Page 31 of Hearts on the Line

Maybe tomorrow she won’t remember any of it. But I will. Every goddamn second of it.

Chapter 10

Ethan

The ocean’s flat, the kind of stillness that makes you wonder what it’s holding back. Dawn hasn’t burned the haze off yet, so the horizon’s nothing but a smudge line where blue meets pink. I should be thinking about the traps, the tide, the thousand other things that could go wrong on a day like this.

Instead, all I can see is her.

Sloane smiling at me on that bartop as though she were happy to see me. I waited twelve years for that smile. The weight of her body against mine as I braided her hair. The way she leaned in, as though waiting for a kiss.

Trouble.

So much damn trouble.

I yank the throttle and bring the boat around toward the first string of traps. The engine’s got a whine I don’t like. Been meaning to check the belts, but there’s always something else to fix. Like the leak in the walk-in cooler that’s been dripping on and off for two weeks. Like the dishwasher that sounds like it’s eating itself alive every time Tony runs a load. Or the fucking bane of my existence—the fryer.

I rub the back of my neck. My great-grandfather built Merritt’s Catch Lobster Co. from nothing, but my grandfather made it a New England tourist staple. Now I’m one bad month from losing it all. Losing my grandfather in high school was hard enough. I’m not ready to let go of Grandpa’s legacy this way.

The health inspector’s coming back on Friday. Round two of whatever bureaucratic hell she’s planning to put me through. Last visit, she found violations I’m pretty sure she invented just to watch me squirm. The fryer oil, the temperature logs, some bullshit about the freezer seals. Fifteen hundred in fines that might as well have been fifteen thousand for all the good it did to my cash flow.

I can’t be thinking about Sloane. Not when everything else is falling apart.

I know better.

I hook the first buoy with the gaff and haul the line in hand over hand. The rope digs into my palms through the gloves. The trap comes up slow, heavier than it should be. For a second, I think maybe it’s loaded. Maybe today’s the day the ocean decides to cut me a break. My back tenses, hope flaring stupid in my chest.

Empty.

Fucking hell.

Bait’s barely touched, the mesh frayed on one corner where something wore it down to nothing. Some goddamn greenhorn must’ve set their gear over mine again. Third time this month. I slam the trap on the deck harder than I need to, the impact rattling against the boat’s frame.

“I’m sure breaking it will help.”

Brooks’s voice cuts through the engine noise. He’s on the stern, coiling line, grinning like he knows exactly where my head’s at.

“Smartass,” I mutter. “Worry about your end.”

He just grunts, turning away so I don’t see him laugh.

We work through the next few traps without much talk. Haul, bait, reset. The rhythm should calm me, should pull me back to center the way it always has. But my head won’t stay quiet long enough to find that groove.

Wanting things I can’t have is exactly how I got into this mess in the first place.

The fourth trap comes up with two lobsters, both barely legal size. I measure both twice anyway, hoping I’m wrong about the smaller one. I’m not. Brooks doesn’t comment when I toss it back, but I catch the look he gives me.

“We’re not exactly crushing it out here.” He checks his watch. “It’s past eight. Usually, we’d have hit something by now.”

I know what time it is. Know we should’ve pulled at least a dozen by now if the season were running normally.

Voices drift over the radio about limits already filled. It used to fire me up, make me push harder and stay out longer. Until Mom got sick. Dad used to be out here with us, and everything ran smoother then. Mom never fully bounced back after the virus last winter. Some days, she can barely make it up the stairs. Dad’s been staying mostly with her, but I can’t afford to stay out all day, especially with my sister heading to the Cape. Someone needs to manage the restaurant.

“Annie get home okay last night?”

It’s quiet. I turn around, careful not to get my boot stuck in a line. Things are rough, but I’m not ready to throw myself overboard. I toss a crab over the railing, then head to the wheelhouse to check the maps.

“Did she get home okay or what?” I shout.