Chapter Text
Kiara didn't care that he hadn't been there.
Not when the freezer at The Wreck broke and she realized she didn't know who to call. Not when there was no longer anyone there to annoy her all day during her shift. Not even when she realized that she was starting to forget what his voice sounded like.
She didn't care. Except she didn't need to not care anymore, because he would come back today.
Her stomach flipped, traitorously, when she pictured him getting off the boat later. She wondered how different he would look. He would be tanner, probably. His hair would definitely be a mess. He'd say something dumb. Maybe complain a bit. Deflect with a joke after.
Nothing she actually wanted to hear, though. She recalled the last thing he'd say before he left, which, of course, was also not something she'd wanted to hear:
"I'll be back before you even notice I'm gone."
Well. She'd noticed.
"Hey--watch it!" someone barked.
Kiara snapped out of her thoughts just as the pitcher in her hand tilted too far forward, sending a flood of ice water straight into a customer's lap.
"Shit--I'm sorry," she said hurriedly, still blinking in shock from coming out of her daydream and jerking the pitcher back. "Let me get you a towel--"
Her voice cut off when the man stood up abruptly, his chair scraping against the wood. He looked maybe mid-twenties; dirty fisherman vibe, arms lined with tattoos that looked like they'd be done himself. Once was a crooked anchor that might as well have been carved with a pocketknife. She didn't even bother to look at the rest of his group.
"Yeah, do that," he cut her off, sharp and flat.
Kiara paused momentarily, but turned away to go retrieve the towel nonetheless. Until she heard what came next.
"Clumsy broad." The man added under his breath the moment she turned away. He'd muttered it so quietly that she almost didn't think he'd wanted her to hear it.
She froze mid-step. Then turned around, slowly, although she could feel pounding in her ears.
"Sorry, I didn't catch that. You wanna say it a little louder?" Her voice was clipped and even despite the heat building in her.
The man didn't respond. Just stared with a bored expression on his face.
"You spill water on someone, it's called an accident," she continued, still trying to control her tone. "You call the server disrespectful, misogynistic names for it, it's called being an asshole."
His mouth opened slightly at the confrontation, but didn't get the chance to respond. Another voice--smooth and a little too familiar--cut in from the corner of the table:
"Careful, man. She'll throw the whole pitcher at you. Ain't that right, Kie?"
Her eyes snapped to the person who spoke.
Rafe was sitting near the edge of the table like he didn't belong there, leaned back against the chair with boredom in his eyes. He was dressed too clean for the rest of them but not clean enough to look sober.
Unfortunately, she wasn't surprised to see him.
Rafe had started frequenting The Wreck for the past two weeks. Sometimes with his new, deadbeat friends, sometimes alone. It was very unnerving, but Sarah had told her to just ignore him and that he was probably just bored.
The other men, five in total, looked vaguely amused, like the whole thing was entertaining. One of them had a cigarette tucked behind his ear. The rest gave off that too-silent, egotistic air that gave off bad vibes and ill-intentions.
The man with the anchor tattoo looked to Rafe, then back to Kiara. Muttered something under his breath and sat down shortly after.
Kiara forced her face blank. She turned without another word and pushed back through the crowd, snatching a towel from behind the bar and handing it off to Evie.
"You got table four," she muttered.
"Yikes," Evie said, eyeing the towel as she took it. "What'd you do?"
"Dumped water on a guy. They all deserve worse. Don't be too nice to them."
Without waiting for a response, she slipped past Evie and through the swinging door behind the kitchen.
The Wreck kitchen was already in chaos for Saturday lunch rush, as it had been since summer came around. Plates clattered. Grease hissed. The air was thick, and the air conditioning was working overtime to combat it. She slipped into the hallway that led to the back office, and the hum of the restaurant dulled behind her.
She leaned her back against the door and let out a breath.
Her parents had moved to Charleston two months ago. Sold the house. Tried to sell the restaurant, too, until Kiara cut a deal: she'd run it, live in the back, and send them a cut in exchange for keeping their name on the books.
It wasn't glamours. But it was hers. Kind of. It at least felt like the most logical option for a twenty-year-old who had no plans for college and no desire to ever leave the Outer Banks.
Two months ago, she'd slept here on an air mattress between piles of receipts and boxes of invoices. Now, the office looked a little less like storage and more like a room. String lights hung unevenly along the walls. Her bed was shoved into the far corner, not fitting as well as it did in her old bedroom. A corkboard sat crooked on the one of the wood-paneled walls, littered with old pictures, scribbled lists, and one dried-up flower she refused to throw away.
It didn't feel like a forever place. But it was still home, for now.
She collapsed on the bed, still trying to shake off the discomforting experience she'd just had. Her hands were shaking a little, either from surprise or anger, she wasn't sure. Thoughts started turning in her head. She didn't know why Rafe was there at all. Why her restaurant? Just go to another one.
She'd recognized the others. Seen their boats at the dock. They weren't local and had just started showing up recently, wherever they came from. They made her uneasy in a way she hadn't wanted to name yet.
Kiara took a deep breath and rolled over onto her back, pushing the thoughts out of her mind. She pulled out her phone. No texts. Of course not. Everything was quieter these days.
John B and Sarah were playing house at the Chateau, prepping for the baby and pretending they were old enough to know how. Pope was back and forth from college, orbiting like he didn't know which life he belonged to yet.
And JJ--he had been somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic for exactly a month now, pretending to be a fisherman on a boat that barely had reception. He'd left May first. Today was June first.
His reasoning had been vague: 'I gotta rake in some cash' and 'do some self-reflective readjustments', whatever that meant. He didn't explain it well. He never did.
She hadn't questioned it then; but now, with him so close to coming back, everything in her felt raw-edged and unsettled.
Over the past year, he'd slowly turned into her closest friend. Maybe it was how quiet everything was now. Maybe it was how much they'd been through together. Either way, she'd gotten used to him always being there.
It made sense, him leaving. A month wasn't long. He needed the money. She'd told herself that plenty of times. He wasn't running. He just needed a reset or something. People did that. Whatever.
She didn't miss him. She just hated how often he showed up in her head when she wasn't even thinking about him. It was like her brain didn't get the memo that he wasn't here anymore. Or that it wasn't supposed to matter. But he was coming back today.
She'd feel better once he did.