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"On it." He does a finger-gun and then seems to realize it's inappropriate under whatever the current circumstances are and just sort of tucks his hand into his pocket and walks out sideways. Under other circumstances that exit would carry me through the rest of the morning.

Diesel doesn't come in at all.

He's in the doorway between the office and the back hall that leads to the workshop. Not on my side. Not on Aiden’s. Just lying in no-man’s land with his chin on the floor and his eyes open, staring at the baseboard like it’s responsible for whatever is going wrong in his world.

He doesn't get up when I say his name. Doesn't even lift his head. Just rolls his eyes sideways and up to look at me, sighs through his nose, and goes back to staring. Since the very first day I got here he’s never once failed to come when I called him. Now he's parked on the line between us like he doesn't know which country he lives in anymore.

My lies broke his owner’s heart and now he’s stuck in the middle. I did that.

I turn back to the invoices.

The morning passes slowly. When the phone rings I answer in my professional voice and schedule pickups and write things down and file things where they go. My handwriting is steady. I make sure to keep it that way because if I let one thing shake the whole structure will come tumbling down and I’m not having a breakdown at work where he can hear it.

He’ll probably assume I’m pretending. Trying to manipulate him into feeling sorry for me.

Aiden doesn’t come into the office all day.

Not for coffee. Not for the mail. Not for the Cavanaugh invoice I leave on the counter where he'll see it when he comes looking for it. He sends Tommy for the invoice. Tommy takes it without making eye contact and retreats so fast the screen door doesn't even get its usual bang in.

At ten past eleven a lobster boat rounds the breakwater and pulls in to refuel. Painted across the rear-end of her hull, in letters so cheerful they should be illegal, is the name Knot on Call.

It’s impossible to miss. It's right there in big black letters, pulling up to the fuel dock where Aiden’s standing with a hose in his hand.

I watch him read the name. Watch the exact half-second where the joke would have landed. Where he would have looked at the office window and I would have already been looking back and one of us would have owed the other five dollars.

He doesn't look.

I don't move.

The boat ties off. The fuel goes in. He points the owner in the direction of the office without turning his head in my direction. I take the money and write out the receipt, wishing the man a good day. Aiden’s already back in the workshop before I’m done.

The Knot on Call motors back out of the harbor carrying a stupid, beautiful joke that nobody is ever going to collect on.

My throat closes up so fast it actually hurts.

I look down at the keyboard. The screen is blurring. I blink it clear and type an invoice number wrong twice. I finally get it right on the third try with my jaw locked shut and my breathing very carefully even.

The bet doesn't matter. I don’t give a damn about the five dollars. What breaks my heart is that we had something small and silly and ours, and I killed it with my cowardice.

The days blur into a pattern that would be almost funny if it weren't slowly grinding me into dust.

He leaves work orders on the counter between the office and the back hall. Folded once, my name on the front in his messy handwriting. I process them, leave the completed invoices in the same spot, and by morning they're gone.

We’re communicating entirely through paper, like two people running a business via carrier pigeon, except the pigeon is a counter and neither of us will admit how insane this is.

Obviously, Marcus knows something happened, a blind man could tell things are very much not okay. The toxic atmosphere can probably be detected from outer space. He doesn’t ask about it anymore, which means he can tell it’s serious.

He chats for a few minutes when he comes to get his morning coffee, never mentioning Aiden at all. It’s completely pathetic how much I look forward to that interaction every day and how hard I have to bite my tongue to keep myself from asking about Aiden.

On Wednesday Carol sends me a container of soup. I cry quietly while eating it at my desk, wondering why I’m doing this to myself and hoping nobody walks in on me. I should just leave. But the thought of never seeing Aiden again is more than I can bear. Not that I see him now, but I know he’s just on the other side of the door.

Tommy is handling the tension by being overly jovial. He comes into the office armed with jokes I’m sure he’s learning off by heart. More often than not he mixes up the punchlines, and I laugh anyway, blinking back tears, because he’s just trying so hard to cheer me up and the sweetness of it kills me.

It’s nearly home time when I realize I need a part number from a manual that lives on Aiden's workbench. I walk to the workshop door and push it open, figuring I’ll be in and out. He's under a hull with a sander running, and the noise is loud enough that he shouldn't be able to hear me over it, but the sander stops the second my shadow hits the floor.

He doesn't come out from under the boat. Just his voice, flat and final.

"Don't come in here. I don’t want to see you."