Page 7 of Island Girl

Merritt ran food. She cleared tables. She refilled water glasses and brought extra napkins and smiled at everyone even when her feet screamed at her to sit down. Justin stayed close, guiding her through the chaos with a calm she envied.

“Table six needs their check. Table two wants another round of beers. The couple by the window is celebrating an anniversary, so be extra nice.”

She nodded and moved, trying to keep everything straight in her head. The menu wasn't complicated. Fish tacos, shrimp baskets, burgers, salads. But remembering who ordered what and which table was which felt like learning a new language.

The regulars were easier. They came in and sat in the same spots, ordered the same things, and didn't seem to mind that she was new. An older couple named Ed and Margie took a table by the window every evening at five-thirty. He ordered a whiskeysour. She ordered a glass of chardonnay. They split a plate of coconut shrimp and watched the sunset.

“Don't bother giving them menus,” Justin told her. “They've been coming here for years. They know what they want.”

A group of fishermen took over the corner of the bar around six. They were loud and sunburned and told stories about the one that got away. Justin knew all their names and poured their beers before they even asked.

“Regulars are the backbone of this place,” he said during a brief lull. “Tourists come and go, but the regulars keep us alive in the slow season. Learn their names. Learn their drinks. Ask about their kids, their boats, their dogs. They'll love you for it.”

Merritt nodded and filed this information away. It wasn't so different from teaching, really. Learn the names. Remember the details. Make people feel seen.

By seven o'clock, the place was packed. Every table was full, and people lined up at the bar two deep. Crocker emerged from the back and took over the grill, flipping burgers and plating fish with quiet efficiency. Justin mixed drinks without looking at the bottles, his hands moving from memory.

Merritt ran. That was all she could do. Run food, clear plates, refill drinks, repeat. Her ponytail came loose and she didn't have time to fix it. Sweat trickled down her back. Her feet throbbed.

But she was smiling. She couldn't help it. There was something alive about this place, something that hummed beneath the noise and the chaos. People were laughing. Music played. The smell of fried fish and salt air mixed together into something that felt like happiness.

Around eight, the rush started to ease. A few tables cleared out, and the line at the bar thinned. Merritt leaned against the wall near the kitchen, catching her breath.

“You're doing great.” Justin appeared beside her with a glass of water. “Drink this. You look like you're about to pass out.”

“I might.” She took the water and drank half of it in one gulp. “Is it always like this?”

“In the summer, yeah. June through August, we're slammed. I never understand it. The Florida heat doesn’t seem to keep anyone away. It slows down in the fall, picks back up for the winter season when the snowbirds come down. Spring is busy again. The only quiet time is September and October.”

“Good to know.”

“You'll get used to the rhythm. Everyone does.” He nodded toward the dining room. “Take a lap. See if anyone needs anything. Then you can take a break.”

She pushed off the wall and headed back out. Most of the tables were content, finishing their meals or nursing their drinks. She stopped to chat with Ed and Margie, who told her she was doing a wonderful job for her first night. She refilled water for a family with two kids who had made an impressive mess with their fish tacos.

Then she noticed him.

He sat alone at a small table in the far corner, near the back hallway. She hadn't seen him come in. He wasn't eating, just nursing a drink that looked like whiskey. His hair was long, past his shoulders, and he hadn't shaved in what looked like forever. He wore a faded T-shirt and jeans, and he stared at nothing, his eyes fixed on some middle distance that didn't exist in this room.

Something about him made her slow down. Not fear, exactly. More like recognition. She knew that look. She'd seen it in the mirror during the worst of her mother's illness. The look of someone who was here but not really here. Present but unreachable.

She walked over to his table. “Can I get you anything? Another drink, or maybe something to eat?”

He didn't look at her. Just shook his head once.

“Okay. Let me know if you change your mind.”

Nothing. No response. No acknowledgment that she'd spoken at all.

She stood there for a moment, uncertain, then turned and walked back toward the bar. Justin was wiping down the counter, watching her.

“I see you met Ray,” he said quietly.

“Is that his name?”

“Yeah. Ray Maguire. He's here most nights.”

Merritt glanced back at the corner. Ray hadn't moved. Hadn't even lifted his glass. “Is he okay?”