“A… dock knot.”
A laugh breaks out of me.
She points at me. “That one was your fault.”
“Was it?”
“Yes. You ambushed me with nautical vocabulary.”
“Nautical?”
“Lake vocabulary. Outdoor vocabulary. Whatever language this is.”
I finish the knot, pull it tight, and give the bumper a hard tug. Solid.
“This is a cleat hitch,” I say.
She leans forward. “That sounds made up.”
“It isn’t.”
“Teach me.”
The request is simple. I look at her hands resting in her lap. Small hands. Teacher hands. Capable hands. Hands that probably tie shoes and open juice boxes and smooth little heads when children are crying. Hands that could learn my knots. My ropes. My life.
No. That is too far, too fast. Still, I cut a short practice piece of rope from the coil and hand it to her.
“Loop around once,” I say. “Cross over. Around the other side. Then finish with a half hitch.”
She stares at the rope. “You realize those were technically English words, but not in any order I understood.”
I sit beside her on the dock, closer than necessary. Mistake. I reach around, taking the rope with her hands still on it. “Here.”
She goes still. I guide her fingers through the motion. Around the cleat. Cross over. Around again. Half hitch to finish. Her shoulder brushes my arm. She smells like lake water, sunshine, and something soft beneath it. Vanilla, maybe.
“Like that?” she asks.
Her voice is quieter now. I look down at the messy knot, realizing it will hold with practice.
“Like that,” I say.
She smiles, pleased. “I made a dock knot.”
“Cleat hitch.”
“Dock knot.”
“You’re a teacher. Terminology matters.”
She laughs, and the sound warms me. A little boy on the grass yells for his mother to watch him do a cannonball in three inches of water. Layla turns her head at the sound, her smile softening in an aching way. There and gone so fast most people would miss it. I’ve watched enough guests to know the difference between irritation and longing. Between noise that annoys someone and noise that hits a hollow place.
A woman who loves children and teaches them and has sad eyes when a little boy runs laughing across the grass is not a woman built for my life.
I shift away and stand. “You should eat something real.”
Her head turns back to me. “There you go again.”
“What?”
