answers.
Noah sidles up next to Eddie. He keeps his voice lowered, and I assume it’s to keep from making either boy madder than they already are. “I wouldn’t bother, man. No clue what’s going on with them, but they’ve both iced each other out.”
June tries to sound bright as she suggests, “We can talk about something else? Or I can just start putting food on plates and hope nobody notices the lack of segues?” She’s rewarded with a chorus of grunts and a pointed silence.
Gah, this is going to be miserable.
In the shuffle, Meredith slides the casserole onto a trivet and starts serving with the enthusiasm of a cafeteria lunch lady. Plates pass from hand to hand, everyone’s gaze fixed on anything but each other. It’s been years since we’ve had a dinner this awkward and never one without Richard present.
There’s so much tension in the room that the air’s basically solid at this point.
Meredith slides a scoop of salad to me, jaw clamped tight, eyes pinched at the corners.
I can tell she’s already plotting a backup topic; her small talk is a death march of weather, ferry delays, and the state of the potholes on Main Street.
Eddie tries again. “Danny, have you been working on your penalty shots?”
Danny shrugs. “Not really.”
And that, apparently, is all he’s willing to offer.
Noah leans in close to his son, putting his mouth right next to his ear. “Danny, drop the attitude and have some respect.” He says it quietly, but I don’t miss it, and I’m certain no one else does, either.
Trent rolls his eyes, but the rest of him doesn’t move. He’s set in his seat like poured concrete, half-tuned to every possible exit plan.
I want to scream and ask what the heck is going on, but all I can think about is how much worse this will get once Noah and I drop our bomb…and that’s exactly what it’s going to end up being.
I chip away at my food, every muscle drawn tight. Across from me, June keeps glancing from one end of the table to the other, telegraphing her anxiety like an S.O.S. to anyone willing to pick it up.
Meredith and I catch eyes again—a mutual, silent Oh God, is this going to work?
For a minute, we’re all just eating. Or pretending to eat.
Forks scrape against mismatched plates, the kind of sound that sets your teeth on edge if you let it.
June pours herself a generous glass of wine—her third in less than fifteen minutes—while Meredith carves her salad with the meticulousness of a surgeon.
Ever the diplomat, Eddie tries to change the subject. “Did you boys get your class schedules yet for next year?”
Danny shrugs, not even glancing up. “Supposed to. Haven’t.” He doesn’t elaborate.
Trent’s answer comes via a murderous stab at his potatoes.
It’s the world’s slowest, shakiest game of conversational ping-pong. The ball never stays in play for longer than a second.
Above the clatter of glasses, I catch Danny’s voice—low and flat but just audible. “I heard Rebecca made cheer captain for the varsity team.”
Trent’s jaw goes so sharp you could slice bread with it. He barely flicks a look at Danny. “She deserves it.”
Danny shrugs. “If you say so.”
The air shifts, just enough for all of us to notice.
I shoot a look at June, who’s already watching the boys with that deer-in-headlights panic.
Meredith, too, but she’s better at covering—her gaze darts toward the casserole, then to Eddie, like she’s passing a baton.
And it finally dawns on me that the tension between the boys is centered around a girl.
Ugh. What horrible timing.
I’m not sure what to do with my hands. I twist my napkin into shapes, drag my fingers through my hair, even though every time I do, the static pulls wisps straight back out.
My knees keep knocking against the bottom of the table.
I keep waiting for a cue, a break in the pattern, something that feels like an opening.