Page 71 of Island Girl

She took his silence as permission and slid into the chair across from him. Up close, she could see the lines on his face, the gray threaded through his dark hair, the tension in his jaw. He looked older than forty-five. He looked like a man who'd lived several lifetimes and hadn't enjoyed any of them.

“I wanted to thank you,” she said. “For coming to hear me play. It means a lot, knowing you're out here listening.”

Nothing. Not even a flicker.

“I know you don't talk much. That's okay. I just wanted you to know that I see you. And I appreciate you being here.”

Still nothing. But he hadn't told her to leave, so she pressed on.

“Paula told me a little about you,” she said. The words came out before she could stop them, before she could think about whether this was wise. “She told me you used to play. Music, I mean. That you were really good.”

The change was instant.

Ray's whole body went rigid. His hands, which had been resting loosely on the table, curled into fists. His eyes, which had been guarded but calm, turned to something else entirely. Something hot and dangerous.

“She told you.” His voice was low. Rough. Like gravel scraping against stone. “She told you about me.”

“She didn't mean anything by it. She was just trying to help me understand why my music might matter to you. Why you keep coming back.”

“Help you understand.” He repeated the words like they tasted bitter. “So you could what? Fix me? Save me?”

“No, that's not what I meant. I just wanted you to know that I get it. I stopped playing too, for a long time. When my mother was sick, I gave up music because it felt wrong to enjoy anything while she was suffering. But I found my way back, and I thought maybe, if you ever wanted to talk about it, I could…”

“You could what?” Ray stood up so fast his chair scraped against the floor. The sound cut through the bar noise like a knife. People turned to look. “You could tell me your sad little story and I'd suddenly pick up a guitar and everything would be fine? Is that what you thought?”

“No. I just wanted to…”

“You don't know anything about me.” His voice was rising now, loud enough that the whole bar had gone quiet. Justin was moving toward them from behind the bar. Crocker had emerged from the kitchen. “You don't know what I've seen. You don't know what I've done. You think giving up music for a few years while your mommy was sick makes us the same?”

The words hit her like a slap. She felt the blood drain from her face.

“Ray.” She tried to keep her voice steady. “I wasn't trying to compare our situations. I was just trying to connect.”

“Connect.” He laughed, but there was no humor in it. “You want to connect? Here's a connection for you. You're a little girl playing songs in a beach bar. I watched men die. I held them while they bled out and screamed for their mothers. I came home with their faces in my head and their voices in my ears and I willhear them until the day I die. So don't you dare sit there and tell me you understand. Don't you dare tell me we're the same.”

Merritt couldn't speak. She couldn't move. She just sat there, frozen, while Ray's fury washed over her.

“And my sister.” He was shaking now, his whole body vibrating with rage. “My sister had no right to tell you anything about me. You're not family. You're not a friend. You're nobody. You're just some girl who wandered in off the beach and thinks she can save people with her pretty little songs.”

“That's enough.” Justin had reached them. He stepped between Merritt and Ray, his voice calm but firm. “Ray, you need to step outside.”

“Don't worry. I'm leaving.” Ray grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair. He hadn't touched his Jameson. He never did. “And I'm not coming back.”

He turned and walked toward the door, his boots heavy on the wooden floor. The whole bar was silent, everyone frozen in place, watching the scene unfold like it was something on television.

At the door, Ray stopped. He turned back, and for just a moment, Merritt saw something behind the rage. Something broken and desperate and unbearably sad.

“She talks about me,” he said, his voice quieter now but somehow worse for it. “She tells strangers about my life like it's her story to tell. And then people like you think you can help. Think you can make it better.” He shook his head slowly. “There is no better. There's just this. There's just waiting for it to end.”

He pushed through the door and disappeared into the night.

The silence held for another long moment. Then, slowly, conversations resumed. The tourists went back to their drinks. The fishermen at the corner of the bar pretended nothing had happened.

But Merritt couldn't move. She sat in the chair Ray hadvacated, staring at the untouched glass of Jameson, feeling the weight of what she'd done pressing down on her chest.

“Hey.” Justin's hand was on her shoulder. “Come on. Let's get you some air.”

He guided her through the bar and out the back door, onto the deck overlooking the water. The night was warm and humid, the sky full of stars. The waves rolled in, soft and rhythmic, indifferent to human pain.