Page 33 of On Dry Land

He stares at me, water reflecting in the deep brown pools of his eyes and dripping down his cheeks. Calculated risks, I remind myself. Think things through before acting.

“Want to join me?” I ask Spencer.

Monday morning dawns cold and blue. The sky is a hazy indigo color that elicits a small gasp from Spencer when he opens the door to my knock. It’s the first view I’ve had into the inside of the cottage since he moved in, and it looks just as pristine and unused as it did prior. Even the bed is made, corners tight and comforter smooth, like he’s worried I’ll inspect for wrinkles.

“I haven’t broken anything,” he says. I stop staring over his shoulder and look at him—angled slightly to the side, hands in his pockets and shoulders tight. I take a step back, slightly chagrined.

“It wouldn’t concern me if you had,” I tell him lightly. I hadn’t been inspecting the room for a mess; I’d merely been curious if he’d unpacked. Judging by the bulging backpack propped up against the wall, he hasn’t. He’s still ready to run. “Would you still like to join me at the wharf?”

“Yeah.” He sounds cautious, and I berate myself for knocking on the door and probably scaring him. I have his phone number now. I should have just texted. “If you don’t mind?”

“I wouldn’t have invited you if I minded,” I reply, the words coming out with a bite.

“Okay. I’ll grab my stuff.” Nodding, Spencer makes a twitching motion like he’s going to close the door but changed his mind halfway through. Frowning uncertainly, he turns to the side and gestures vaguely. “Do you want to come in?”

“It’s your space, Spencer. You don’t have to invite me in.” Turning, I stride back up the lawn. “I’ll meet you at the car.”

He’s quick. I’ve barely settled into the driver’s seat and started the engine before the passenger door is opening and he’s sliding in. His gloves and hat are clenched in one fist, and his face is flushed like he sprinted across the yard as though he was worried I would leave without him. Discomfited, I clear my throat and wait for him to put his seat belt on.

“Ready?” I ask lightly, unsure how precisely I’m meant to bridge this strange gap between us. I never should have gone to the cottage door. It clearly scared him.

“Yeah. Sorry that took so long.”

Sighing, I flatten my palm on the steering wheel and rotate the wheel, pointing the car down the drive. Silence sits between us like an uninvited passenger wedged into the car with us. I don’t know how to break it, and so I don’t try. Spencer shifts in his seat, tugging on the ratty beanie and his gloves. I reach forward, bumping up the heat before slamming on the brakes as a deer steps out into the road.

Spencer falls forward, the seat belt locking and catching him across the chest. The deer bounds away into the woods, and I become aware of my hand on Spencer’s leg. I don’t remember reaching for him.

“Sorry,” I apologize, pulling my hand back to my side of the car with a degree of difficulty that makes my stomach roll. I shouldn’t want to touch him, and it shouldn’t be hard to keep myself from doing so.

“Thank you for catching me before I went through the windshield,” Spencer says seriously. The sarcasm makes me relax.

“Automatic reflex,” I tell him, but he only hums in response. Wrapping my hands around the steering wheel, I clench and unclench my fingers.

The rest of the drive to the wharf is, thankfully, uneventful. Spencer spends the time looking out the window, perhaps in search of more wildlife or perhaps trying to avoid conversation. I shouldn’t have put my hand on him. I shouldn’t still be thinking about the firm curve of muscle beneath my palm. Skinny as he is, he’s definitely strong and fit from all the walking and swimming. But I don’t care. I cannot let myself care.

Cody is sitting on the tailgate of his truck when I pull into the lot. He waves cheerfully, which I ignore, parking the Porsche alongside him. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Spencer pinch his lips together in amusement.

“Hidey-ho, Captain!” Cody greets me as I slam the driver’s door. I sigh. From day one, Cody has misinterpreted his job description, apparently under the impression that it includes being an annoyance.

“Cody,” I reply. His eyes slip off of mine and settle over my shoulder as I approach. He grins.

“This must be the stray you told me about.”

“Yes. Don’t worry, he’s very well-behaved,” I reply, pleased when I hear a snort of laughter behind me. I step to the side. “Cody, this is Spencer.”

“Hell yeah it is. Nice to meet you.” Cody hops off the tailgate and shakes Spencer’s hand. Tipping my head back, I close my eyes. He’s going to be insufferable all day. “Me and my girl, Lindy, watched some of your videos last night. Subscribed and everything. I feel like I should be asking for your autograph.”

“Oh dear lord,” I mutter, going to unlock the door of the boat shed.

As I suspected, Cody agrees wholeheartedly to being filmed and is so excited by the prospect that several times throughout the morning, Spencer has to gently remind him to just go about his normal work and not stare directly into the camera. Every time I meet Spencer’s eyes, he’s grinning. Once, he winks at me, and I look away, immediately thinking about how it felt to put a hand on his leg this morning.

I wouldn’t say ecstasy is what I’m feeling when the Maiden slips back into the water, but it’s certainly something close to joy. Not quite elation, but the nearest I’ve ever come. She’s not meant to be hobbled on land. She’s meant to be in the water, looking for maiden seas, as Spencer would say. I glance over at him, seeing my own internal happiness reflected openly on his face as he smiles and holds a camera in front of him. Feeling my gaze, he looks over.

“This is amazing,” he tells me. It’s not, really. It’s an average occurrence in a fishing town.

“Yes,” I agree anyway.

Once she’s tied up at my slip, Cody and I board. Spencer hovers on the pier, uncertain until I wave a hand and gesture him on. I’m curious as to how he’ll fare on the boat, already resigned to the eventuality of him coming out to haul with us. He stumbles slightly, gripping the rail tightly as though we’re actually moving and not docked.