here's no such thing as a secret on the island.

Perched off the coast of the Florida Keys, New Wave isn't just home to turtles and spicy conch fritters but nosy, gossiping locals. I straighten my apron, telling myself I'm just being paranoid, but then Lina looks up from the table she's serving, her eyes filled with pity: they've heard about the breakup, then.

"What's the special again?"

I turn to my customer, who has been scanning the menu for the last ten minutes, and flash my best smile. "Ceviche, Ma'am." I pronounce it the proper way, like suh-veechee, and she gives me a pointed look.

"I think you mean Kev-ichy," she says.

Without a word, I pick up the menu and flip to the front. On the inside page, next to the Fishy Bites Appetizers, is a list of words and their correct pronunciation. Next to the word Ceviche reads, suh-veechee.

Her smile drops, and she folds her arms. There is an air of, I'd like to speak to your manager about her – a Karen out in the wild. "I'll have that, then," she says, "and make it snappy–" her eyes drop to my name badge, "–Evvy."

"Sure thing, Ma'am."

Back in the kitchen, our chef, Layla, is busy making our famous fried fish skillets. She's the newest addition to our Big Fish family, having moved back here from the Mainland last year. I guess she'd gone off to college to establish herself as an artist before realizing it didn't pay the bills, so at twenty-three, after mounting pressure from both of her parents, she moved back to New Wave to figure things out; she's been working here ever since.

They say the only way you leave this island is in a casket, but even if this were true (which it's not), I don't mind. This island is my home, the only connection I have to my mom; I'm not going anywhere.

Layla flips the fish in the skillet and turns to face me. Her dark eyes soften, and she pushes back a mane of brown hair as she says, "I heard about you and Ryan. Are you okay?"

The forced smile comes out as I pull back my shoulders, my go-to I'm fine stance. Ryan, my boyfriend of two years, decided he wants to spend his summer before college road tripping with his friends. Apparently, he can't do that and have a girlfriend at the same time.

"I'm fine," I say, tightening my apron, "but I'd be more fine if people stopped staring at me like I'm an injured puppy."

Layla grins and does a mini salute. "Yes ma'am."

"That's more like it." I pass her the order ticket and head back inside. The place is packed, which I don't usually mind, but between my unforeseen breakup and the whispering staff, I'm not in the mood for pleasantries.

At one point, when I find myself trapped in a discussion about a diner's fish allergy – in a seafood cafe – a booming voice says, "We'll try to find something a little less fishy for your tastebuds, then."

Standing behind me is Kali in all of his glory. Scary Man Kali. Scariest man on the whole of the island, or so the stories go. He stands in the patch of shade behind the counter, looking the same as always: brown skin, curly hair tied at the nape of his neck, tattoos covering his arms. Probably other places too, though I don't like to dwell. He smiles as if to say, I'll take over from here, and I flash him a grateful look.

I get to work cleaning the table by the window. Outside, kids are jumping from the boats on the dock, squealing when they fall in the water. They're not the old fishing boats that usually fill the harbor, but yachts belonging to the rich people who like to vacation on the island. At this time of year, the place is crawling with them.

I scrub at a dried bit of sauce on the table. Some people think that New Wave is a new island–hence its name–but it's not. New Wave is a small island off the coast of Florida and was here long before the settlers came. It'll be here long after we're gone, too.

Despite its strangeness and penchant for gossip, there's nowhere else I'd rather live. I can't imagine not waking up to the smell of the ocean, or walking barefoot in the sand, or watching the turtles make their dashing escape into the water. Island life isn't for everyone–Layla's living proof of that–but it's more than enough for me.

The rest of my shift is spent daydreaming. My dream has always been to take over this place and turn it into something incredible. I'd get rid of the crap they serve on the menu, like burgers and hot dogs, and I'd specialize in seafood. I'm not much of a cook – something my sister, Lexi, will attest to – but Dad is a chef and owns his own catering company, so it'll be easy to enlist his expertise. I'd change the decor, fix the exterior, and I'd make it a true reflection of what this island is about instead of just another tourist trap. One day, I will.

Until then, the place remains a dump, and I mean that. The building is crumbling, there is always a distinct smell of mold, and the ceiling still leaks from when the last hurricane hit. The only reason we have customers is due to our convenient location and the locals' misplaced loyalty.

It's not long before a customer beckons me over to complain about a drip. I move them to another table and grab a bucket from the cupboard, placing it under the hole. "We need to fix the leak in the roof," I say to Kali when he passes.

He sighs like I've said this a million times, because I have. "I've reported that crap a thousand times. Old Johnny no longer gives a shit."

He's right, too. I've only met the owner on several occasions – he's somewhat of an island recluse–and while he seems nice, he's slowly becoming the type of owner who puts Band-aids over problems and expects us to deal with the fallout. He's long stopped caring what happens to this place, doesn't care that we're barely making ends meet – he just cares about the paycheck. Sometimes, I think if my mom hadn't loved this place so much, I'd quit.

Our other waitress, Lina, finishes off her table and bumps my hip with hers. She nods at the group who have just walked in and says, "Tourist or Native?"

She knows better than to bring up Ryan, and I'm grateful. I glance at the group, taking in their sunburnt tans and Aloha shirts. "Definitely tourists."

It's not a bad thing. I love the tourists – they're good for this island and the majority are great – but as my dad likes to say, a few bad apples always spoil the bunch. Namely, the kind of tourists who visit the island and leave a heap of destruction in their wake.

"Son of a bitch," Lina says, and when she looks up, a splodge of water lands on her cheek. "There's another leak."

I want to scream into a pillow, but I decide to go out back and take my break, instead. There's no official staffroom in a cafe this small, so we have to make do with the patio out back, which looks out onto a lifeless street. The air smells distinctly of mildew and rot, and when an old Cola can blows toward me in the breeze, I lose it.

"What is the point," I snap, stomping toward the can, "of having frickin' trash cans if the tourists don't bother to use them." I scoop up the Cola can and spin on my heel, right into a hard, solid chest.

Two hands reach out to steady me. I'm met with his chin first, because it's level with my eyes. It is tanned and pronounced, covered with the faintest hint of stubble. Above it are some bow-shaped lips–pink and plump–followed by a straight, narrow nose and light gray eyes.

It is these eyes that get me: they are pale, almost colorless, like the color of the sky before a thunderstorm rolls in. They are the kind that can land a girl in all kinds of trouble.

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