We walked the short distance to the marina with our hands laced together like it had already been decided somewhere before tonight.
Boston softened near the water.
Traffic faded. Streetlights stretched gold across the pavement. The air turned cooler, salted, thick with tide and diesel and summer.
She carried her heels hooked over two fingers, barefoot, like she trusted the world not to hurt her.
“Barefoot’s better,” she said.
“Dock splinters disagree,” I told her.
She just smiled. “Worth it.”
The marina gate groaned when I opened it — old iron, familiar.
Beyond it, the docks creaked and shifted gently. Lines knocked against aluminum masts. Somewhere out in the harbor, a buoy bell clanged once… twice… like a lazy heartbeat.
The boats rocked in their slips, breathing with the tide.
“There she is,” I said quietly.
ARTEMIS.
Her name was painted clean and simple across the stern.
PLYMOUTH, MAbeneath it.
She was a Hinckley Yachts — early 2000s lines, classic and quiet, all polish and restraint. The kind of boat that didn’t scream money, just whispered it to the people who knew.
Fresh teak decks. Oiled and warm. Chrome fittings catching docklight like tiny stars. Sails furled tight and neat along the boom. Thick braided lines coiled perfectly where they belonged.
She looked… steady.
Confident.
Alive.
Two summers of our sweat baked into every board.
Sage stopped beside me.
Didn’t talk.
Just stared like she understood something about it without me explaining.
“She’s beautiful,” she said softly.
It hit me harder than it should have.
I stepped aboard first and held out my hand.
She took it.
Bare feet landing on the teak with a soft thud.
The wood still held the day’s heat.
She inhaled slowly.
