God — that smell.
Salt. Varnish. Wood oil. A faint ghost of engine grease.
Home.
“This feels like a secret,” she whispered.
Like we’d slipped into a place the rest of the world wasn’t invited.
I flicked on the low cabin lights. Warm yellow bloomed across the deck, turning everything honey-colored.
The boat rocked once under our weight. Gentle. Slow.
Like it was settling around us.
She trailed her fingers along the rail, over the varnished teak we’d sanded and stained until our hands blistered.
“You did this?” she asked.
“Yeah. Tony and I.”
My palm brushed the wood automatically.
“Bought her half-dead. Spent two summers bringing her back. Sanding. Rewiring. Rebuilding the engine. Crawling into spaces nobody should fit into.”
She smiled. “Of course you did.”
Of course.
Like it made sense that I’d fix something instead of replacing it.
We moved toward the stern, the deck creaking softly under our steps. Lines thumped gently against the mast. Water tapped the hull in slow, rhythmic slaps.
“So,” I said, “that accent’s definitely not Boston.”
She laughed under her breath. “Bayou. Louisiana. Tiny place. Smells like low tide and hot mud all year. Humidity so bad you feel wet even after you shower.”
“Sounds… intense.”
“It is. I ran north the second I could. Tried New York first.”
“And?”
“Too fake,” she said. “Too loud. Felt like everyone was pretending.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Never liked New York either.”
“Boston feels real,” she said. “Messy. Human.”
We settled under an old blanket on the stern bench. The teak was warm against my palms. The boat swayed gently beneath us, that slow cradle-rock that makes your body forget which way is land.
“So what do you do?” I asked.
“Law firm,” she said. Casual. I was impressed and feeling out of my league in every way.
Then she studied me.
Slow. Appraising.
