ELIZA
“She’s beautiful. Like a fucking goddess. And her smile…it just does something to me, you know?”
I nod absentmindedly as I record last week’s marketing analytics on my phone. Kenny’s on minute eight of musing about the love of his life, whom he hasn’t spoken to yet.
“She smiles a lot, too. At everyone. She’s kind like that. A total sweetheart.”
My head bobs as my fingers fly over the screen.
“I heard from my buddy that she volunteers at an animal shelter in free time. Kind and generous. That’s rare in this world, isn’t it—hey, are you even listening?”
I glance up at Kenny, whose dreamy-eyed expression is beginning to clear. Feet resting on a cooler, he reclines further into his plastic folding chair, crosses his arms, and waits.
“Beautiful. Goddess. Animal shelter,” I list. “I’m listening.”
His eyes narrow on my phone. “Don’t tell me you’re working right now.”
“Just doing a few things,” I say, shrugging.
“Eliza, we just manned this table for eight hours straight with no breaks. It’s five o’clock. We’re done for the day.”
Well, almost. We still have to break down the tent and clean up.
“Besides, it’s Saturday. I thought you didn’t do marketing stuff on weekends.”
“Some last-minute things came up. But they’re quick,” I say, glancing at the half-broken-down tents around us so he won’t see the guilt in my eyes.
There’s a lot of it, too, because I’m lying.
The truth is, I’m trying to get ahead for Monday to make time for my interview.
Between driving time and the inevitable traffic, I’ll be gone the entire day.
Technically, there’s nothing wrong with my absence.
I’ll have all my marketing work done between tonight and tomorrow, and I’m not required to be on-site from nine to five.
But I also won’t be around to help out. Amanda has the day’s tours covered, but if she’s sick, or wakes up to a flat tire, or some other emergency pops up at the farm…
What am I supposed to do, though? Cancel an interview I’m lucky to even have?
I’ve hardly had time to consider Anson’s offer, but it’s so different from what I pictured for myself, whereas this interview is a literal manifestation of my goals.
I’ve been working toward an opportunity like this all summer. I can’t just…not go.
Grayson’s team is very capable, I remind myself. If I wasn’t here the past two days, they would have figured everything out just fine. Their world doesn’t revolve around me.
It’s probably the eighth time I’ve replayed those reassurances in my head, and they’ve done nothing to lift the heavy weight in my stomach.
“Fuck yeah,” Kenny suddenly exclaims, leaping from his seat. I blink away my thoughts to see a middle-aged man approaching with two full paper plates. “Jay, man, I’ve been looking forward to these all day!”
Smiling as he hands the plates to Kenny, he says, “A few fried oysters, plus some fish I caught yesterday.”
These very plates are the reason Kenny wanted to hang around when most of the vendors already left. As I take in the steaming, golden morsels, I start to understand.
“By the way, this is Eliza. She’s been with us this summer,” Kenny introduces, placing a plate on the cooler beside me before immediately digging in.
Jay extends a hand. “I own a farm up in the bay,” he says, his handshake easy. This must be the Jay who helped Grayson with his new intertidal system. “Marketing, right? Gray mentioned something last time we chatted. Are you liking it?”
“It’s been wonderful,” I say, though that doesn’t quite capture it. The last two months feel like some kind of fever dream. One accented with salty air, big breaths, a few tears, and Grayson. I don’t even know if there is a word that encompasses it all. Or him, for starters.
“The Gold boys sure got something special going, huh.” It isn’t a question. More like some well-known local fact. “Is it just a summer gig for you?”
“Right now, yes.”
“Right now,” he repeats. His gray eyes twinkle as he glances around.
“Garnet Shores, this whole little stretch of coast—it’s got a funny way of hooking you in, doesn’t it?
” His gaze settles back on me, a dimple cutting into his wrinkled cheek as he leans in.
“Best part is, no one really knows it until they live here. Keeps the place quiet for us.”
He pulls back with a wink and raises a hand to Kenny. “Got to break down the tent, but it was good to see you guys here.” He smiles at me. “And it was nice to meet you. Maybe I’ll see you around next time I swing by the farm.”
Maybe.
“Thanks for the food,” Kenny says as Jay walks away. Then he sets his sights on me, a grin on his greasy mouth. “Now, I’m not the best with words, but I’m pretty sure you said ‘right now.’”
I really didn’t think he was paying attention. Heck, he spent half the day today humming some Green Day tune while I fielded customers and he shucked oysters in the back.
“I did,” I say, unperturbed, taking a bite of fried fish.
“That mean you might stay?”
There was no harm in being honest with Jay, an uninvolved stranger, but I’m not about to confess my current situation to Kenny. I don’t know if farm gossip is a thing, but I don’t want to start it.
When I take too long to answer, Kenny says, through a giant bite of fried oyster, “Is it ‘cause you moved in with Boss?”
The fish lodges in my throat. I cough, my eyes watering. “I didn’t ‘move in’ with him.”
“But your boat’s getting repaired, and you drove to work together the other day.”
Turns out farm gossip is a thing, because I never even told Kenny I was living on a boat.
“Grayson is helping me out,” I say carefully. “And it’s also none of your business.”
“Um, wrong,” he declares. “Boss obviously likes you, as in—like likes you—which means his mood is tied to you. If you leave or break up or something, he’s gonna be fuckin’ miserable, and the whole team’s gonna suffer.”
If Kenny’s been thinking about us this much—shit, is the whole farm thinking about us, too?
He pops another oyster in his mouth while my mind frantically searches for some way out of this trap. “You aren’t responsible for your boss’s moods,” I say, “so you shouldn’t be digging this deeply into his personal life.”
“I’m not responsible for him, but I like him.” Kenny shrugs. “He’s a good guy. Cool boss. I want to see him happy.”
Some of my annoyance ebbs, if only a little. Unsure where to go from here, I find solace in a fried oyster, hoping Kenny lets this conversation go.
Of course, he doesn’t. Popping his feet up on the cooler, he asks, “So what’s so much better up there than here?”
I shake my head tiredly. “It’s…different.”
“Good different?”
“Different, different.” Apparently I’ve told some kind of joke, because Kenny starts laughing mid-chew. My hackles raise. “What’s funny?”
“You make nooo sense.” His laughter ebbs when he notices my flat expression. “If it isn’t a good different, why the hell would you rush back there when your contract here is done?”
“It’s not that simple—”
“Yeah, ‘cause you’re making it not simple. Women.” He blows out a breath, shaking his head. “Which place do you like more?”
It’s not about liking. It’s about my future. Besides, “I’ve only been here for two months—”
“Exactly,” Kenny says, cutting me off again.
Fried oyster bits flick off his fingers as he points at me.
“You’ve only been here for two months. You gotta give it more time before you know how you feel.
” His tangled hair swoops across his forehead as he inclines his head.
“I mean, really, why are you rushing? You can probably get a job up there any time of year. It’s not like August’s the only time people hire, right? ”
I drop the oyster I was planning to eat, irritation eliminating my appetite.
Kenny proves he’s not entirely socially inept when he raises his hands. “You look mad.”
“I’m not mad,” I ground out.
I’m tired. Overwhelmed with decisions. Stressed about my interview and skipping out on the farm. Thinking about Anson’s offer. Excited to talk to Grayson tonight.
And, yeah, feeling the increasingly strong urge to throw a fried oyster at Kenny, who thinks he has all the answers to the world’s questions, but just doesn’t get it.
“Look,” he starts softly, like he’s speaking to a rabid coyote, “I’m just saying you could stick around for a little.
You end up not liking it, you go back to what you were doing.
You only would’ve missed out on, like, six months of your life up there, and you’ve got—” he looks me up and down— “at least fifty years left, unless you die in a car crash or something, but that probably won’t happen because I’ve seen you pull into the parking lot and you drive painfully slow.
So six months is nothing.” He resumes eating, giving me an eyeful of mushed food when he adds, “If you do end up leaving, though, just give me a heads up so I can take time off and avoid Boss. I’m not dealing with that. ”
“Sure thing,” I mumble. Do I really drive that slowly?
“Thank you.”
I shake my head, fighting an oncoming headache as Kenny continues to munch away, like he didn’t just try to separate me from my sanity. As he mumbles, “Fuck, this is so good,” I reluctantly try to cool my annoyance.
He’s not trying to rile me. Kenny just doesn’t have a reliable filter—or any filter?—and he’s punching a sore spot.
Taking pity, I sigh and say, “Hey, Kenny?”
“Yeah?”
“That smiling goddess, the one you see at Dyl’s?”
He nods, eyes taking on that dreamy quality again.
“Swallow your food before you talk to her, and maybe she’ll smile at you, too.”
It’s late by the time I get back to Grayson’s.
I should be crawling to the couch, but I’m buzzing with energy. Not the good, productive kind, but the kind that makes your armpits sweat and brain ping-pong like an arcade machine. Even Dave seems to sense it, giving me a wide berth after delivering his standard-greeting quack.
Grayson texted to say he’d call me at nine—a good thirty minutes from now. Which means I currently have nothing to distract me from the guilt and anxiety and indecision that have only grown stronger since I left the festival.
I’m spiraling.
For no good reason.
My feelings are blowing themselves out of proportion, because I’m tired and hungry and haven’t had a good the-world-is-crashing-down-on-me moment in two months. That’s all it is.
I have an exciting interview coming up. Suzanne says I’m well-prepared. Grayson is calling me again tonight. The festival was a success. Dave hasn’t tried to sabotage me since I got him the mealworms.
Everything’s good.
But even after mentally chanting this for ten minutes as I tidy the house, my stomach still feels like it wants to simultaneously implode and explode. It isn’t just anxiety. It’s heavier than that.
It’s dread.
Like driving to Boston in two days is stepping off the edge of a plank into shark-infested waters. And it’s getting harder and harder to ignore, to compartmentalize into a they’re-just-feelings box and override with reality.
It’s like my body doesn’t know the difference between being chased by a bear and taking a goddamn step forward.
“You’re not being chased by a bear,” I state aloud. Then, hoping a cool drink can settle me, I yank the fridge open and pull out the first bottle my hand lands on.
It’s one of the beers I bought for Grayson.
Grayson, who I’ll talk to in—I check my watch—fifteen minutes. Who’ll inevitably make me smile. Who I won’t tell about my interview because…
Because I don’t want to hurt him. Disappoint him. Acknowledge the possibility of me leaving out loud, because that makes it real, and that’s…god, that’s terrifying.
You’re not being chased by a bear.
The reminder runs across my mind as the bottle’s chill seeps into my hand. Except this time, the sentence keeps going.
I’m not being chased by a bear…up to my interview. No one’s forcing me to go. No one’s forcing me to look at options outside of Anson’s offer. No one’s forcing me to do what I’ve always done—to stay the course, to do something that makes me feel this shitty.
The simple, obvious revelation seems to loosen some of that dread. With it comes another one.
“I don’t want to leave,” I whisper.
Expectations, pros and cons, college-grad-Eliza’s plans all shoved aside—I really, really don’t want to leave.
Dave waddles into the kitchen, beady eyes on me like he’s studying the misery plastered all over my face. Or he just sees a human-shaped blob. Whatever it is he sees, it makes him toddle all the way over to stand at my feet.
“Quack.”
For a moment, I stare down at him. This little emotionally abusive beast who I’m still half-afraid of, but have come so far with.
Then I shove off the refrigerator, drop the beer on the counter—because Grayson will enjoy it more than me—and beeline it to the couch.
Thirty seconds later, I have Anson’s proposal pulled up on my laptop screen.
I’ve already read the PDF twice. I go ahead and read it a third time, my gut slowly unraveling.
It’s different from what I’ve been working towards.
But it might be a good different—just like I am, down here.
And maybe I should start caring about that more. Folding it into my definition of success. Or, at the very least, give it a shot and see what life could feel like.
Because if there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that life before Garnet Shores didn’t feel as good as it does now. A fact deeply intertwined with the man who—no matter how much logic or therapy or willpower I throw at it—I will never be able to forget.
I thought I owed it to myself to stick to my goals and plans, and inevitably let Grayson go.
Maybe I owe myself the opposite.