“Not really. Just seemed like a safe opening line,” he says, grinning crookedly. He looks good. Healthier. There was always something tired about him before. Drawn. Most likely it was the lies eating at his soul.
“Oh.” Then we don’t have anything else to say to each other. I get back to work. Halibut don’t clean themselves, and even though the sun will be up for hours still, it’s getting late, and I’m hungry.
“Can we...” He runs a hand over the back of his neck. “Can we start over?”
“So youarelooking for a fishing guide?”
“No. Jack, Jesus.” He scuffs a toe in the gravel.
“What are you doing here, Damian?” I ask.
“My name’s David.” He half shouts it, and his voice cracks at the end like a nervous teenager asking his crush to prom. He takes a step back, brushing his palms down his thighs. I’ve touched those thighs. It’s unfair of him to remind me of the sensation of warm hard muscle and soft curly hair beneath the denim.
The second time, he speaks with greater control. “My name is David Morgan. I’m an actor who goes by the name Damian Marshall in Hollywood.”
“I don’t watch a lot of movies.”
“Yeah.” He laughs sadly. “Yeah, I know.”
Hank wanders up, puffing on a cigarette. “You looking to fish?”
“No, that’s okay,” Damian says. “I was hoping to speak to Jack. We met a few months ago and I thought I’d look him up while I was in town.”
So smooth. So vaguely accurate without disclosing any of the important details. It’s like he’s used to lying. Or used to getting paid to pretend he’s someone he’s not.
If I’d been hoping Hank would be my backup, I would be disappointed. He glances between us, spits once on the ground, and says, “I’ll be in my truck,” then wanders away.
Just great. Damian’s watching me nervously, and I really don’t understand why he’s here, and I can’t see that we have anything to say to each other that’ll be worth the time.
“Look,” he says, obviously sensing my waning goodwill, “I know I’m not in any position to ask you for anything.”
“Uh-huh.” I stab at the fish with more vigor than needed and go right through to the other side. Damn. Nothing like a mangled halibut filet to spoil your night.
“But can I take you out for dinner?”
The harbor is silent except for a gull that squawks the song of its people on a piling in the distance. I spin back to David—why can’t I decide what his name is?—and stare at him. That he has the balls to come up here and ask me on a date is ridiculous. That I still want him hurts more.
“How did you even know where to find me?” I ask.
“Marci,” he says. “I called the lodge. Well... I called a few times. She really gave me the runaround.”
Marci’s the only person I’ve kept in touch with, mostly at her insistence. She started by emailing, but we talk once a week or so. At no point did she mention that Damian had reached out to her.
I sigh. I’m tired. A little sunburned. My plans for tonight included some reheated spaghetti and early to bed.
I could invite him back to my place. It’s close by. In fact, it’s a trailer at the far side of the parking lot. I could take him there, fuck him—he wouldn’t say no. I’m sure he wouldn’t. Maybe that’s all he’s here for. And then I can send him on his way. Get him out of my system and never think about him again.
But the thing that has haunted me all these months is the conversation I had with Stef that night I came home. What if he wasn’t only lying to me? What if he was lying to himself too? I’ve considered that question and hated it because so many of the answers give me the one thing I couldn’t have: hope. Maybe not everything was a lie.
This is a bad idea.
“Pamela’s Fish House. Seven o’clock. It’s up that way.” I point along the road that runs from along the spit to town. “Green roof, orange fish on the sign. You can’t miss it.”
“I’m staying at a cabin near Bluff Point. I was thinking—”
“No.” I keep my hands busy working on the next fish because otherwise I’ll point the knife at him so he understands how serious I am, and that’ll come back to bite me. Surely there’s someone with a long-range camera waiting for the perfect picture. “Damian Marshall Threatened with Knife in Lover’s Quarrel.” Exactly what I need. “Pamela’s. You don’t get to ask me for anything, and you don’t get to set any of the terms. Or say goodbye now. It’s up to you.”
He nods. “Got it. No problem. I’ll see you there.”
