Eliza
Suzanne and my mother have a lot in common.
Both are career professionals. Both like to work weekends. And both like to wake before the sun rises and send messages that ruin my day.
Suzanne: First batch were all rejected. We need to adjust your strategy. Be advised, I’m reviewing your resume and suggesting changes. Return the revised document to me by EOD.
It doesn’t matter that rejections are standard and competition is fierce. When I see the message through bleary eyes, the news stings, casting a dark cloud over my morning that’s barely even started.
And that’s only the beginning.
Because my eyes rove over the time to see that it’s seven-thirty-five.
I explode out of bed, stumbling to my makeshift sink—a big plastic bowl—to splash water on my face and brush my teeth.
Missing my alarm wouldn’t normally be a big deal, but Amanda offered to do a sorting tutorial if I leave the dock with her at eight, and I need this content. I teased it on Friday, dammit.
Throwing my hair into a bun, I burst back into the main cabin, searching for something to wear—only to realize my clean clothes are still in my car from last night’s laundromat run.
Not caring that I look like a maniac, I run barefoot down the dock, wincing as I gingerly shuffle across the parking lot’s gravel to the car.
Then I’m lugging the laundry basket back with me, brainstorming the outfit I should have laid out last night.
This morning is especially chilly, so definitely a sweatshirt, and my old—
My foot catches on a cleat as I step back on the boat, and I stumble. On instinct, my hands release the basket, flailing for the railing to stop myself from going in. But the basket doesn’t catch.
On anything.
In slow motion, I watch the basket drop between the side of the boat and dock. It splashes unceremoniously into the water, landing perfectly upright.
For a second, I think I’m the luckiest woman on the planet. That fate has decided to cut me some slack.
Then I watch, helpless, as the basket tips and all my clean clothes spill into the water.
Fuck me.
Lunging across the deck, I scoop up the giant fishing net stuffed in a rod holder and shove it into the water. Three sweeps retrieve every piece of clothing I can see before I flip the net around and use the rod to scoop up the useless basket by one of its holes.
A sopping wet pile of clothing stares back at me from the teak deck. Water from the basket drips onto my feet, reminding me that I not only have a full load to re-wash, but a basket I need to hose down.
It’s a later problem. Just like Suzanne’s edits, which I’ll have to magically work in between a laundromat visit and the grocery run I need to do if I want dinner.
A thick ball lodges in my throat as I rush back into the cabin, searching for any clean items to wear.
Workout gear and a new Gold’s sweatshirt are the only options, so I yank them on, telling myself a tank top and leggings aren’t as sloppy as I think.
Then, for the second time this morning, I’m running down the dock like a madwoman.
A rush of air follows me into the car, and my phone buzzes.
It’s from Sara, one of Kyle’s fringe friends I’ve only ever met once.
Weird.
Curiosity riding me hard, I spare a second to open the message.
The seat beneath my thighs completely falls away.
I’m staring at a photo of Jane and Kyle.
Not in a group. Not standing by each other. But full-on making out in the middle of the fucking day at some kind of backyard party.
And the photo’s timestamp is yesterday—when Jane and I were supposed to be having lunch, until she cancelled on me.
Sara Last Name??: Sorry, you’re so nice. Thought you should know.
My heart stalls, betrayal flushing my body cold. I feel like throwing up. Like the car is too small and too big all at once. Like this is some weird anxiety dream, because Jane is one of my closest friends, and she—I mean, she couldn’t have actually done that.
But the photo isn’t grainy, or fuzzy, or altered in any way that allows room for doubt.
It’s Jane, with her wavy chestnut hair and a new mini purse around her shoulder, and Kyle, blonde hair slicked to the side, swallowing each other’s faces.
With robotic movements, I turn the car on and stiffly drive to the farm. I can’t find calmness in the draping trees, or the salt marsh, or the soft morning sky. I don’t even see any of it, too busy trying to prevent whatever’s mounting in my chest from escaping, because I’m about to be at work.
Through a haze, I park in front of the farm’s office and jog down to the dock, hoping I’m not late.
But Amanda isn’t there to meet me.
Instead, I’m greeted by Grayson—and Dave.
“Did I miss her?” I pant out.
Grayson’s in his orange waders as he loads empty baskets and crates into the back of a boat, Dave’s head following every movement. “Nope.”
I don’t understand. “We had a ride-along planned for this morning.”
“We also have a divorcee tour this morning.” The final crate hits the deck, and he straightens, planting his hands on his hips. “And one of them emailed last night to ask if ‘the hot farm owner’ would be leading that tour, so I asked Amanda to take it.”
His displeasure should be entertaining. At the very least, cause a little chuckle to bubble in my chest. But my chest just feels like collapsing. Like it’s been stuffed with too many things in too short a time, and can’t adjust to the weight of it all.
“Are you taking me with you?” I ask tiredly.
Grayson doesn’t answer right away, like he, too, is waiting for me to find delight in his demise. When I don’t, he nods toward a bench seat with a pile of orange on it. “Got your bibs all set. Hop on.”
Dave waddles by my side as I shake out the rubber, recognizing the same pair of bibs I wore last week. Maybe Grayson’s assigned them to me.
“Finally figured out which side’s the front?” he asks over the engine’s hum as he releases the lines.
“No.” The front and back look too similar.
We pull away from the dock, and he sets us on a straight course out to the farm before coming over. “You can get straight As, but you can’t figure out how to get dressed, huh,” he says lightly, pulling the bibs from my hands and twisting them around.
I also can’t figure out how to choose good friends.
Or land an interview.
Or make my parents proud.
Grayson observes me beneath the brim of his hat as I grab the straps from his hand and say, “I’ve got it from here.”
The plastic bench is cool and damp through my thin leggings as I sit to pull the legs on. In my periphery, Grayson lingers for another beat, probably making sure I’m actually capable of pulling on pant legs before stepping back to the wheel.
Seagulls fly overhead, squawking as they battle the unusually cool breeze rippling the water.
Most mornings are calmer and warmer than this, but I don’t mind the cold air whipping my face or the hair whizzing around my head.
If anything, I want more of it—more sensations to keep the memory of that photo at bay, to remind me there’s a big world that exists outside my exceptionally shitty morning and that everything is fine.
The second Grayson stops by the cages, I throw myself into filming every tiny, little detail, even though I only need about two minutes of footage for the week.
“Amanda said you wanted to film a sorting tutorial?” Grayson asks, as I crouch and take a close-up shot of the oysters he’s pulled in.
“Yes, but I’ll reschedule with her.”
“No need,” he says, peeling off his gloves. “We’re stopping at the new system next, then the sorting float. I’ll do your video.”
He’s not even going to make me ask? I glance up to see his face matching the sincerity in his tone. “Thanks.”
A tiny splash of water pulls my attention to the side of the skiff. Through the rippling blue surface, a school of baitfish jerk around in tight formation, like they can’t decide where to go. Beneath them lurks a long, dark gray shape.
National Geographic: Oyster Farm Edition. The content takes shape in my head, and I lean over the side of the skiff, stretching to get a clear video. My shadow must spook them, because the fish shift, moving closer to the float that’s just beyond my hand.
“Careful there.”
Grayson’s unnecessary warning comes as I stretch further, bracing my free hand on the float so I don’t fall in. The bigger fish stills, and I wonder if I’m about to witness a baitfish murder. Maybe someone can do a David Attenborough impression for the voice-over.
There’s a flurry of sound, like flapping wings, then a storm of movement careens into my back. I startle, my hand slipping from the float.
I try to pull back into the skiff, but my entire bodyweight is forward, over the water, and then it’s—crap.
I flop face-first, cool water rushing into the bibs within a millisecond. Desperation throws my injured hand up in the air, barely saving my phone from the fate of the rest of me.
My feet catch on the bottom, and I pop up, every loose hair on my head plastered to my face as I sputter. The wind hits first, a wall of ice against my skin. Then I register Dave beside me, bobbing his head in the chest-deep water.
Then the deep, rich sound of Grayson’s laugh.
“Shit, I should’ve warned you. Dave will do anything for bait.
” My eyes blink open to find Grayson grinning ear-to-ear, like this is the best reality TV show he’s ever seen.
“As unlucky as that was, you’re real lucky we’re not in a deeper section.
” He kneels at the side of the boat, extending a hand.
The speeding steam train in my chest charges right off the end of the track.
And I do the most humiliating, unrecoverable thing I have ever done.
I burst into tears.
For a desperate second, I think I can play it off, the first few tracks blending with the salt water clinging to my skin.
But when Grayson says, “Fuck,” I lose every last bit of control I have.