Free Summer at the Shore Leave Cafe by Abbie Williams

the tabletop, her own mug just inches below her chin as she studied me. It was uncharacteristic of her to be so optimistic. I waited too long to reply, feeling the familiar sting of unshed tears, and Gran went on, “I hear you crying at night, sweetie, just like that sad song on your radio that we hear again and again.”
    I had to laugh at that, staving off the tears. Of course she meant the Dixie Chicks, whom I loved and listened to religiously, even still. “Gran,” I said, setting my coffee on the table and leaning to affectionately kiss her cheek. “You’re funny. And I’m sorry if I wake you, really.”
    She rolled her eyes at me. Mom came through the swinging kitchen door just then and leaned to hand me a fresh apron, officially signaling the start of the work day. But by four-thirty in the afternoon I was done with work, sitting on the dock waiting for slowpoke Jilly. I had managed to sneak home for a shower and emerged feeling just slightly renewed. I was even wearing a sundress, albeit a plain cream-colored one. My bare legs were submerged to mid-calf in the lukewarm lake water. My hair was loose and damp and I was enjoying watching a pair of sailboats out on the lake, the sounds of laughter and merriment from Trout Days drifting across the water. When the dock began shuddering with the impact of an approach, I called back, “Took you long enough!”
    A man laughed at that, and my head jerked around. For a second my heart stuttered in my chest; the angle of the sun distorted my vision momentarily and I was certain that Jackson was walking toward me. A fist seemed to seize my throat and I clutched the boards at the end of the dock with a hard, startled grip. Then in the next instant I realized that it was not Jackson at all, but Justin Miller, wearing dirty jeans and a work shirt, with his name stitched across the pocket. He said, “Well, about sixteen years, I’d say.”
    He approached to within a couple of feet and studied me for a moment, while I took in the familiar: his wide-legged stance, strong arms, and thick black hair—and the unfamiliar: his scarred face From a certain direction anyone would still consider him the best-looking guy they’d seen in a long time; straight on, the scarring was intense and resembled something from a Halloween mask. I found myself gaping and immediately glanced away, then immediately back, sure he would know I was uncomfortable. I finally spit out, “Well, hi, Justin, long time no see.”
    His full lips curled into something resembling a grin. He knelt and our faces were suddenly at the same height. I turned more fully around, bending one knee against the dock and struggling to find something to say. I managed, “How are you?”
    He still had long lashes and straight black brows over his pecan-brown eyes. As a teenager he’d been wild and known for his outrageous sense of humor; I remembered him cajoling the guys to race their trucks with his, and I remembered him slamming beer and yelping in victory during football games. He had been one of Jackson’s longtime buddies. For a moment I was steeped in memories of those bygone days, rendered mute. His formerly beautiful, boyish face was cross-hatched with ropy red scars all along the right side. The outside corner of his right eye was pulled slightly down, giving him an unintentionally menacing look. The scarring continued down his neck and into the unbuttoned collar of his blue work shirt. He said, “Fucking great, how about you?” but his tone held no malice. I felt one corner of my lips pull up in a smile.
    â€œMe, too. In fact this last year has been really amazing.”
    He adjusted his position and caught one wrist in the opposite hand, braced on his knees. “Jackson is still in Chicago, huh?”
    I figured Dodge had told him everything anyway; they had always been close.
    â€œYep,” I agreed without elaborating. “I brought