ELIZA
I haven’t felt the urge to skip since I was a child, but I’m practically hopscotching around the farm when I arrive to shoot some late-day content, the afternoon sun reflecting a vivid gold on the water.
My smile is overly bright, my voice too high-pitched as I make small talk with the team, but I don’t care.
I just gave a masterclass-level performance in my interview.
I know this because the Marketing VP called me three hours after our video call to offer me the position.
A thirty-percent increase from my last job’s salary, decent paid time off, a lunch stipend, a gym stipend, an expanded cubicle next to windows, and a clearly structured promotion plan, plus a signing bonus that would cover four months’ rent, and maybe a tropical vacation, too.
They wanted me so badly, they put together the prettiest list of perks that’s ever been written in Times New Roman—as if a list of perks, written beneath a strict list of heavy responsibilities, makes this an impassably good opportunity for me.
A big, exciting step in the right direction, with all the privileges that indicate forward progress.
Two months ago, it would have been. But now, my definition of good for me isn’t as narrow. I’m still figuring out what that definition is, still questioning if changing it will even be the right choice in the end.
But my fresh signature on Anson Gold’s contract should help me figure that out.
And the fact that I’m prancing around the farm with a goofy grin is a promising sign that this is a step in the right direction.
I’m leaning against the warehouse wall, throwing together a basic post, when Grayson’s skiff finally pulls into the dock. As Mark ambles off the boat with orange baskets in his hand, I head down to say hello, the pep in my step getting peppier at the sight of Grayson’s sturdy form.
It’s only been a few hours, but I miss Grayson like some lovesick schoolgirl. Maybe it’s silly, but there’s no need to stifle the impulse. There’s no desire to.
Not when Grayson’s so obviously intent on embracing me, and I’m just as wrapped up in him.
He’s turned away from me, stacking two crates of oysters when I step on the dock. “Hey, farmer,” I drawl.
I’m prepared to be struck by his good-natured grin, the one his rugged face wears so well, or maybe some kind of quip.
So I’m caught off-guard when Grayson’s back stiffens and his arms freeze. After a momentary pause, he resumes his work.
My enthusiasm stutters. “Bad day?”
Had he gotten a call about Dawson? Maybe there was an issue out on the farm?
“Not as good as yours,” comes his flat reply.
My brows crash together. “I mean, I did have a good day, but…”
He jerks the crates into the air and plops them on the deck with a thud. Only then does he plant his hands on his hips and look at me.
Instantly, my bubble of happiness pops, anxiety filling the space. Because Grayson’s face is impassive, devoid of all the warmth I’ve become addicted to.
The last time I saw this look was when he wanted me gone. Back when I was the worst part of his day.
I know why he’s wearing that expression the instant he says, “I’m sure you did. Probably the best day ever. An interview and an instant job offer. Your dream.”
I blink.
My lips part.
The cascade of implications hit me all at once, and the picture they paint is unforgiveable.
Grayson thinks I pursued a job in the city today.
That I told him one thing last night, and turned around and did another behind his back.
I know how much staying in Garnet Shores means to him, and I lifted all his hopes, just to toss them aside.
He misreads my silence for confusion. “They called me for a reference, instead of Anson.”
References. I hadn’t even thought of that, because I wasn’t taking this job opportunity seriously. I never was, at any point in the process. That’s why I didn’t tell him. But he doesn’t know that, and it looks so, so bad.
“I—”
“I told them you’d be an amazing hire,” he states.
My explanation halts in my throat. Why would he do that? Does he…does he want me gone? Does a simple phone call, a screwed up misunderstanding, just negate everything?
A buzzing fills the air, and he drags his gaze away to glance at his phone. “Fuck,” he murmurs, then answers.
I don’t know what he says, worry and hurt flying around my head in disorganized chaos. His call is short, and thirty seconds later, he jerks his phone back into his pocket, starts up the engine, and loosens the lines.
His intent sends another wave of disbelief through me.
He’s…leaving.
“Engine problem by the float. Kenny’s stranded. I’ve got to go,” he mutters, his eyes everywhere but me.
I should jump onto his boat. Force him to listen and understand, talk this out. But I feel like I’ve been punched in the face, so I watch, numb, as his skiff drifts away instead.
I can’t think, can’t process. I’m mentally drowning as I rigidly retreat from the dock, barely aware of where I’m going.
Which is why I nearly crash into Amanda as she exits the warehouse.
“Shit! Sorry.” My head jerks up, and there’s no time to hide my feelings.
Amanda freezes. “You okay?”
Tears, delayed in their reaction, spring from my eyes.
“Alright, you’re definitely not okay,” she rushes out, eyes flaring in panic. “Do you, um, want to talk about it?”
I rapidly shake my head as the first tear makes landfall on my cheek.
“Okay,” she breathes. “Do you want to be alone?”
I don’t know what I want. I don’t know what to think.
The only thing I can think to do right now is call Kitty, but she’s unreachable.
When I don’t answer, she nods, grabs my arm, and drags me toward the warehouse.
“What are you doing?” I whisper, fighting to control the wobble in my voice.
“I’m not leaving you alone like this,” she states.
“Workday’s over, and the warehouse is empty, so we’re going to go sit in the corner and stuff our faces with the cookies Steve’s wife made.
And if you don’t want to eat, and you don’t feel like talking, you can throw darts to distract yourself.
We can even print out someone’s face and stick it to the board. ”
“What if…” My mouth doesn’t feel fully attached to my body. “What if I should just leave?”
“Then you leave.” Amanda’s lips press together. “But you should wait until you know leaving’s the best choice.”
I nod and follow her.
The half-eaten platter mocks me as Amanda swipes her third—no, fifth—cookie from the tray. They’re chocolate chip, slightly underbaked, just how I like them. They smell delicious.
But the chips are arranged in a smiley face.
The same smiles I was doling out forty-five minutes ago, before Grayson pulled into the dock. The thought of him would make me nauseous, if I wasn’t already on the verge of throwing up.
He’ll be back any minute, and I still don’t know if I should be here when he arrives. If he wants me here. My dead phone sits on the folding table, taunting me with the possibility that he’s texted, saying he never wants to see my face again.
True to her word, Amanda hasn’t forced anything out of me—just kicked her feet up on an empty chair, loaded a livestream baseball game on her phone, and started chowing down on cookies.
A dart board I never noticed before hangs expectantly on the wall, but I don’t feel like printing a photo of Grayson’s face and piercing it with projectiles.
If anything, it should be a photo of me.
Because this is entirely my fault.
I didn’t hide the interview from Grayson on purpose.
If I’d run into him between my mother’s call and the video meeting, I would have mentioned it.
But I didn’t go out of my way to text him about it because it wasn’t a big deal.
Nothing was going to change. It was a favor to my parents.
Knowing he was probably buried in work, I didn’t want to cause him pointless stress.
Maybe, if he hadn’t received that reference call, it would have been the right choice.
Maybe it still would have been wrong.
Doesn’t matter now though, because, fuck, I think I might’ve just ruined everything.
All my achievements, all the effort I put into doing everything well, and I carelessly ignored how one choice could impact the best thing I’ve ever had.
And I know it’s the best thing—that he’s the best choice I’ve ever made, the best gift to ever come into my life—because it wouldn’t feel like my lungs and heart, my entire world, are on the verge of collapse if he wasn’t.
I was heartbroken when I was fired, angry and disappointed when Kyle cheated on me. But this? It’s mounting into a fucking sledgehammer, and I don’t know if I can stop it. If Grayson will even give me a chance to explain.
He owes me that chance. If he really cares about me, he owes me enough credit to hear me out.
But Dawson broke his heart this week.
Just last year, that girl tore him up.
And I saw the pure joy on his face last night when I told him I was staying.
A heart that’s been jerked around like his might be done giving chances.
Fuck.
Something clangs outside the warehouse. Bile shoots up my throat. A fine tremor overtakes my hands as Amanda angles her head, squinting toward the open door.
She didn’t witness our exchange at the dock, but she reveals she has some idea of what’s going on when she quietly says, “It isn’t him,” and turns back to the baseball game.
It isn’t him, but it should be. A simple tow shouldn’t take this long. Maybe he’s avoiding me.
I stare at my fingers, still shaking uncontrollably against the table top.
You should go. You’re reacting this way because instinct is telling you he doesn’t want you here. If you leave now, you’ll have enough time to grab your things from his house, and…and…
A sigh cuts through my spiral.
“I don’t know the situation—” I glance up at Amanda, who’s no longer watching her phone. “But if it involves him, I’ve got to say something. Because it can’t be as world-ending as you clearly think it is.”
Slowly, I shake my head. “It’s bad.”
She finishes the last of her cookie, then dusts her hands off.
“Two years ago, when I was still pretty new, I crashed one of our boats. I’d just started driving them, and a storm was coming in as I pulled up to the dock.
The wind messed me up, the bow started heading for one of the pilings, and I panicked.
Hit the throttle too hard and went right into another one of our boats.
” She laughs to herself. “Damage was so bad, we were out of two skiffs for a week.”
I can’t imagine a world where Amanda got that flustered. She’s always so…unbothered.
Her feet drop from the chair, and she swings to face me, leaning on the table.
“I thought Gray was going to fire my ass and sue me for damages. The thing was entirely my fault. But he didn’t.
” She shrugs. “He was upset, at first. Didn’t say a word, and I thought I was done for.
Then he found me about ten minutes later and told me not to worry.
Said they have insurance for a reason, and that it was his fault for sending me out there alone in unfamiliar conditions. ”
I understand the point she’s trying to make, but if anything, her story only shreds me more. This is the person I just inadvertently hurt. The person I might’ve just lost.
But Amanda isn’t done. “I was just another employee that he’d only known for six months, and he had my back, no questions asked.” She studies me. “He’s got yours.”
She doesn’t know what I did. “How can you be so sure?”
Smiling to herself, she shakes her head, like it’s the world’s dumbest question.
“Back when you started, when you two were going at it like little squirrels fighting over a tree branch, he’d steal looks at you all day long.
Then he started correcting the team with your title when they called you the video or phone girl.
Then he started bringing you up in conversations you really didn’t need to be part of. ”
“Insults, I’m sure.”
“No,” she corrects, leaning back in her chair. “Neutral things. Nice things. The stuff you say about a person you can’t stop thinking about, but don’t hate.”
Oh.
“At some point, he fell ass over head for you, giving you these longing, doe-eyed looks I don’t think were even conscious. Smiling when people mentioned you, going out of his way to do things for you.”
My breathing turns shallow, like inhaling too deeply might drown out her words.
“He told us to leave a parking space open for you by the office. He’d have us put the nicest pick-up bags on the lowest shelf in the fridge.
Keep an eye out for you on your morning swims if we had an early shift.
Tidy up one of the skiffs every day so you wouldn’t have to move stuff if you wanted to film it.
That day he asked Kenny and I to make that sorting tutorial for you, we were already drowning in work.
“And every single day he was in Ohio and I sent him reports about the farm, he’d ask about you—if you were working too hard, taking on too much. If it seemed like you had a good day. Every. Single. Time.”
Tears burn my eyes again, but not for the reason they did before.
“You ask how I can be so sure he’s got your back,” she says, waving a hand in the air. “Well, duh. He’s in fucking love with you.”