“You thought nine months apart would calm them down?”
“I thought maybe one of them would lose his voice. Statistically.”
Lottie emerges from the driver's side looking like ten hours in a car with twin eight-year-olds have personally victimized her. Her red curls are in a bun that has clearly given up on itself. There's a fruit snack stuck to her shoulder. Her eyes are red-rimmed and wide, scanning the marina like she's jumped off a cliff and is trying to figure out if there's water at the bottom.
She looks beautiful and terrified and exactly like I did when I pulled in here nine months ago.
“Emma.” Her voice cracks on the second syllable.
We collide in the parking lot. She's hugging me so hard my coffee sloshes, laughing and crying at the same time, and Jenna is filming because teenagers document everything, and it's loud and messy and perfect.
“I can't believe I did it,” she says into my shoulder. “Olson spilled a Slurpee on the dashboard outside Asheville. Mitch fell asleep with his mouth open and Olson put a Cheeto in it. The U-Haul made a noise on I-40 that sounded like a dying whale and I just kept driving.”
“Was it like this for you?” she asks quietly. “When you first got here?”
“Worse. I got lost twice. Aidan threwup in Fayetteville. And the houseboat had a pelican living in it.”
“A pelican?”
“In the galley. Standing there like he owned the place. I named him Frank and we coexisted for three hours until Paul removed him with a fishing net and the clear conviction that I'd personally invited the pelican.”
She laughs—the first real one in person in months—and turns to take in the marina.
The weathered dock stretching over the water. Fishing boats bobbing in their slips—Second WindandNo RegretsandReel Therapy.Justin's shrimp boat, gleaming and immaculate. Pelicans on their pilings with offended dignity. The sound stretching out blue and sparkling behind everything, so wide it swallows the horizon.
And at the end of the dock, my houseboat, warm light in the portholes, Aidan's “sea monster trap” tangled on the railing.
“Emma,” Lottie breathes. “It's gorgeous.”
“Wait until you see the wiring.”
Down at the water, the chaos trio is already on their stomachs hanging over the edge.
“Come out, Gerald! I brought my friends!”
“We brought offerings!” Mitch holds up a piece of beef jerky.
“Crabs don't eat beef jerky,” Millie says from behind her book, not looking up.
“This one does! Gerald is special!”
Lottie watches her sons with the exhausted fondness of a mother who stopped being surprised by them six years ago. “Olson counted down the days on the rental car ceiling. In marker. The company is going to charge me.”
And then Paul appears.
Doorway of the dock office. Arms crossed. Coffee mug in hand. Expression dialed to its usual setting, but this particular version has an undercurrent ofwhat fresh chaos is thisthat I find deeply satisfying.
He takes in the trio—Aidan pointing, Olson hanging over the edge, Mitch on lookout. Then the U-Haul. Then me.
I give him my brightest smile. The one he hates.
“Paul! This is my best friend Lottie. She's moving to Twin Waves. Her twins are the ones dangling off your dock.”
His jaw tightens.
“Lottie, this is Paul. He owns the marina. He's verywelcoming.”
“I'm not?—”
