Irina.
A name that belonged to her before she learned how often she’d have to explain herself.
I’d heard it, filed it away, respected the fact that it wasn’t mine yet. Another reminder that she doesn’t give herself up all at once. She lets you earn the right to know her properly, layer by layer, current by current.
I realize that every time I tried to rush her, I wasn’t chasing intimacy.
I was skipping the work.
I step back from the skiff and let my weight settle into the mud. Water laps gently against my calves, warm and indifferent. Reeds brush my arms with idle curiosity.
I don’t move.
I shut the engine off fully. Kill the radio. Remove variables.
Stillness doesn’t come naturally to me. On the ice, motion is how I think, anticipating angles, correcting trajectories before they fully form. Out here, that instinct would have me forcing the skiff free and disappearing deeper into the Delta just to feel in control again.
That’s how mistakes compound.
That’s how you lose the love of your life.
So I breathe. Count it out. Let my pulse slow.
I lower myself onto the edge of the skiff and wait.
At first, nothing changes. Heat presses down. Insects whine. Time stretches thin and strange. My mind keeps offering solutions—drag the hull sideways, backtrack on foot, guess another channel.
I let them pass.
Then, slowly, the water tells me something.
The current isn’t steady. It pulses, subtle, but consistent, nudging from right to left. Between pulses, the mud loosens its grip, suction easing just enough to matter.
I don’t use that to push forward.
I use it to get out of the trap.
Inch by inch, I guide the skiff sideways until the hull floats clean again. Just enough to reposition, not to navigate back, not to guess my way out, but to reach a shallow shelf where the water is clearer and the footing firm.
When the skiff noses onto the shelf, I stop.
I set the anchor by hand, pressing it deep until it bites. The hull settles with quiet finality. No drift left in it.
This time, staying put isn’t fear. It’s an invitation.
Now I’m not stuck.
Now I’m deliberate.
The solution wasn’t behind me.
It’s been here the whole time.
I think of Wren again—not her face, not her body—but her voice, calm and exacting.
A smile ghosts across my mouth, quick and private.
“Okay,” I murmur, to the river, to myself.
