And the photo’s timestamp is yesterday—when Jane and I were supposed to be having lunch, until she cancelled on me.
Sara Last Name??: Sorry, you’re so nice. Thought you should know.
My heart stalls, betrayal flushing my body cold. I feel like throwing up. Like the car is too small and too big all at once. Like this is some weird anxiety dream, because Jane is one of my closest friends, and she—I mean, she couldn’t haveactuallydone that.
But the photo isn’t grainy, or fuzzy, or altered in any way that allows room for doubt.
It’s Jane, with her wavy chestnut hair and a new mini purse around her shoulder, and Kyle, blonde hair slicked to the side, swallowing each other’s faces.
With robotic movements, I turn the car on and stiffly drive to the farm. I can’t find calmness in the draping trees, or the salt marsh, or the soft morning sky. I don’t evenseeany of it, too busy trying to prevent whatever’s mounting in my chest from escaping, because I’m about to be at work.
Through a haze, I park in front of the farm’s office and jog down to the dock, hoping I’m not late.
But Amanda isn’t there to meet me.
Instead, I’m greeted by Grayson—and Dave.
“Did I miss her?” I pant out.
Grayson’s in his orange waders as he loads empty baskets and crates into the back of a boat, Dave’s head following every movement. “Nope.”
I don’t understand. “We had a ride-along planned for this morning.”
“We also have a divorcee tour this morning.” The final crate hits the deck, and he straightens, planting his hands on his hips. “And one of them emailed last night to ask if ‘the hot farm owner’would be leading that tour, so I asked Amanda to take it.”
His displeasure should be entertaining. At the very least, cause a little chuckle to bubble in my chest. But my chest just feels like collapsing. Like it’s been stuffed with too many things in too short a time, and can’t adjust to the weight of it all.
“Are you taking me with you?” I ask tiredly.
Grayson doesn’t answer right away, like he, too, is waiting for me to find delight in his demise. When I don’t, he nods toward a bench seat with a pile of orange on it. “Got your bibs all set. Hop on.”
Dave waddles by my side as I shake out the rubber, recognizing the same pair of bibs I wore last week. Maybe Grayson’s assigned them to me.
“Finally figured out which side’s the front?” he asks over the engine’s hum as he releases the lines.
“No.” The front and back look too similar.
We pull away from the dock, and he sets us on a straight course out to the farm before coming over. “You can get straight As, but you can’t figure out how to get dressed, huh,” he says lightly, pulling the bibs from my hands and twisting them around.
I also can’t figure out how to choose good friends.
Or land an interview.
Or make my parents proud.
Grayson observes me beneath the brim of his hat as I grab the straps from his hand and say, “I’ve got it from here.”
The plastic bench is cool and damp through my thin leggings as I sit to pull the legs on. In my periphery, Grayson lingers for another beat, probably making sure I’m actually capable of pulling on pant legs before stepping back to the wheel.
Seagulls fly overhead, squawking as they battle the unusually cool breeze rippling the water. Most mornings are calmer and warmer than this, but I don’t mind the cold air whipping my face or the hair whizzing around my head. If anything, I want more of it—more sensations to keep the memory of that photo at bay, to remind me there’s a big world that exists outside my exceptionally shitty morning and that everything isfine.
The second Grayson stops by the cages, I throw myselfinto filming every tiny, little detail, even though I only need about two minutes of footage for the week.
“Amanda said you wanted to film a sorting tutorial?” Grayson asks, as I crouch and take a close-up shot of the oysters he’s pulled in.
“Yes, but I’ll reschedule with her.”
“No need,” he says, peeling off his gloves. “We’re stopping at the new system next, then the sorting float. I’ll do your video.”
