“Hey, Jen.”
“Hi.”
That’s it. No hug. No sprint. Justhi,delivered like she’s learned to manage expectations.
Matt takes it without pushing, which is another point in his favor.
Then he looks at me.
“Em.”
“Matt.”
We don’t hug. We do the divorced-parent smile—the one that sayswe are going to be pleasant and functional for the sake of these children—and he asks where they should grab lunch, like he’s a tourist who needs a local’s recommendation. Which, I suppose, he is.
They leave for the afternoon.
Matt takes all three kids to lunch, then ice cream, then the pier for fishing—numbers one, three, and six from Aidan’s list, though Matt doesn’t know there’s a list yet because Aidan is saving the official presentation for the right moment.
I stand on the houseboat deck and watch the silver SUV pull out of the marina parking lot, and the silence that settles over the dock is enormous. No Aidan narrating his day. No Millie turning pages. No muffled bass from Jenna’s earbuds.
Just the water. The gulls. The creak of the houseboat.
And Paul, thirty feet away, sanding a dock rail.
He looks up. Our eyes meet across the stretch of weathered wood between us. He lifts his hand—not a wave, just an acknowledgment. A quietI’m here.
I lift mine back.
Then I go inside, sit on my bed, and cry for about ten minutes. Not because anything is wrong. Because everything is confusing. Because watching Aidan sprint toward his father made my heart soar and break at the same time, and I don’t know which feeling to trust.
I wash my face. Edit photos for an hour. Text Lottie.
Emma:He showed up.
Lottie:And?
Emma:Pressed khakis. New glasses. Scooped Aidan right up.
Lottie:How long before the cracks show?
Emma:That’s a terrible thing to say.
Lottie:Is it wrong though?
I put down my phone. Pick up my camera. Walk out to the dock and shoot the marina for an hour—the light on the water, the pelicans, the ropes coiled on wooden posts. Anything to keep my hands busy.
Paul is gone by the time I come back. His boat is dark. The dock office is locked.
He’s giving me space.
I don’t want space. I want him to knock on the hull and bring me coffee and sit in the chair by my editing desk and not say anything, because Paul is the only person in my life who understands that sometimes silence is the most generous thing you can offer.
But I don’t text him. And he doesn’t knock.
The kids come backlate afternoon.
Aidan tumbles through the door with sunburnedcheeks and a bucket of shells. “Mom, we caught a fish! Well, Dad caught a fish. I caught seaweed. But I helped identify the species—it was a pinfish, which is in the Sparidae family, and Dad said he was impressed.”
