by Melinda Minx
“Cool,” I say. “Pfizer, famous for boner medicine. I could make a real difference working there. Give all the old men of the world nice, big, stiff boners.”
Dad shouts, “I’ll be an old man someday, Sophie! I may need that advanced boner medicine if I want to keep feeling young. And don’t you think making boner medicine is a better use of your Ph.D. than being a waitress at the Crab Shack?”
After Mason dumped me—which feels like forever ago—I went straight to college. Pre-med. I shifted gears to pharmacology, and I never took a break. Not a single vacation. By the time I was in my late twenties, I had become one of the most respected and well-published researchers in my field.
And then I burnt out. Hard. I’d been dating a colleague. Both of us were too busy with our work to really be busy with each other. We’d talked about marriage for years, saying we’d do it one day. But somehow, we never found the time. Or maybe we just lacked the will.
When he finally came up for air after finishing a big project, he was suddenly serious about marrying me. And I got cold feet. Freezing cold.
I came back to Tuckett Bay to unravel. To get away. I called it my “gap year,” just because I never took anything of the sort after high school, or after undergrad, or after my Masters—or ever.
I’m over fifteen months into my gap year now. I’ve saved up enough money that—if I really wanted and was frugal—I could go a decade or so without working. The waitress job is just to keep me doing something, and to make the drain on my savings hit a little less hard. Dad says it’s to give me an excuse to stay.
I plate the eggs and pat the bacon dry. “One piece, Dad.”
“Apply for the job, Sophie,” he grunts. “If you’re gone too long, no one will ever hire you again.”
I put the plate down. “Veggies tomorrow, okay?”
He grumbles and bites into his single strip of reduced-fat bacon. “Apply.”
“You just want me gone so you can eat garbage again.”
“I don’t want you gone, Sophie,” he says. “It’s a joy to have you here again, but I know this isn’t what you want out of your life. You’re too smart for Tuckett Bay.”
We work on the crossword puzzle together, and then I go to work.
3
Mason
“Shit, man,” Marv says. “That really you? Mason fucking Steel? I heard you died.”
“I look dead to you?” I punch his arm.
“Ouch!” he yelps. “Okay, so you aren’t dead. And you look pretty fucking strong.”
“So you got a job for me?”
He looks me up and down. “You’ve got a lot of fucking ink, but that’s no fisherman ink.”
“Special forces,” I say. “I’ve been in dry fucking deserts for the last decade, Marv, get me on a boat. I want to get elbow-deep in fish stink. I want the salt water stinging my wounds.”
He narrows his eyes at the big knife scar on my forearm. “I haven’t left Tuckett Bay since high school, I’d give anything to get the fuck out of here. And you been gone over fifteen years—you could go anywhere in the country, man—and you come back here?”
“Let me fish.”
“Alright,” Marv says. “You know your way around a fishing boat, I know that, and if we get attacked by pirates, I bet you can kill every last one of ‘em with your bare hands, huh?”
“There’s no pirates off the coast of fucking Massachusetts, man.”
“It’s a joke. You don’t got jokes in the special forces?”
I find myself staring a thousand miles past him, past the pier and out into the sea. The abandoned lighthouse looms on the shore, like a reminder that this whole industry and town is dying. A dead end. “We got jokes,” I mumble. “You just wouldn’t think any of ‘em are funny.”
“I can give you thirty an hour to start,” Marv says. “That’s a bit better than standard rate, since we go back and all, and if you stick around a whole season, I can talk about cutting you in as a partner and what not. I need someone solid to help me manage some of the fuck-ups I got working for me.”
“Nah,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m not doing this for the money. Living in hell had a low cost of living. I don’t want any responsibility, Marv, I just want to do a good job fishing. Keep myself awake and alive, you know?”
He nods, but I can tell he doesn’t really know what the hell I’m talking about.
I get on his boat, and the rest of his crew straggles in over the next twenty minutes. There’s one guy, John, who I vaguely recall from high school, but the other two, Ashton and Samuel, are too young for me to have known them back when I was growing up here.
“You’re Eric’s brother?” John asks me, looking me up and down.
“I was, yeah,” I say.
My tone tells him not to go there. By the way he bites his lip, I can tell he won’t bring Eric up again. Good.
We set out to sea and suit up. The big orange suit and hood covers all of my scars and tattoos, and I forget for a few moments at a time about everything that happened over the last fifteen years. That feels good. To forget.
Though I’m not really back here to forget.
I work the nets, and the salty foam crashes against the bow, churning up onto the deck. Fishing isn’t as dangerous as hunting the Taliban or ISIS, but if you aren’t careful, it still can kill you.
The smell of the sea and the salt in my beard brings me right back to high school. Fishing with Eric after school. He told me he never wanted to have to stay in Tuckett Bay. He never wanted to be one of those guys like Marv who is still here in his thirties, doing the same shit he was doing in high school.
I shake my head. “This one’s for you, bro,” I say, my muscles bulging as I pull a trap filled with cod out of the water and back up over the bow. I throw it down onto the deck, and I watch the big cod squirming.
I feel a big hand slap my back. Marv shouts over the water into my ear. “Time to eat. Free food at the Crab Shack.”
4
Sophie
I get to work a little bit late, but no one really cares. Business is mostly slow until the fishing crews come in. I saw Marv’s boat pulling into harbor on the drive over, but it will take them a while to unload their haul and head over here.
The Crab Shack lets fishing crews eat for free in exchange for some of their fresh catch. They still have to tip the waitresses, of course, so it’s all good for me. During tourist season, seeing all the fishing crews come in to eat makes the Shack a big draw for tourists. If the fishermen all eat here, it must be good, right?
It is good, I admit. It was my favorite place to eat growing up here, and it was the first place I always came back to eat when I visited Dad. Now that I’ve worked here for months, though, I’d rather get a steak on my days off.
“Sophie,” Melanie says, smiling as I step in.
“Hey, Mel,” I say. “Sorry I’m late.”
“No biggie,” she says.
Melanie became owner of the Crab Shack after her parents both died. Neither of us ever spoke again of that time she blocked me in the chemistry room because I ruined the curve. She was a bitch in high school, but she turned out to be a good person. High school, I realized years after the fact, often brings out the worst in everyone.
I also never told Melanie that—if it wasn’t for her—I probably never would have met Mason the way I did. I never would have lost my virginity to him...and he never would have abandoned me.
I don’t blame Melanie for the last part, but I feel at least somewhat thankful to her for the first parts. I don’t think I’ll ever forgive Mason for abandoning me, but it’s so fucking long ago now that I mostly remember the good parts of being with him. Mostly. And aside from that, how can someone forgive a ghost? He didn’t even come back for his parents’ funeral. At least I’m not the only one he abandoned.
An older couple from out of town comes in, and I head over to take their order.
“You guys got crab?” the guy asks. “Fresh crab?”
“Fresh crab,” I say. “Of course, we’ve got some really fresh Dungeness in this morning.”
“Yeah,” he says. “It’s not frozen? Not imitation?”
This has become more and more of a theme lately, as the fishing industry in New England dries up, more and more places that used to feature fresh seafood are filling their freezers up with frozen fish from all over the country or imported from overseas.
“Never frozen,” I say, grinning. “And the fries are fresh-cut from real potatoes. I’d definitely recommend a basket with your crab.”
“Easy on the salt,” his wife says, poking him. “Crab for both of us. One basket of fries.”
I smile. “Light salt,” I say. “Got it. Oh, I forgot to take your drink orders.”
“Water’s fine,” his wife says. “Jason shouldn’t drink.”
“I shouldn’t live life,” he mutters.
“I’m not getting a cola!” she says. “We both have to give up something!”
The man, Jason, looks up at me with pleading eyes. I know he wants me to “forget” to go light on the salt—though he knows I can’t help him out with the beer. He reminds me of my dad, but I’m taking his wife’s side. I know how hard it is to force old men into healthier habits.
I go into the kitchen with the order and say hi to all the kitchen crew.
“Marv and Derek’s crew is coming in for sure,” Will says. “I don’t think Dyer went out today, though.”
“Ah,” I say. “No grouper?”
“Nope,” Will says. “I saw Winston’s boat go out late, so he’ll be in late.”
I nod. “Dungeness, order of fries.”
Will grabs a basket and loads the potatoes into it.
When I get back to the front, Derek’s crew is all piling in. Most still have their overalls and suits on, since they’re going to go back out again after lunch. They nod and wave as they pile in. Derek takes a big crate of fish straight through to the back.
Melanie and I scramble to take orders—the advantage of coming to the Crab Shack is that they don’t have to just order the same thing they brought in. Otherwise Derek’s crew would get real tired of eating the same thing every day.
I get two tables’ worth of drink orders and scurry to the back for a tray. Just as I am disappearing into the kitchen, I see Marv’s crew start to pile in.
“Getting busy fast,” I say, smiling.
Something about a lunch-hour rush as a waitress is really fulfilling to me. It’s a big surge of work, and it’s demanding, and then it’s done. I can have a solid feeling of having gotten a lot done, and it doesn’t come home with me. It’s the opposite of research.
I step back out into the front with the tray of drinks, and I see a fucking ghost.
I nearly drop the tray, but I manage to catch my balance and set the tray down on an empty table, turn my back, and run white-faced back into the kitchen.
When I get into the kitchen, my heart is pounding against my chest, and I can feel the blood rushing through my ears. Holy shit. That looked like Mason Steel. A much harder, tattooed, and bearded Mason Steel. But Mason all the same.
Melanie comes through the swinging doors. “Sophie? You left the drinks on the table? You okay?”
“Can you do me a favor?” I ask. “Can you go outside and tell me that guy out there isn’t Mason Steel?”
“Oh,” she says. “Yeah, Mason is back. I heard Marv mention it.”
Mason is back. No. He’s not supposed to come back. It’s one thing to disappear and never be seen again, it’s another thing entirely to come back.
I feel the shock turn to anger. It flares up in my chest, and my nails dig into my palms.
“You gonna’ get those drinks?” Melanie asks.
“You get the fucking drinks,” I hiss.
“Hey?” she asks, putting a hand on me. She looks at me, then I see a spark of memory hit her face. “Oh. You guys dated, didn’t you? Wasn’t that a fling?” She sees my face twist up when she says it. “Oh, okay, so definitely not a fling.”
“He told me he’d come back to me,” I whisper.
“He’s back,” Melanie says.
“After fifteen fucking years! He stopped writing to me after about a year. I thought he was…”
I was going to say “the one,” but I don’t want to sound like a naive idiot.
Melanie sighs. “I heard he hasn’t been back the whole time, sweetie, probably best you didn’t wait for him. Though you’re single now, aren’t ya?”
I stare daggers at her. Everyone has been trying to set me up with their brother or their cousin or their nephew since I came back to Tuckett Bay. Melanie knows I’m single, she’s just asking it like a question to put ideas into my head.
“Can you…” I say. “Can I not serve his table?”
“Uh,” Melanie says. “Sure, but that’s your plan? Just to ignore him. I think he’s planning to stay.”
“Yes,” I say through clenched teeth. “He just ignored me. He didn’t even have the dignity to tell me it’s over, why should I pay attention to him now?”
5
Sophie
Fifteen Years Ago
The bell rings signaling the start of sixth period Chemistry class, and everyone keeps talking…but no one is talking to me. I don’t have a lot of friends.
I turn around in my seat and take a look at Mason Steel. Plenty of people are talking to him. He’s a senior, and every girl in school is wondering who he’s going to ask to Homecoming.
One of my few friends, Steph, says he’s not going to ask anyone. He’s too cool to even go to Homecoming, according to Steph.
Compared to all the other boys in class, Mason looks like a man. He has thick, muscular arms, a wide chest, and broad shoulders. He’s taller than every other boy in school, towering over them. His cheekbones are sharp enough to cut glass, and his cobalt blue eyes are always brooding, despite their bright color.
I sigh. One thing is sure enough though, even if he does ask someone to Homecoming, it sure as hell won’t be me.
My parents couldn’t afford to get me braces until the end of my sophomore year—after I got a part-time job to help them pay for them—and my teeth were a total, ugly mess. They are just starting to look okay now, but it’s already almost the end of my junior year. The orthodontist suggested wearing my headgear to school because that extra time would have me out of braces quicker. I did that one time—one single time—and the merciless ridicule was so bad that I’m still called “Robot Girl” to this day.
And since I didn’t keep wearing my headgear to school, I’ll still have my braces on for Homecoming. And, even without the braces, I'm kind of a geek. Then, to top it off, I'm all awkward-looking... my breasts starting filling out all of a sudden last year, and it embarrasses the hell out of me. I wear big, baggy sweatshirts to cover them up.
“Quiet!” Mr. Holloway shouts. “Class has started. We’re going to start out today by going over your tests.”
Oh, the test! I perk right up and smile, but I hear the rest of the class all groaning.
“What are you smiling at, Robot Girl?” my classmate Melanie hisses at me. “What kind of nerd gets excited about a test?”
I cross my arms and slouch down in my seat. My shoulders slump.
Mr. Holloway starts handing out the tests. Every time he passes out a test, the student he hands it to reacts as if it’s a gut punch. There are heads falling down onto desks, load groans, and a lot of under-their-breath swearing.
“Relax,” Mr. Holloway says. “This was a very difficult test. There will be a curve.”
That kills the groaning just a little bit. I watch Mr. Holloway hand Mason Steel his test. No, I watch Mason’s face. Mason’s never actually been nice to me, but then again, he’s also never been mean or nasty to me either. I use that little piece of truth as evidence to convince myself that he secretly has a big crush on me. I’m pretty sure it’s not true—if he had
a crush on me, he’d at least look at me from time to time—but it’s fun to pretend.
Mason looks down at his paper, and rather than groaning or whining, his shoulders sag just a little bit. He starts to skim his fingers across the paper, shaking his head.
“Melanie,” Mr. Holloway says, putting a paper face down on Melanie’s desk, “Slide this over to Sophie. Don’t look at it.”
He turns away and moves on to the next student.
No. Please, no.
Melanie grabs the paper, flips it over, and looks right at it. “A ninety-two?! Robot Girl ruined the curve!”
I snatch my test paper out of her hand. Shit! I missed a full question and got partially marked off for another. I know I could have done better.
Okay, so maybe my “Robot Girl” nickname is also because of stuff like this, not just the headgear.
“Everyone will get eight points added to their score,” Mr. Holloway drones.
Everyone turns their heads to glare at me. Mason is sitting behind me, so I can’t see him, but I don’t dare look to see if he’s glaring at me, too. Judging from his reaction when he first looked at his test, he didn’t do so well. He’s probably furious with me, too, and if I see him giving me that look everyone else is, it will shatter my fantasy about him having a crush on me.
We go over the test for most of the class. When I finally dare turn around to see how Mason is doing, I see him looking down at his test. He has a confident smirk on his face.
The bell rings ending class, and I try to get out of there as fast as I can. I want to disappear into the crowds in the hallway. If I can put a few hundred feet between me and the chemistry room, all the people who are mad at me will be too far spread out for the anger to flare up into a mob against me. High school students have short memories, and by tomorrow, they will barely remember that they’re supposed to be angry with me.
But no, Mr. Holloway runs out before any of the students do. I hear a lot of the boys joking that Mr. Holloway probably has IBS, so it might be a while before he gets back to the classroom.