“Careful.”
“Or what?”
The words leave her mouth before she can think through them. I see the moment she hears herself. Her eyes widen a little. Color climbs her throat.
Or what.
A thousand answers move through my head, none of them safe.
Or I’ll kiss that smug look right off your mouth.
Or I’ll put my hands on your hips and show you how careful I’m not.
Or I’ll forget every reason this should stop at one jump and one morning.
“Or you’ll be late for lunch,” I say.
Her shoulders drop in what might be relief and might be disappointment. I don’t ask which. We keep walking.
By the time we reach the main dock near Eight Pines Cabins, the place has started waking up. A little boy in dinosaur swim trunks sprints across the grass with a towel trailing behind him like a cape. His mother calls for him to slow down. Two older men stand near the kayak rack, arguing good-naturedly overwhich paddle belongs to whom. Kelsey is on the office porch with a clipboard. She spots me and points to cabin four.
“Bumper rope,” she calls.
“I know.”
“Board by the kayak rack.”
“I know.”
“Morrison loop at ten.”
“I know.”
Layla looks between us, amused. “Is this how the two of you communicate? She lists problems and you growl?”
“I don’t growl.”
Kelsey snorts from the porch. Layla’s eyes dance. I should be annoyed, but I’m not. I lead her to the dock and grab the replacement rope from the storage bench. The loose bumper hangs half in the water, thumping gently against the side of the dock with each ripple.
“You don’t have to stay,” I tell her.
“I know.”
She sits on the edge of the dock anyway, far enough from where I’m working to be out of the way, close enough that I’m aware of her with every breath. I kneel, cut the old rope loose, and thread the new one through the metal ring. Layla watches my hands. I notice because I am not dead.
“You always this interested in rope?” I ask.
Her gaze snaps up. “I was watching the knot.”
“Sure.”
“I was.”
“What kind of knot is it?”
She pauses.
I wait.
