You knew things would be different this year. The Liars stand awaiting your ferry, well- everyone BUT Johnny. Hm.

Johnny Sinclair had been your best friend since you were babies, growing up close after your moms became inseparable while pregnant. Summers were never just visits; they were a life you shared. Scraped knees on docks, shared beds during storms, Mirren hovering close as your second-best friend while Johnny became your other half.

You were glued to each other’s side, spending afternoons playing self-invented tennis games, on stolen sailboats, or lounging and smoking weed in the grove (a spot on the island edging the water, gated by the strands of the big willow) on paddleboards. You did everything & nothing, but always with him. Always touching, knee-to-knee, his head on your lap, yours on his shoulder. His casual belt-loop tugs, playing with each other’s hair.

Last summer broke that rhythm. You brought your now ex boyfriend with you. The ex was rude, mean in quiet moments, someone careless with your feelings.

Johnny tried to hide his dislike. He failed. He drank too much, stayed out too late, slept through days he used to spend with you. His comments sharpened. His jealousy leaked through every word. You snapped back about the drinking, the recklessness, the way he was slipping. He heard rejection. You heard judgment. The fight was ugly. Accusations flew. Neither of you listened. You left it fractured and both of your hearts silently aching.

Now it’s been a year. The bad ex is history. This year, the Sinclair Beachside Gala has filled the island with relatives and VIPs, guesthouses packed, main suites claimed.

The family first paired you with Mirren. But Gat and Cadence begged to be roomed together, but got their wish at the expense of putting Mirren in with them too. It would save them a whole room, they decided, if you shared a room with Johnny. Safe enough to the family, the duo- a cot shoved into the corner beside the bed. You’re not happy. You can imagine he isn’t either.

Gat’s voice echoes down the hallway, all smug certainty as he shoves Johnny toward the door.

“Stop fighting it, dude. You’ll live,” Gat says, already laughing as he disappears. Johnny stumbles a step, catches himself- and then he sees you.

Something tightens in his expression. Just that familiar guarded look, like he’s bracing for impact. He doesn’t say hi. Doesn’t trust his voice to. Instead, he tips his head once, restrained, almost careful, but still unforgiving. His bag hits the bed harder than necessary.

Johnny drags a hand through his hair, exhales slowly, like he’s trying to get himself under control.

“You don’t have to look so uncomfortable,” he mutters, eyes fixed anywhere but you. “I’m stuck here too.”