Page 7 of On Dry Land

Porsche guy tilts his head to the side, expression unchanging as he regards me. Because I’m the kind of person who notices everything, I can’t help but notice how attractive he is. Jarringly so, with high cheekbones, dark eyes, and rich brown skin. His jaw is the kind of smooth I’d never be able to achieve with my cheap plastic razor, and there’s something silky in the tone of his voice equally out of reach. Even if he weren’t standing next to the kind of car I’ve only seen in magazines, I’d be able to clock him as rich by the way he speaks.

“No need to be nervous,” he comments. My back straightens immediately, although I don’t drop my hands.

“I’m not,” I reply shortly. It’s never a good idea to let people know you’re frightened of them. That’s a power imbalance that can never be returned once it’s shifted that direction. He merely raises one smooth eyebrow and takes two steps backward.

“Do you have a weapon?” he asks, not sounding as though he particularly cares about the answer either way and is merely asking because he’s curious.

“No.”

“Then put your hands down.”

I comply slowly but still don’t go near my pockets. I let my hands dangle by my side, projecting a nonchalance I do not feel. He is making me nervous, and it doesn’t only have to do with his size and proximity. It’s not even really him but the fact that it’s dark and he caught me here alone. He startled me. I’m scared because interactions in the past have taught me I have to be fearful of everyone.

“Not a great place to sleep,” he comments. I nod in agreement, because, yeah, no shit, buddy.

“Wouldn’t be my first choice,” I joke and am enormously relieved when the faintest hint of a smile is visible in the tilt of his mouth. We stare silently at one another for a few moments. I clear my throat and add, “I’ll be on my way. I’m sorry I disturbed you.”

For just a second, I think he’s going to box me in—move toward me instead of away, catch instead of release. It passes in a blink, though, and I watch as he retreats, sweeping a hand out like he’s a gentleman letting me go first through a doorway.

“Of course,” he murmurs, still watching me with eyes so dark I can’t read a single emotion in them.

I have to walk past him to get by, and every hair on the back of my neck rises as I do. The second I’m able, I turn just enough to keep him in my periphery, unwilling to show my back to anyone, let alone a stranger in the dark. I am well beyond the pool of light, footsteps quick, when he speaks again.

“If you walk a mile down Bluefin Street, you’ll find a diner that offers a full breakfast for two fifty.”

I glance back over my shoulder, pretty confident that he can no longer clearly see me given the dark morning and the distance now between us. I raise a hand in acknowledgment and thank you anyway, but he’s already turning away and walking back inside, nothing but a tall silhouette in the glowing doorway before he’s gone.

Chapter Four

DRYDEN

Approximately five foot six in height—although he was doing his best to stretch that a little further—brown eyes, skin that’s seen a little too much sun and not enough sunscreen, and what I’m estimating was a day-six beard. Hard to guess accurately with the dirt and exhaustion sitting below his eyes, but in his twenties for sure. Younger than me, certainly.

I glance over at the open doorway every couple of minutes, thinking about him. I didn’t get a name, which is idiotic, but he caught me by surprise. As I did to him, if the raw fear in his eyes was any indication, or the way he’d held his hands up like he was proclaiming his innocence at gunpoint. I hadn’t meant to startle him, and I don’t think I did a very good job of dispelling the discomfort after I did. Comfort isn’t a thing I’m proficient in giving, and I hadn’t been anticipating the need to try when I woke up with an urge to check on the Maiden.

I’d spent the evening lying in bed, wishing for sleep but unable to turn off my brain. I enjoy a good puzzle, although I’d prefer they be less dangerous than my boat’s engine failing at sea and being unable to fix it. I should be able to fix it. I’m always able to fix it. Engines make sense. Engines work within the same parameters every time and act the same way, as long as those parameters are met. Unlike people. Unlike cute little strangers with big, untrusting eyes and pouty lips.

Sighing, I sit back on my heels and look at the door again. He hasn’t come back, nor do I expect him to. I would be surprised if I ever saw him again, in fact. Which is fine. He is no concern of mine.

I tinker with the Maiden for a few hours, growing increasingly frustrated when I can’t figure out the issue. I’ve double- and triple-checked the usual suspects when something like this occurs, and nothing seems to be amiss. Nothing other than the fact that the damn thing won’t turn on.

Carefully wiping my fingers off on a rag, I rise to standing. I made certain to apply myself to learning the Maiden’s engine when I acquired her, my preference always going to be to hire a professional but aware that for safety, I should at least be proficient. It’s frustrating for all that preparation to be for naught the first time it’s tested. I’m an engineer, for fuck’s sake. And while I might have started my career in an office, my skills have grown these past few years to a more hands-on approach to the mechanical aspect. I slide my fingers along the gunwale as I think, still turning the problem over in my head and trying to spy a solution. As though I can’t help myself, I find my gaze catching once more on the doorway. I hope he went and got breakfast from the Sand Dollar. I hope he’ll get the hell out of my head so I can focus on things that actually matter.

Like Oliver. Hands clean, I check the time on my cell phone and mentally calculate how long it’ll take me to drive to the hospital. If I leave now, I’ll get there well after the start of visiting hours. Dropping the rag carelessly on a workbench, I exit the boat shop and step outside into a hazy, chill morning.

The brown-eyed stranger is long gone and the wharf busier with locals in his place. Nobody hails me as I lock up my boat shed. I cast a cursory glance toward the Drifter, tied to her slip, as I climb into my car. It’s dark and still, which means Shiloh isn’t here. Occasionally, since we broke up, I feel a strange twist of longing in my stomach when his name comes to mind. I don’t miss being with him, but I admit to sometimes missing him being there at all. A year ago, had something bad happened to Oliver, I would have been his first call. I wouldn’t have had to chase down information or go to bed worried. I wouldn’t have had to try and prove to anyone that I care.

I had known, from the first time I went out with him, that Shiloh and I were not destined for romance. Perhaps that makes me a piece of shit, since I pursued one anyway, but the pair of us were so wrong and sad and different. I remember very vividly sneaking out of his house in the dead of night the first time we’d slept together, thinking that perhaps it didn’t matter if we ever loved each other or not. That what mattered to me right then was having someone—anyone—to smile at me, to talk to, and to touch me. And selfishly, I’d found a person who’d do just that. I’d kept Shiloh just near enough that he couldn’t escape and far enough away that I wouldn’t care if he did. It had felt, at the time, like the perfect arrangement. Neither of us would be alone; he could pine for his lost love, and I could rejoice that mine was gone for good.

I put the radio on low as I drive toward the hospital, listening to a playlist of soul music that seems intent upon only giving me mournful tunes. I watch the shoulders a little closer than I usually do as I drive the winding roads, wondering if I’ll catch a glimpse of a dirty blue jacket and red backpack. I must truly be bored if I can’t think of anything else but a homeless man I talked to for less than five minutes.

The hospital is quiet when I arrive, the night shift having traded off with the day, the sun giving a brief reprieve from the emergencies that seem to only spawn at night. I don’t stop at the desk for help but use the sparse information Ewan provided me, as well as my own brain, to find my way. When I step out of the elevator on the fifth floor, laughter, strangely out of place in a hospital, alerts me to the fact that I’m in the right place. A young nurse with tight rows of braids along his scalp nods at me. I return the greeting and follow the laughter.

Indeed, when I peek through the open doorway of the room where the fun is apparently being had, I see two nurses standing next to a patient bed, Oliver reclined back and grinning goofily. In the corner, one leg crossed over the other, ankle resting on his knee, is Nils, eyes on me and expression as haggard as my own feels. I’m not the only one who’s had a bad couple of days.

Nodding a greeting at him, I knock gently on the door. Oliver and his lady friends look over, the former smiling broadly when he sees it’s me, lifting a hand in a slightly sluggish welcome. I almost smile. Oliver could probably lose both his arms and still find a way to wave a greeting at everyone.

“Another visitor,” one of the nurses teases, smiling down at Oliver like she wants to pinch his cheeks. “Why am I not surprised?”