Page 14 of Saints & Sailors

Pasting on a big smile, I gave him a thumbs up. “Sure thing, Captain.”

Scott grimaced as he came around from the kitchen over to the dining room with his pan. “I mean it.”

He served me a few sausage links to go along with my plate of eggs, bacon, pancakes, and hash browns.

I ignored his warning and happily eyed the feast before me. This had taken time and effort. “Thank you.” I peeked up at him. “For making me breakfast.”

He nodded as he went and served his plate too. “I didn’t know what you liked, so I figured I’d try everything. Make me a list and I’ll get better at it.”

I shoved a couple forkfuls of eggs into my mouth before nibbling on the bacon and sausage. “This is great, really.”

Scott came and joined me at the table, sitting across from me and setting down a carton of orange juice.

He filled us each a glass before digging into his own meal.

The first five minutes were silent as we ate and sipped our OJ. I knew it wouldn’t last, but I was in a good mood due to the amazing breakfast he’d prepared. He could cook, something that made me anticipate my first dinner here.

Scott sat for a while and then I noticed his eyes on me.

“What?” I asked when I couldn’t take it anymore.

“You have a tattoo,” he pointed out.

I held out my hand, staring at the anchor tattooed on my middle finger. “One of them.”

Scott swallowed. “Them?”

I only had two: the anchor and a compass on my side, along with the quote “I am the master of my fate. I am the captain of my soul” by William Ernest Henley. So three really.

I didn’t know much about sailing or the sea, but I knew that boats provided an escape route. A means of going wherever you wanted, whenever you wanted. When I hit eighteen, I would be the captain of my own destiny, and I couldn’t wait.

“Just three, Scott,” I said.

He blinked. “You’re seventeen.”

“You’re observant.”

Scott shook his head. “What I mean is, how’d you get away with it?”

“I know people.” I gave him a wink to cool him down, but of course it didn’t work.

“Geez,” he mumbled to himself.

“I don’t want any more if that makes you feel better,” I gave in.

This did seem to work. “Good.”

I chuckled as I ate some more of my eggs. If I liked showing off some skin, something told me Scott would have a heart attack if he saw my other ink.

“You want Chinese tonight?” Scott asked. “I’m working a mid-shift, ten to six, and I usually don’t feel like cooking after.”

Cooking was foreign to me, and in that moment, I cursed this fact.

“Or I could pick us up something from the prepared foods department at Marty’s,” he added.

“That sounds better,” I told him.

“Their specialty is fried chicken, but they also do baked, and some fish. They have amazing fish: cod, pangasius, tilapia, and even shrimp on occasion.”