You’re punishing yourself,a counselor told me.
For what?
Asking for what you need.
The pub doors swing tentatively open, and a man, my age, ushers an annoyed woman inside. She looks around doubtfully, a toddler clutched to her chest. Tourist.
The waiter calls out, “After a table, mate?”
The woman’s eyes are locked on the fading photos on the walls. Dozens of dead fish, bleeding heavily from their mouths, held up by delighted fishermen. The woman winces, holds her baby closer. “No,” she says quite firmly. “We’re good.”
The man stuffs his hands into his pockets and gives an embarrassed nod before turning quickly to the door. Behind me, someone snorts.
The waiter gives them a tight-lipped smile. When the family are barely out of earshot, he mutters loudly, “Farken tourists. Wastin’ my farken time.”
Us. Them.
If there’s one thing that unites a fishing town, it’s burning hatred for the tourists.There used to be more fish in the good ol’ days, but then the farken tourists came and wiped out the population.
Of course, in the same breath, our dads will brag that they used to catch hundreds back in the day. But they’re not to blame, you see? It’s the tourists. The tourists with their broken rods and dead worms for bait, it’s all their fault.Let the fuckers drown.
We know they’re full of shit. But our dads have dominion, and this town, these waters, are their bloody playground. We are the mums and daughters. We are scared and silent, and so very agreeable.
We have to be.
Some of us hate ourselves for it. Some of us scream in silencebecause no one will listen until we shatter. Others, like my mother, run on empty to keep everyone else full. When that doesn’t work, they just run.
I used to blame the women in this town for looking the other way, for looking down. I don’t anymore. Thanks to my father and Oliver, I know now why they had to run. Because if you don’t, you’re emptied, bit by bit. Voice first. Then your presence, the weight of you. You’re still here, still breathing, but you’ll feel it: the fading.
Ghosts.
I chew the steak slowly, blood coating my mouth. Heath is hunched over the table, scanning the pub while his food goes cold.
I stop chewing. “You right?”
He nods automatically, forces a smile. “Yeah…hell of a night.”
“I’ve never seen one so close,” I say, thinking of the shark’s unblinking eyes, its pale underbelly, jaw jutting forward. “…Have you?”
He pauses. “Yeah, a few times. Comes with the territory.”
“Do you ever get scared to go out on the boat at night? Knowing they’re out there?”
“Not at all,” he says, surprised. “Most of the time, I feel safer at sea than on land.” He gives me a sidelong look. “It’s the people you gotta watch, Min. You should know that.”
He straightens up, slow and deliberate, spine locking into place. He eyes me, sharp and still, assessing. Not angry, exactly, just uneasy. “You attacked someone live on air?”
Shit.
“No, I didn’t. And anyway, they cut to a commercial before that,” I say, eyes downcast. “They didn’t get it on camera.” My once-a-month lunch friends texted me that.There’s a rumor you threw something at Joy Marriot? Good for you! She’s a nasty piece.
Mel, if the studio tries to fire you, just remind them of her charity fraud.
haha, yep, I’m sure they’ll change their minds pretty quick!
“It’s fine,” I insist.
“It’s not.”
