“Why?”
I untie the stern line, then the bow. Push us off the dock with the boat hook. The engine purrs to life, low and steady, and I ease us into the creek.
“You know why.”
“Your dad.”
The word lands like a stone in still water. I don’t answer. Don’t need to. Grayson was there for some of it—not the worst years, but enough to understand.
The creek opens up as we round the first bend, marsh grass stretching out on both sides, the sky enormous overhead. A great blue heron stands motionless in the shallows, watching us pass with ancient indifference.
“Where are we headed?” Grayson asks.
“Vera’s spot.”
He doesn’t ask what that means. He’s been there before.
The spot is a wide place in the waterway where the creek meets a smaller tributary, tucked behind a hammock of cedars that block the wind. Vera used to bring me here in her ancient Boston Whaler, anchor up, and read aloud while I fished.
I never caught much. I was too busy listening.
I kill the engine and drop anchor. The silence settles around us—not really silence, but the particular quiet of the marsh. Cord grass rustling. Water lapping against the hull. The distant cry of an osprey circling overhead.
“Alright.” Grayson stretches his legs out. “We’re on the water. We’re at Vera’s spot. Start talking.”
I stare at the horizon, where the marsh meets the sky in a hazy green-gold line.
“I finished the book.”
“The one about Jessica?”
“It’s not—” I stop. Breathe. “It’s fiction.”
“Scott. You’ve been writing obsessively for two weeks. You barely sleep. You look at your phone every thirty seconds hoping she’s texted. It’s about Jessica.”
The osprey dives, hits the water with a splash, comes up empty. Even the birds are striking out today.
“My publisher wants it. Rodney says it’s the best thing I’ve ever written.” I dig my thumb into the steering wheel cover. “They want to fast-track release alongside the reveal event. Full marketing push.”
“That sounds like good news.”
“Legal is asking if the Jessica character is based on a real person.”
Grayson is quiet for a moment. “Ah.”
“I wrote our story. Her wound, my lies, the letters, the beach. All of it.” I finally look at him. “I can’t publish it without her permission. But asking her permission means showing her the manuscript.”
“So show her.”
“She’s not speaking to me, Grayson. She called me Mr. Avery at the committee meeting. She won’t look at me. She?—”
“So you’re giving up?”
“I’m giving her space.”
“You’re hiding.” He says it without judgment, just observation. “Same thing you’ve always done.”
The words hit harder than they should. Probably because they’re true.
