Chapter 1: Salt and Suds
The back room of the shop was a steam bath. Grease coated every surface, catching the flicker of the one faulty fluorescent light overhead. The air itself hummed, thick with the rhythmic hiss and pop of oil in the fryers and the sharp, forever-lingering sting of vinegar and salt.Josh leaned against the doorframe, a sack of potatoes slumped at his feet. He watched her.
Isla’s hands were submerged in a sink of sudsy, grey water, scrubbing at a batter-caked wire basket with a frayed blue brush. Her back was to him. The denim shorts, faded and soft, rode up with each circular motion of her arms, revealing more of the backs of her thighs. A few damp strands of hair had escaped her ponytail and clung to the nape of her neck.He should move. He should haul the sack.He should check the oil temperature.His feet stayed planted.
She glanced over her shoulder, a quick, casual thing.Her green eyes caught his, held them for a half-second too long. A faint smile touched her lips before she turned back to the sink. “You gonna plant those spuds or just admire them?”
A hot flush crawled up his neck. He bent down, hefting the sack with a grunt. “Just assessing the load.” He carried it to the far bench, the weight a familiar, grounding strain in his shoulders.“Fryer four’s running cool. Thermostat’s playing up again.”
“That’s the third time this week.” She pulled the plug from the sink, the water gulping down the drain. She wiped her hands on her apron, leaving dark smudges on the white cotton. When she turned, she leaned against the counter, crossing her arms.The pose pulled her shirt taut. “You should call the guy.”
“The guy charges a hundred just to look at it.” Josh ripped open the sack, the brown paper tearing with a sound like crushed leaves.The earthy smell of potatoes momentarily cut through the grease. “I can fix it. Just need the right part.”
“Stubborn,” she said, but it sounded like a compliment.
He began unloading the potatoes into the industrial sink, the dull thuds punctuating the silence.It wasn’t a comfortable silence, not anymore. It was a thing with weight, with texture.He was acutely aware of the three feet of cracked linoleum between them.
“Declan working tonight?” Josh asked, not looking up from the sink.
“Study group.” Her tone flattened.“Or so he says. Probably just gaming at Liam’s.”
“You should be studying.Your big ocean conference is coming up.”
Her face lit up, a sudden, brilliant change. “It’s next month.The abstract I submitted on coastal erosion patterns got accepted. For a poster presentation, but still.”
“That’s huge, Isla.” He meant it. The genuine pride in his voice surprised even him. Millie’s eyes would glaze over if he talked about frying times.“You’ll be brilliant.”
She shrugged, but the pleasure was evident. “It’s just a poster. Declan said it’s a glorified art project for grad students.” The light dimmed.Josh tossed a potato into the wash sink with more force than necessary. “Declan’s an idiot.”
A laugh escaped her, sharp and real. “He’s not.He’s just… focused. On different things.”
“Right.” Josh’s hands worked automatically, scrubbing dirt from the potatoes under the cold spray. His wedding band felt tight, a slick circle of gold against his skin. He and Millie hadn’t talked about anything with that kind of fire in years. Their conversations were logistical: mortgage, supermarket, whose turn it was to empty the dishwasher.A quiet, desperate ache opened up in his chest.
He felt her move before he saw her.She came to stand beside him at the sink, picking up a scrubbing brush. Their elbows nearly touched.
“You’re going to scrub them raw,” she said softly, looking at his furious, circling hands.He stopped.The water ran over his knuckles. He could smell her soap, something clean and lemony underneath the fry-shop fog. It was better than sea air.“Long day,” he muttered.
“Tell me about it.” She nudged his elbow with hers.A simple, casual contact.It burned straight through his sleeve. “My last professor talked for an hour about phytoplankton like it was the most boring thing on earth.It’s not. It’s the base of the whole bloody system.”
He turned his head. She was looking up at him, her striking green eyes wide and animated. A fleck of soap bubble clung to her cheekbone.He had the absurd, screaming impulse to wipe it away.
“I bet you could make it sound interesting,” he said.His voice was lower than he intended.
Her smile faded into something softer, more uncertain. The space between them seemed to shrink, charged by the relentless buzz of the light, the steady hiss of the fryer, the drumming of his own pulse in his ears. Her gaze dropped to his mouth, just for a heartbeat.The shop bell jangled out front.
They both jumped. Isla took a step back, her hand going to her cheek, brushing away the soap bubble.“Customer.”
“Yeah.” Josh’s throat was dry.He cleared it. “I’ll get it. You finish up here.”
He walked out to the front, the faded ‘Codfather’ logo on his apron feeling like a costume. He served two pensioners their regular haddock and chips, his movements robotic, his charm automatic. The familiar banter felt hollow.When the door chimed again, he was alone.The stillness was suffocating. He heard the soft splash of water from the back, the clatter of a pan.Normal sounds. His heart was still hammering against his ribs.He pulled his phone from his pocket. The screen showed a single message from Millie: Running late.Book club running over. There’s leftover chili.He stared at the words.Book club.She hated reading.
A light, quick laugh echoed from the back room. It was followed by the low murmur of Isla’s voice, and then another laugh—hers, but different.Warmer.Private.
Josh slid his phone back into his pocket.He didn’t move towards the back. He stood frozen in the empty shop, trapped between the lingering smell of fried food and the quiet, unseen world behind the beaded curtain, where the air was thick with something far more dangerous than grease. The fryer timer on the wall ticked down, a relentless, mechanical heartbeat.His own breath felt uneven.
From the back, Isla’s phone chimed—a distinct, cheery tone he recognized.Declan. The murmuring stopped.The quality of the silence changed, tightening, coiling with a new tension.
Josh took a deep breath, the air tasting of salt and regret and sharp, nameless wanting. He didn’t know what to do next.He only knew he couldn’t go back to washing potatoes. Not now. Not yet.