My phone rings again. I flip it back over, expecting it to be North again, except it isn’t.
It’s Danielle, and she’s sent me a phone number.
I frown at the message.
What’s this?
Danielle (Hudson’s)
Juni’s number
And her favorite restaurant on the island is Bluebeard’s Bakery. Chocolate croissant. Blonde roast coffee, two sugars, splash of oat milk, toffee drizzle. Hot. Always.
I huff with amusement.
Thanks for the info.
Bring her dog a bacon muffin if you really want to impress her.
Noted. Thanks Danielle.
Chapter 4
Juniper
Closing time at Hudson’s is always the same.
Turn the chairs. Sweep. Mop. Count my tips, the till, the booze, the bottles. And after I’ve finished the entire checklist, go outside for a few minutes to take in the waves in the dark.
I’m already exhausted, and the long days aren’t going to stop until after New Year’s.
It’s just me closing most nights. Sometimes Jasmine stays behind to help, but usually, after Chester cleans up and clocks out around eleven, I’m there to kick the night owls out and close it down.
I don’t mind. I like having an hour to myself and being able to clean the way I want to—music on, no one talking to me. I can shut my mask off and breathe, reflect on any awkward interactions I had and try to remember all the things I thought of and said, “Let me make a mental note of that.”
They never stick.
On today’s list of awkward shit…Nick.
I wonder if he saw the drool on the corner of my lip when he first walked in. My friends didn’t let me live down the exchange all afternoon. I was half-hoping he’d show up at closing and askme out again, but past experience is telling me that I’ll never see him again anyway.
Every summer one-night stand I’ve ever had resulted in the same. I’m not complaining. A lot of them were well-equipped. However after thirty-two years, I have to say, I’m tired of small talk. I’m tired of having only enough of a conversation to not feel like I’m sleeping with a complete stranger. I don’t know that I want a relationship, but I want to skip the beginning and go straight to the middle.
Tell me your deepest secrets and the worst thing that ever happened to you. I’ll tell you mine, and we can fuck after until we forget about it all.
Pack circles around me and nudges my hand, her signal that she’s ready to go home and eat her dinner, then cozy on the end of the bed. She doesn’t sleep much at the bar, always alert and looking around for anyone offering scraps.
“Let’s go home,” I tell her.
We go back through the bar, and I make sure to lock everything up and turn off most of the lights. I don’t like leaving things in the pitch-dark. Not that I think a serial killer or one of the stupid twins is going to jump out of the shadows, it’s just eerie as fuck.
Except now that I’m thinking about getting kidnapped in the shadows, I leave an extra light on.
Would it be so bad, though?
Marge is in my head again.
My house is only a few streets over, and well-lit until we get off the main road. We walk to the stoplight a block up to cross the road and up a couple more streets, then turn left onto Fifteenth.
