Page 104 of The Problem with Perfect

It’s when she leaves that I see the same familiar heartbreaking expression of disappointment on Millie’s face that I see on my own when I look in the mirror.

Each time Toni comes to town, I can’t help but let my mind wonder if this is it. The sticking point. The time she’ll tell me she’s done and ready to come back to be with us. To be a mom. A partner. A family.

I wonder if this will be the time when she realizes all the happiness she’s looking for has been here, in Sandalwood, all along.

solo: chapter 2

Soren

Saturdays at The Lighthouse are always slammed, regardless of the time of year. During the low season, the locals pack in, enjoying the freedom, and during summer or spring break, it’s overflowing with visitors and unfamiliar faces.

Part of me loves when I get to see people I know from around town, the conversations a bit more drawn out and friendly, but the baser part of me enjoys the busy season as it means a constant stream of tourists looking to have some fun.

Like the sisters from yesterday, butafterthey’ve graduated and lived in the real world for a while.

Tonight, though, with my mind clouded by Toni’s impending arrival and exhausted by the amount of work I pushed to get done today, finding a hookup is the last thing on my mind. Instead, I’m putting together drinks with only half my normal focus, the rest of my brain imagining what this next week might look like for the three of us.

“I’ll have a gin and tonic, neat, and four shots of vodka.”

I nod at the brunette on the other side of the bar. “Well or something specific?”

“Well, please,” she says, and I spin to grab the right glassware.

But when I turn back to the bar, I collide hard with another body, and everything falls out of my hands and to the floor.

“Oh, shit.”

My shoulders drop at the sound of Ozzy’s voice, and I have to refrain from rolling my eyes as she lowers herself to the ground, trying to collect the broken glass.

“Fuck,” I hear her whisper. “I’m so sorry, boss. I didn’t mean—”

“Leave it or else you’ll—”

Ozzy hisses and yanks her hand back, but not before I spot the long red mark on her palm.

“…cut yourself,” I finish, dipping down to grab her under the arm and help her to stand. “Come with me to the back. Jon, can you get someone to clean up this glass, please?”

I don’t even wait to see if he’s heard me, instead tugging Ozzy with me quickly through the kitchen and to the break room in the back where we keep the first aid kit.

“I’m sorry,” Ozzy says. “It was an accident.”

I don’t say anything, instead focusing on finding the kit that’s tucked somewhere in the metal cabinets I’ve been meaning to reorganize for the past few months.

“Why were you behind the bar in the first place?” I ask her, unable to hide the irritation in my voice.

Finally, I spot the familiar red and white box behind a stack of white dish towels.

“I was trying to help restock.”

“But you’re a waitress,” I say, yanking the box down and turning to find her leaning against the table and holding her hand in a paper towel she must have grabbed at some point. “Not a barback. It’s not your job to stock the back of the bar, and things are busy enough tonight that you should have been running drinks or clearing tables. Hell, I’d rather have you helping Marcowashthe dishes.”

She doesn’t say anything in response, just holds her injured hand in her other and watches me with an uncomfortable expression, so I let it go for a minute and instead focus on her cut.

It doesn’t look particularly deep, even though there’s a fair amount of blood pooling in her hand, so I motion for her to join me at the sink. Once she’s rinsed it clean, I examine it a little bit closer to confirm it’s shallow and won’t need stitches, then I clean it with sanitizing wipes and place a piece of gauze over it before wrapping her hand with athletic tape to hold it in place.

“I don’t think you’ll need stitches,” I tell her, “but I’m not a doctor.”

“But you’re an EMT!”

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