Okay.
Nothing.
Ghosted.
The setting that showsReadis disabled on her phone, so it feels like a double punch.
Declan leaves around eight, flipping the sign to CLOSED on his way out.I clean my station, mop the floors, and restock needles until ten.Everything is neat and controlled.Unlike me.
The rain picks up again, drumming harder, like it’s trying to get inside.I slip the sketchbook into my satchel, tug on my beanie, and lock up the shop.
The streets are mostly empty, the kind of quiet that makes my thoughts louder.I take the long way to her shop.I don’t want to seem eager, even if I am.
The garage is still lit.I stand in the doorway, watching for a second, smoking a cigarette.I don’t know why my pulse is so high.Everyone else went home.It’s just Dove in there.
Dove and that unworthy engine she apparently loves more than me.
I flick away the cig and slip into the bay, my rain boots squeaking on the concrete.She lifts her head at the sound.
Finally.
She sees me.Straightens up.Wipes her hands on a rag but doesn’t smile.Doesn’t say my name.
“You change your phone number?”I tuck my fingers into my pockets.
“Didn’t check it.”
“All day?”
“Been busy.”
She doesn’t offer more.Doesn’t step toward me.Doesn’t look sorry.
“I brought you lunch.”
“I saw.”
“You done?”I squint at her.
“Give me five.”
I wait in the rain.
She comes out five minutes later, wiping grease off her cheek, her bomber jacket zipped halfway up.No purse or umbrella.The rain soaks her blue hair.
We walk in silence, side by side but miles apart.The dull orange glow of streetlights reflects on wet pavement.
She doesn’t speak.
I don’t ask why.
The harbor appears like it always does, silent, mist-veiled, boats bobbing in their slips.The yacht I share with Leo waits at the far dock, ropes taut against the cleats, haloed in dock lights and sea fog.
Dove follows me down the ramp without question.
I untie the lines and hop aboard first, reaching back to steady her hand as she steps on deck.She doesn’t need it, but she takes it anyway.
That’s something.
