I worked for over an hour, pruning, cleaning, assessing the extent of the damage. The sun climbed higher, beating down on my neck, but I barely noticed. This was a ritual, almost a penance. For what, I wasn’t sure. For thinking this small patch of the world could remain untouched?
Thankfully, the damage wasn’t as terminal as I’d first feared. The roots were still strong, anchored deep in the soil. The hedge would recover. But it would bear the scars of this morning for a while.
Just like my goddamn peace of mind.
I gathered the bucket of floral casualties and dumped them into the trash can. The clang of the metal lid sounded definitive. Another piece of chaos, however temporarily, wrestled back into place.
But the edginess remained, a low, persistent thrum beneath my skin like an engine idling. I pulled out my phone, my thumb hovering over Eli’s name. He was probably underwater with a dive class or, more likely, blissfully entangled with Jules in that honeymoon bubble that rendered him impervious to the outside world. They had married on the resort beach last month, and Eli settled into newlywed life like a fish taking to, well, water. Another sibling lost to domesticity. Still, the urge to connect, to hear a familiar voice, was strong. I hit dial.
It rang three times before he picked up, his voice predictably cheerful. “Captain Grinch! To what do I owethe honor? Did you run out of brooding material and need to bounce some new ideas off me?”
“Very funny, Eli. You got a minute? Or is Jules making you color-coordinate your socks now?”
A hearty laugh crackled through the phone, and a smile touched my lips. “Hey, a little order never hurt anyone. Besides, she says the sock routine brings out the blue in my eyes. What’s up? You sound tenser than usual. Which is saying something.”
“Neighbor issues,” I said, keeping it vague. No need to rehash the whole sordid Sprinklergate. “Got an itch to get wet. You free for a dive?”
A pause. “Aw, Austin, you know I’d love to, but I’ve got an open-water class starting in about an hour. And Jules wants to unpack those last wedding gift boxes.”
“Right. The joys of domestic bliss.”
“Hey, don’t knock it ’til you try it, brother,” Eli said, his voice still cheerful. “Though I don’t see you rushing to the altar anytime soon. Tell you what, though. I could swing a night dive if you’re up for it. Just us. We could dive right off the beach at the resort.”
The thought was tempting. The ocean at night was a different world. Secretive, alien. But the disquiet was a coiled spring in my gut now. “Nah. Tonight’s no good. Got to get my beauty sleep.”
Eli snorted. “Beauty sleep? Austin, you need a damn beauty coma. But hey, your loss. Don’t want you scaring the nocturnal critters with that mug of yours anyway.”
That finally drew a laugh from me. “Yeah, yeah. Hilarious. Another time, then.”
“You got it. Hey, seriously… you okay?”
“Peachy,” I lied. “Just peachy.”
“Uh-huh. Well, if peachy involves needing to blow offsteam when I’m not otherwise occupied, give me another ring. See you later.”
“Thanks. Later, Eli.”
I hung up, the brief exchange leaving me feeling both slightly better and oddly more adrift. Even my usual escape routes were temporarily blocked. Meeting Braden for a beer at Tidal Hops was too much effort.
Too much explaining.
Too much people.
I found myself walking along the strip of sand and pebble beach that fronted this northern edge of the island. The rhythmic sigh of waves breaking on the shore, a sound that usually soothed the tight, familiar knot in my gut, offered little comfort. Today, even the ocean couldn’t quite unravel the tangle of irritation Holloway had introduced.
I walked west, toward where my carefully tended property gave way to something wilder—the untamed, overgrown jungle of Heron House’s grounds. It looked like nature had thrown a drunken, years-long party and forgotten to clean up. The sprawling mess of tangled vines and invasive Brazilian pepper trees sagged under the weight of neglect.
“And what fresh hell will be next?” I asked a passing crab, which wisely scuttled away.
The possibilities, given my brief but memorable introduction to Holloway’s capabilities, seemed depressingly, creatively endless. Weariness settled deep in my bones, a feeling far older than my thirty-four years. A weariness of fighting for meaning, for order, in a world that seemed determined to conspire against both.
Sunday morning dawned almost suspiciouslyserene.
I sat on my back patio, the wood of the rocking chaircreaking faintly as I cradled my first cup of coffee. The air was still and heavy with the promise of another hot day, the only sounds the birds in the trees and the gentle, rhythmic lapping of the tide against the shore.
No generators coughed to life. No off-key singing assaulted the sanctity of the sunrise. Just calm. In the forgiving morning light, my hibiscus hedge looked less traumatized. The gaps were still there, the bruises on the leaves, but a few brave, unopened buds hinted at a future.
I finished my coffee, the last dregs bitter on my tongue. The silence from next door was like the hush in the eye of a storm, not a lasting, dependable truce. But today I had an escape chute.
