Goddamnit.
My eyes zero right back in on her. She’s alone now, inspecting a closed oyster at the unmanned table. She’s chewing on her lip, glancing from the oyster in her bare hand, to the shucking knife on the table, and back again.
She picks up the blade, and it sets my feet in motion, carving through the clusters of people with an urgency that has no place at this cookout. Because this stubborn woman is about to do exactly what I think she is.
And she does.
She jams the blade into the shell, using the same technique I demonstrated during the guided tour last week.
But then something makes her jump, and the blade slips, spearing right into her gloveless palm.
15
ELIZA
Amanda might bemy first friend in Garnet Shores.
We’ve chatted all week—small talk that flows into conversations about our favorite seasons, what brought her to the farm, whether oysters are better grilled or raw. They’re surface-level topics, and we haven’t exchanged phone numbers or followed each other on social media, sofriendmight be a slightly desperate stretch. But she invited me to the farm’s cookout tonight.
She also caught me filming Grayson from afar several times this week and said nothing, just giving a conspiratorial twist of her lips that suggests she’s onto my game and is, at the very least, entertained. And everyone knows there is no bond stronger than the one forged between a vengeful woman declaring war on a man, and her confidant.
The farm’s parking lot is humming with chatter and the easy thrum of guitar strings when I pull in. The sunset is lost behind dense clouds, a large bonfire casting a soft light over the gathering that’s more crowded than I expected. A table is set up near the warehouse’s entrance, filled with platters of food.
Some of my nervousness eases. If Amanda isn’t here yet and I fail at inserting myself into conversations, I can at least look occupied by stuffing my face before calling it an early night.
Still, my fingers play anxiously in the oversized sleeves of my sweatshirt as I head over, the smell of burnt wood swirling in my nose and dredging up memories from high school and my camping trips with Kitty.
It’s funny. Campfires should smell bad, but all that chemical combustion brings a wash of nostalgia instead. I’ve sat by my fair share of evening fires in the city, but those propane patio firepits never get the scent right.
Amanda pops out of the gathering with a drink in her hand, giving me a friendly wave. My relief is immediate, and I have to hold myself back from breaking the rules of early-almost-friendship and giving her a giant hug.
“Glad you could make it.” She’s wearing an army green trucker jacket, and her hair is thrown into a haphazard knot, streaks of pale yellow and brownish-gold reflecting in the firelight.
“Thanks for the invite.”
“‘Course. These cookouts are a summer tradition around here.” She glances over shoulder and sighs. “Besides, the ratio of dicks to women is always way off. It’s nice having some more of us here to stop this from turning into a frat party.”
I laugh a little, realizing that the ratioisquite off. I spot Joy bumbling among the crowd, a few ponytails scattered around, but it’s mostly men—and Dave, who’s plucking food scraps off the ground.
I set my gaze back on Amanda before my survey can confirm Grayson’s presence. Though, who am I kidding? Of coursehe’s here.
It’s his farm.
Amanda gestures toward a cooler. “You want a drink?”
“Amanda!” The shout has us both spinning toward the fire. “You bring that electric sander?”
“Yeah! I’ll go get it.” She turns back, wincing. “Sorry. I’ll be five minutes, max. Just got to grab this thing from my car and give him a tutorial. He shouldn’t need one, but he already fucked up Steve’s.” She points her beer toward the food table as she backs away. “You should get something to eat! The sandwiches are good, but the stuffed Quahogs could give you an orgasm.”
Then she’s gone, and I’m standing on my own, contemplating the groups around me like a lost puppy.
To the food it is.
I plop a stuffed clam on a plastic plate and wander to a platter of ice filled with whole oysters. A blunt blade sits next to a basket of discards.
I pause.
Have I ever shucked an oyster in my life? No.
