Emma hands me a mug. I take a sip. Marina store coffee is terrible.
“I told you the machine was dead,” she says.
“I’ll look at it tomorrow.”
“You don’t have to fix everything, Paul.”
“I know. But the coffee maker is personal. That thing has been taunting me sinceMarch.”
She laughs. Quiet, because Aidan is sleeping. We sit on the deck steps, side by side. The water laps against the hull. The fairy lights hum above us. The spot where the yacht was docked is empty now—just dark water and the reflection of stars.
“They’re gone,” Emma says. “Sailing to the Caribbean on a yacht with a wine fridge and a soaking tub.”
“We have a deck bench and bad coffee.”
“I think we got the better deal.”
I look at her. Profile lit by fairy lights. Bare feet. Sweatshirt with a hole in the sleeve. The most beautiful woman at the wedding tonight, and she’s sitting on a houseboat deck drinking the worst coffee in North Carolina with a marina manager who owns one suit.
“Emma.”
“Mm.”
“I love you.”
She goes still. Not surprised-still. Listening-still. Like she’s been waiting for me to get here and she wants to hear every word.
“I love your kids. I love that Aidan makes lists and Millie reads on the dock and Jenna counts things nobody else notices. I love that your coffee maker is possessed and your port lightflickers and your houseboat creaks when the wind shifts. I love that you showed up at my marina with three kids and a camera and turned everything upside down, and I don’t want it right-side up again. I tried that for eleven years. It doesn’t work.”
She sets her mug down.
“I’m not Matt,” I say. “I’m not going to check my phone during dinner. I’m not going to cancel because something came up. I’m going to be here. Tomorrow. Saturday. Every Saturday after that. For pancakes and dock readings and crab expeditions and whatever Aidan puts on his next list. I’m going to be here, Emma. That’s what I do.”
“I know,” she says. “That’s why I love you.”
She says it simply. No tears. No drama. Just the fact of it, handed over like something she’s been carrying for a while and is glad to finally set down.
“I’ve known since that first night with the wiring,” she says. “You came over because my lights were flickering and you were worried about a fire. You were so annoyed, and you fixed it anyway, and you didn’t ask for anything. You just muttered about the amperage and left. And I stood in my galley thinking:oh no.”
“Oh no?”
“Oh no, this grumpy man who hates my fairylights just spent an hour on my electrical at eleven at night and I think I’m in trouble.”
I almost smile. “You were done for.”
“We both were.”
On the bench behind us, Aidan shifts in his sleep. Stomper falls to the deck. I reach over, pick up the elephant, tuck it back under his arm. Aidan doesn’t wake up. His fingers close around it automatically.
Emma watches me do this. Her eyes are bright but she’s not crying. Same look she gave me during the ceremony—full, steady, unguarded.
“Paul.”
“Yeah.”
“The list. Aidan’s list—the one from Matt’s visit. More than half of it never got crossed off.”
“I know.”
