Smacking the lid down angrily on top of the shoebox, I shove it under my bed. I hate the mere idea of that damn savings account almost as much as I hate the man who opened it for me. He broke my heart and damaged a piece of my soul that will never heal and he thinks throwing his family’s money into a savings account makes up for what he did. It may have pissed me off initially, but now it just hurts. Those bank statements are a constant reminder that he’s still out there, living a life that doesn’t include me. A better life. A peaceful life. A life that doesn’t give him night terrors and pain. Just when I think I’ve gotten over the hurtful words he threw at me the last time I saw him, another statement comes in the mail and I have to live through that day all over again, realizing I wasn’t good enough, wasn’t strong enough, wasn’t…enough. I wouldn’t touch that money even if the bank foreclosed on Butler House and I was facing a life on the streets.

A doorbell rings through the intercom attached to the wall in my room, indicating there’s someone at the front desk at the inn. Pushing myself off the bed, I quickly check my reflection in the mirror hanging above my dresser. My long, strawberry blonde hair is pulled up into a messy ponytail, and even though we’re only a few weeks into summer, my skin is already lightly tanned from working outside. I like the healthy color it gives me and that it makes the dark circles under my eyes less noticeable, but it also brings out the stupid freckles on my nose and cheeks that I absolutely hate. Freckles scream cute and adorable, not sexy and hot. Taking in my reflection, I flick at the frayed edges of my cut-off jean shorts and attempt to smooth the wrinkles in my red, faded Lobster Bucket tank top that advertises my favorite restaurant on the island and is covered in dirt and sweat. Sexy and hot is going to have to wait for a day when I don’t have clogged sinks in two guest bathrooms, a washing machine that won’t drain, a freezer that won’t cool below thirty degrees and fifteen new guests checking in this afternoon who will expect all of these things to be in working order.

The bell dings through the intercom again and I race out of my bedroom and down the stairs, my flip-flops slapping against the hardwood as I go. One of the downsides of living on Fisher Island is just that. Living on Fisher Island – a town named after the family of the man who broke my heart. Everywhere I turn, I have to see his name on business signs, street signs or beach signs. It also doesn’t help that his grandfather, Trip Fisher, is the island’s only handyman. Trip’s parents founded this island and, while his father was a successful fisherman turned financier whose money helped establish many of the shops that still thrived on the island, Trip decided at an early age that he wanted nothing to do with the business side of things. He preferred getting his hands dirty and working side-by-side with the rest of the islanders who made this place their home. I smile to myself despite my earlier walk down memory lane as I stomp down the stairs. Trip is the only member of the Fisher family who ever truly embraced me and made me feel like I was worthy of the Fisher name. At eighty-three-years-old, he’s still just as active and hard working as I imagine he was as a young man, and whenever I’m having a problem here at the inn, he drops everything he’s doing to help me. It doesn’t hurt that he’s got the mouth of a trucker, flirts like a frat boy and never fails to make me laugh when I see him.

He made good time, considering I left him a message about all the problems that cropped up this morning only fifteen minutes ago. Even though each new issue I came across as I ran through my daily checklist while I drank my first cup of coffee made me want to scream in frustration, at least all this shit gave me something to keep my mind off of the real issue. There was one thing sure to push me over the edge, even more so than a few clogged drains, and the only reason I pulled that stupid shoebox out from under my bed when I haven’t touched that thing in months, other than to throw the bank statements inside.

Everyone has been talking about today ever since Trip made the announcement at the town meeting two weeks ago. The events that took place thirteen months ago didn’t just affect me, they affected everyone who lives here. We’re a small, tightknit community and everyone knows everyone else’s business, whether we want them to or not. When the prodigal son of the town’s wealthiest family very loudly kicks his high school sweetheart and wife out of their home, goes on a drunken bender, trashes several business and gets into fist fights with more than a few men on Main Street, it’s front page news. Literally. The story was on the front page of the Fisher Times even though the family owns the damn paper.

When Trip announced to the town that Fisher was coming home, the calm, cordial meeting that was supposed to be about zoning permits turned into complete anarchy. I got up and walked out without a word, and for two weeks, I tried not to think about today. I tried to keep myself busy at the inn and with the social life I was finally attempting to have. I refused to look at the indentation on the third finger of my left hand where a wedding ring used to wrap and sparkle against the morning rays of sun when I stretched in bed. I politely smiled when people in town stopped and asked me what I was going to do when he came back to the island. I went about my business, refusing to allow myself to fall down that stupid rabbit hole of sadness and depression.

I might not have been born here, but this is my island. I’ve made a name for myself, I have friends and family here and I’ve built a life here, such as it is. I’ve cleaned up the mess he left behind and I’ve moved on. As strong as I’d like to believe I’ve become, though, even I can admit it’s not a good sign that the very thought of running into him sends chills running throughout my body. This isn’t a huge island and, unfortunately, I have to shop at several of the businesses his family owns. It’s only a matter of time before I have to see him again, and I hope that I’m strong enough not to allow his presence to ruin me once more. I won’t let Fisher crack the walls I’ve spent so long and worked so hard at reconstructing. I don’t know why he’s coming back and I don’t care. I have my own life now that has nothing to do with Jefferson Fisher, just like he wanted.