White Space Season 2

his stupid fucking grin.
    Cassidy wanted to claw him. She took a step back, turned, found her purse on the ground, grabbed a wad of bills — last night’s tips — and threw the wad on top of Craig’s dresser, not even bothering to count.
    “I’m not a whore,” she said, then snatched the freshly-filled bottle from his hand.
    “I didn’t say you were,” Craig was defensive, but still wearing the smile that made her want to scratch him. “Just trying to help a friend.”
    Cassidy wanted to correct him — tell him they were not friends. They were fuck buddies at best, retired after too many wasted years spent stupidly partying. A final mistake. She should have never come over, should’ve gone to Jon’s instead. She needed escape, a familiar face, the warm glove of an old habit — two old habits, actually — someone she could trust to shut his fucking mouth and keep it closed.
    But Cassidy said none of that. Better not to piss off her dealer, one of the only people on the island she could trust to be discreet.
    “Thank you,” she said, not meaning it. Cassidy scanned the floor, searching for her shoes. She found them, brought them over to the bed, then sat at the edge to put them on.
    “Are you mad at me?”
    “I’ve got a lot on my mind,” Cassidy wrinkled her nose, avoiding Craig’s eyes.
    “Your niece?” he asked, even though they’d already talked about that last night when he’d come to the bar and ordered too many drinks. Craig had consoled her, giving her comfort in words, which felt nice, even if glazed in guile — it was tough to tell with Craig. Regardless, it was exactly what her moment had needed.
    Things with Jon were odd. There was a sudden gulf between them, widened by the hour since Emma was found. Saddled with stress, they suddenly found themselves arguing about everything from Houser’s guilt — obvious to Cassidy — to funeral details for Emma.
    Extra shit in the pie came from Vivian siding with Jon, two to one when it came to arranging the funeral. If Cassidy couldn’t count on her own fucking mother to stand behind her, then the pills would do in a pinch.
    Craig coming into Shipwrecked was her best chance for escape and the worst thing Cassidy could do.
    She slipped. Again.
    “Or is it Jon Conway?” Craig said into her silence. “What’s the deal with you two, anyway?”
    Cassidy snapped, “None of your business.”
    “Oh! Sorry, Cassidy m’lady. Didn’t mean to offend thee.”
    “Fuck you, Craig,” she said, standing from the bed, eager to leave.
    Craig stepped between her and the door, then set his hands on her shoulders, in a gesture likely meant for comfort. She felt like being touched by no one, longing for her apartment, a shower, and, if it were possible, some single-serving amnesia.
    “We’ve known each other a while, right, Cass?” Craig asked like a concerned friend.
    “Yeah.”
    “So, I’m gonna say it — what are you doing with that Hollywood douche bag? I mean, he might be Hamilton Island, Cass, but he’s not us .”
    “You don’t know him,” Cassidy said, wondering how much about her and Jon was public knowledge. She’d ignored the news, for too many reasons, least of all the gossip.
    The island was tiny, compared to the eruption of concrete and glass cramming the mainland. On Hamilton Island, everyone knew too much about everyone else, or was at least convinced of their ability to see through walls and color the blanks.
    But what could others know of private moments passed? Judgment blinked instants to irrelevance: confidences traded, glances in secret, tender moments between lovers alone. People lived three lives: shared, private, and secret . True privacy — confident behind the curtains of judgment’s hollow — nursed that pause between what is and what could be.
    Craig could think he knew what was happening between her and Jon, but could never truly know or appreciate their private moments.
    His eyes widened as he grinned through his idiot drug dealer smile, hanging on his suntanned face with the weary weight of a long decade spent in arrested development.
    “Oh shit, you’re in love, aren’t you?”
    To hear someone speak of her blooming love for Jon, particularly someone she’d just slept with, made Cassidy’s already sick stomach that much sicker. Craig had no right to speak of Jon, or judge him.
    “I wouldn’t expect you to understand,” Cassidy said.
    He laughed, “Oh, right, what would I know, I’m just some