Page 3 of As a Last Resort

AUSTIN

Dude, c’mon. It’s been three years.” Bits of lobster roll rocketed from Patrick’s mouth onto the checkered plastic tablecloth.

“ Dude , you’re never going to land a girl eating like that.” I sipped my beer trying to find a way out of having this conversation again. “And, it’s not that. I’m just not that into her.”

“How can you be not that into her ? Look at her, Austin. She’s smokin’.

She’s as hot as a Fourth of July firework.

” Always the cliché warrior. He flashed his pearly whites, which popped against the dark melanin of his skin.

“And you’re only giving me fifteen minutes of your precious time before you abandon me for your real family, Capt’n .

How else am I supposed to finish something this big? ”

As we churned into the heat of Florida summer, people were swarming in like ants all over the island, and it was my ferry company, Scuttle’s Ferry, that brought them here in droves.

After the rush of tourists who came in for the weekend, Patrick and I would down a quick drink exchanging war stories right before my weekly family dinner commitment, a tradition etched into my existence as far back as I can remember.

Patrick and I always went to Charley’s Lobster Shack, the first restaurant you saw once you crossed the water by boat, which was one of the only ways to get to Rock Island.

There weren’t any roads or bridges that connected it to the mainland, so my ferry or a private transfer, if your pockets ran deep, were how you got to the island.

The shack’s red picnic tables and white awning stood out from the shoreline like something plucked from New England and dropped onto a random island in Florida.

Charley, the owner, hobbled over and swatted Patrick on the back. “Patrick, Capt’n Austin—what’s fizzlin’, boys?”

“Besides Austin’s love life, not much, Charley. Not much.” Patrick took another obscene bite of his lobster roll.

“Aww, chin up. There’s plenty of fish in the sea.” Charley chucked my chin with his knuckle like I was still some schoolboy. That’s one of the fun things about living in such a small town. Everyone remembers when you wore diapers.

“Speaking of, who’s the newbie?” Patrick asked, nodding his head toward the subject of our earlier conversation who was serving the next table over.

“Ah, my niece Sherry, in for summer break from Jersey. She takin’ good care of ya?”

“She’s doing a great job. Austin and I were just saying if you don’t work her too hard, how it’d be nice to take her out on the ferry and show her a sunset run.”

I threw darts at Patrick with my eyes.

“I’m sure she’d love that, Capt’n.” Charley squeezed my shoulder just a little too tight. “Business is pickin’ up. Feels good to see them boats putzin’ around, doesn’t it?”

The shoreline outside Charley’s was littered with rental crafts buzzing around the water. The dock was full, all the tables taken by laughing tourists two beers in. Charley’s was a staple to regulars but packed to capacity and thriving during tourist season. The energy lifted the hairs on my arm.

“Sure does.” Patrick patted the name tag hanging on his shirt and smiled. “And tips skyrocketed, thanks to your genius idea.”

We both wore teal shirts for Scuttle’s Ferry, but Patrick’s sported a new addition—a name tag that declared him as USAIN BOLT in all caps. I’d been wondering who gave Patrick the harebrained idea to use a fake name on my ferryboat.

“Oldest trick in the book. You think my real name’s Charley?” He winked at Patrick and hobbled off, favoring his right leg. “Enjoy your food, boys.”

“What? It works.” Patrick stopped chewing to give me his million-dollar smile again and went back to demolishing his lobster roll. He’d made me a RYAN GOSLING name tag, but I refused to wear it. No one would believe that guy knew how to run a boat.

“You know, he probably fakes the wooden leg too. I’m telling you the concept is genius. And”—he slid into his well-honed Usain Bolt persona—“I get to practice my Jamaican accent.”

“For all those Jamaican acting auditions you’re getting.”

“Can’t be too prepared. Never know when a Hollywood director will come on board and give me my big break.”

Patrick changed career paths as often as underwear.

Something I couldn’t relate to. Since I was five, I knew exactly what I wanted to do.

After my dad took me out on his boat and I caught my first fish, my dream has always been to own a fishing charter.

There was something about the quiet stillness of the water that steadied me.

And nothing compared to the feeling of that first catch—the patiently waiting, the building tension and anticipation, wondering if you’d return to shore with an empty hook or prove yourself a true angler.

But when your dad’s a high school football legend who’s coached five teams to state championships, there are expectations.

Big ones. You’re not just asked to follow in his footsteps—you’re drafted into the family tradition.

He’s football royalty, the former head coach of Rock Island High School, the man who turned a team of nobodies into heroes, who united an entire town over blades of grass.

Hard work, sweat, and determination on the field—that was his creed.

But football was his dream, not mine. And I saw the gap between what I was and what he needed me to be every time he looked at me.

Even when tourism exploded on the island a few years back, and the need for boats to ferry people became a clear path to success, it wasn’t about business for me.

It was about creating something of my own, something as far away from the dirt of the stadium field as possible.

I seized the opportunity and built the only open-water ferry running six days a week.

So turns out, neither of us got what we wanted. I didn’t become his champion on the field, and he couldn’t see the man I became on the water.

But on the bright side, business was booming.

And I was slammed. I was in the market for another boat, a larger one that would accommodate double the people and cut down on the number of trips across.

We had a pretty decent following on social media, thanks to a recent video of Patrick dancing on the top deck with an eighty-year-old guest that went viral on TikTok.

She said it was the best day of her life and half the internet thought it was actually Usain Bolt.

The Bolt himself even commented on it and shared it.

So, I was busy. Too busy to be dating.

“So, what’s the verdict?” A silky voice pulled our attention to the end of the table, where a very persistent SHERRY —according to her name tag—stood with her hip cocked to the side.

“I can’t tonight.” I tried to sound as neutral as possible. “Got family plans with an early morning tomorrow.”

“He’d love to, Sherry.” Patrick piped in, glaring at me. “But he’ll take a rain check. My boy needs to get out and I can’t think of a girl more beautiful than you who’d be more fun on a beautiful night like tonight.”

“Sure, rain check it is.” She eyed me and laid the cash-only bill at the corner making a quick pivot to saunter off to another table.

“I mean, do you see that walking away?” His eyes were about to pop out of his head.

“Why don’t you take her on a date then?”

“She’s not interested in me. She’s interested in some weirdo who hasn’t dated anyone in three years because he’s still sulking.”

“I am not still sulking. And I’ve dated, just no one worth dating more than once.”

“That doesn’t count,” he argued. “There are plenty of girls much better for you than Vanessa was if you’d just give them a chance.”

That name still stung. Not like it used to, though.

I stretched my neck to loosen the sudden tightness. “I’m busy running a business, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“She’s just here for the summer, man. Ain’t no harm in getting to know her and having a good time.”

“I don’t want a good time. You know that’s not my thing.”

“But you need a good time.” He leveled his eyes on me. “ Hey —”

“Uh-uh, no time for a heart-to-heart, brother. The family’s waiting.” I threw a couple bills onto the receipt. “I need to save some energy for tonight’s interrogation where my lack of dating prospects will be center stage. Again.”

“Just consider it, yeah? My friend deserves to be happy again.” His dark eyes did that lost-puppy-dog thing they do when he starts to get all serious on me.

“I am happy.”

“The grump line on your forehead says otherwise, boo.”

Here’s the thing—I’m not an overly emotional guy. But if you were to ask me whose betrayal irrevocably rocked my world, I wouldn’t have to think hard.

My fiancée left me for my best friend.

I feel like I should get a bit of an extended pass for dealing with the shitstorm of that particular situation.

The whole thing had blindsided me. Tom was the childhood friend who took refuge at my place for days when his dad was a little too rough with him.

The best friend who was socially awkward for the first sixteen years of his life then all of a sudden over the summer entering junior year discovered contacts, got a tan, gained twenty pounds of muscle, and learned how to throw a football in a perfect spiral for seventy yards like he’d been doing it since he was born.

He was the best friend who’d introduced me to Vanessa, the woman who’d become my fiancée .

And the best friend who later stole her out from under me.

“Here. Chop these.” Mom handed me a wicker basket full of onions, brussels sprouts, and carrots.

“I know what you’re doing and I’m not in the mood to talk.”

Ever since I was little, she’d corner me in our kitchen and give me a cooking task to get my hands working, then she’d slowly start to grill me on life questions and before I knew it, I was spilling my guts out to her.

“What I’m doing is getting vegetables ready to throw on the grill before your father runs out of patience and burns the steaks.”