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"That's not what I asked."

"It's what I answered."

He plants his boots and drinks his coffee and watches me work, which is Marcus for this isn't over. I get my head back inside the pump housing, which is me for yes, it is.

Tommy shows up whistling something with no tune in it and a joke already loaded. "Hey boss. Why don't oysters share their pearls?"

I don't ask.

"Because they're shellfish," he says anyway. When I don’t laugh, he mutters, "It lands better with a drumroll."

"It'd land better if you were a comedian and not a mechanic. I don’t pay you to amuse me."

"Yep. Okay." He grabs the day’s worksheet off the wall and finds somewhere else to be.

Marcus is still watching me. Twelve years buys a man a long look, so I let him have it, refusing to give him what he’s looking for. Eventually I hold out my hand for the torque wrench and he passes it over. We fall into the natural rhythm of our workday, and for a while the shop is just the sound of tools and the radio. That's as close to peace as I’ve had in over a week.

Her truck pulls in just after nine. The engine cuts. The parking brake cranks. The door closes carefully, like she’s trying not to call any attention to herself. I keep the door between the office and the workshop firmly shut so I don’t catch accidental glimpses of her during the day, but the workshop window faces the lot, and I’d see her if I looked up right now.

I keep my head down. It costs me. Her boots cross the gravel in the direction of the office, and keeping my eyes on the fuel pump takes my whole neck, my shoulders and both forearms. Just as it has every other morning. Not looking at her turns out to be a job I need to do with my entire body. It hasn’t gotten any easier as the days go by.

Marcus watches me not look. He wisely lets that one go too.

The pump is fixed. I reach for the next work order.

I've built my whole day around not going into that office.

It's not hard. Tommy fetches whatever I need. The work orders go back and forth on the counter same as they have for a week and a half. The system works fine. The only problem with the system is that I know exactly what's sitting on that desk, and some part of my brain keeps circling back to it all day long like a gull working a bait barrel.

I'm not reading it. I already decided that. Deciding it once should be enough, but apparently, I have to keep deciding it, over and over, every hour of the day.

Mid-morning I go to the counter to drop off the next completed order and find her standing there. She goes stiff. Neither of us says anything. She clutches the papers in her hand to her chest like it will act as a shield, steps back, and turns for the office without looking at me. Or where she’s going apparently, because on her way through the door her shoulder clips the frame hard enough that her body’s half-spun back in my direction.

I pretend I didn't see it. She pretends it didn't happen. The door shuts and I hear her muffled, “Ow fuck,” through the wood. The urge to rush over and check if she’s okay is stronger than it has any right to be. I want to pull her blouse aside and kiss the tender skin better.

The page she left on the counter is the dentist's winterization quote. She's gone through my numbers and written in the margin next to the storage line, small and neat. Quoted him the indoor storage price last month. Honor it?

She's right. I quoted him a lower rate for this job because he’s wintering the boat here. She remembered and I didn't.

Tommy comes up beside me asking about paint for the bottom of a hull, and I stand there answering him in a normal voice about primer while my mouth's gone dry and heat is crawling up my neck from the image of kissing her shoulder better still hovering in my mind.

Having to stand still at this counter and talk about paint while my cock is waking up in my jeans is its own particular kind of misery. Nobody warns you about that one. You just get to live it, in front of an employee, on a weekday.

The dentist himself shows up Thursday afternoon.

He comes into the workshop wearing boat shoes with no socks and a smile you could sell toothpaste with, which I suppose makes sense considering his profession. "Aiden! How are you? I've been meaning to come by since the festival."

I don’t have the energy for social niceties. This week has been kicking my ass and I’m a hair’s breadth from snapping.

"The statement’s at the office."

"Oh, I got that days ago. Vanessa emailed it over, she's a marvel. Owen still asks about her, by the way. And that photo of you two in the paper. Lisa cut it out and stuck it on the fridge if you can believe it. She says she’s never seen two people look more in love. You two should- “

"Are you still looking for undercover storage for your boat for the winter or not?"

He blinks. "Well… yes, of course. That's actually why I-"

"Then book it with the office and let me get back to my job. I fix boats. I don't do festivals and I don't do photographs, and there’s nothing between Vanessa and me. Whatever else you heard, you heard wrong."