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“No. Another night.”
“Donovan,” I whine. “Please?”
Donovan lets out a huge sigh. “Fuck,” he mutters, almost to himself.
We’re not exactly in any state to drive, but apparently, where we’re going is in walking distance.
The night is bitterly cold, but the red wine and Donovan’s dinner have both warmed my stomach and my blood.
Of course, it also helps when, halfway through our walk down the empty road, Jason slings his arm around my shoulders and pulls me into his body heat. He starts singing nineties songs, loudly, badly, and I do my best to join in.
Okay, maybe I’m a little tipsy.
Donovan walks us to the Hannsett Island Marina. Which…talk about memories. We walk through the parking lot and down the gravel pathway.
It looks strange in the dark. Eerie, almost. It hasn’t changed at all since I left. There’s the restaurant to our left—different name but same building. The pool we used to hang out in. The laundry room we used to get high in. There is a row of boats lined up along the pier. They look bright in the moonlight, like swans on the water, lazily bobbing.
“It hasn’t changed, has it?” I ask.
“What’d you expect?” Donovan asks. “Flying cars?”
Valid. Valid point.
There’s no one here at night. There probably hasn’t been anyone here all winter. The marina takes a particularly steep dive after tourist season. Which…it’s pretty obvious why.
It’s fucking cold. Not exactly “boating weather.”
“Where are you taking us?” I finally ask, because I have to tuck my fingers into my sleeves to keep them warm.
“Almost there,” Donovan says.
I don’t know where I expect him to bring us—the dock master’s office? His old trailer behind the pool? Do they still have the trailer—?
He guides us down the second pier, and we walk to the very end of it. The cold has frosted over the standing pier lights. The last ship bobs lightly in the water. It’s modest compared to the yachts and expensive fishing boats. It’s a quaint sailboat, all open wood, and well taken care of. The sail cover is white, tight, and clean. The steering wheel is covered as well, and it looks pretty battened down for the winter.
“Here we are,” Donovan says, coming to a stop beside the boat.
I blink at it. He’s standing next to it like he’s proud. “Did you…buy this?”
But there’s that amused Mona Lisa smile. He says, “Check the name.”
I do. On the back in precise, black lettering, it says, DOCK BUOY.
And then I see it. I recognize this boat. I gape.
“You did it. You fixed it up.”
“It took some doing, but…yeah.”
Something twists in my chest. This was the boat we hung out in as kids. The boat I lost my virginity in. And like all of us, it’s grown up. I’m…touched. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Donovan sticks his hands in his pockets. Shrugs. “I would’ve. If you’d come back.”
“I’m sorry…I didn’t know…”
“Don’t,” he interrupts quickly. “It’s not for you. It’s for me. That summer meant a lot to me. It’s just…a reminder. Of a time I was young and dumb and really, really happy.”
Maybe it’s the alcohol. Maybe it’s the salt in the night air. There’s a lump in my throat. Thick emotion. “I think…I need that.”
