I pack up my gear and drive back to the marina with the windows down, the salt air pulling at my hair, the shrimp in a cooler in my trunk. The road between the beach and the marina cuts through a stretch of maritime forest—live oaks draped in Spanish moss, the canopy so thick the light goes green underneath. Then the trees break and the water appears, flat and silver in the afternoon heat, and the marina materializes at the end of the gravel road like a postcard someone left in the sun too long.Weathered wood. Boats rocking. The dock shimmering in the heat haze.
The houseboat smells like sunscreen and boy sweat when I get back. Lottie has the twins drawing apology cards for Justin at the fold-down table. Olson's features a shrimp with a speech bubble that says “Sorry about my friends.” Mitch's features a boat surrounded by stars, which Lottie says represents Justin's vessel being restored to its former glory.
“Did he say anything after I left?” Lottie asks, folding a dish towel with unnecessary precision.
“He was too busy netting shrimp and glaring.”
“He glares at everything. That's not specific.”
“This was a specific glare. Aimed at a redhead who told him to net some more.”
She folds the towel again. It doesn't need folding. “He's very intense.”
“He's a Spencer. They don't come in mild.”
She's quiet for a beat. Then, carefully, like she's testing a bruise: “He didn't yell at the boys. You noticed that, right? He was furious, but he kept his voice down. Ryan was the same way, except with Ryan it was because he never cared enough to raise it. Justin cared. He just... held it.”
My chest does a squeeze. Because she's right. And because she noticed. And becauseLottie noticing the difference between a man who controls his anger and a man who doesn't have any is the first sign I've seen that she might be ready to believe those two things aren't the same.
The smell fills the galley as I start cooking—garlic and butter and shrimp curling pink in the pan. The Carolina heat is finally breaking outside, evening air drifting through the open windows warm and heavy with honeysuckle. Lottie opens the wine. Millie sets the table on the deck. Aidan provides commentary on shrimp anatomy while I devein.
“The vein isn't really a vein,” he says. “It's their digestive tract.”
“Thank you, Aidan.”
“You're basically gutting them.”
“I am making dinner.”
“With their guts.”
“Withouttheir guts. That's the whole point.”
Jenna drifts out onto the deck as the scampi comes together. “Was Finch there this morning?”
I don't look up from the pan. “He's there every morning, Jen.”
“I was asking abouttoday.Specifically.”
“Yes, Jenna.He was there.”
“Cool.”
“Mm-hm.”
From the table, Millie doesn't look up from her book. “She watched him tie off the boat from the deck this morning. She thought I didn't notice.”
Jenna's face goes the color of the shrimp in my pan. “Millie.Seriously?”
“You were standing at the rail for ten minutes.”
“I was looking at the sunrise.”
“The sun rises in the east. The shrimp boat is north.”
The scampi is incredible.Fresh off the boat changes everything—sweeter, firmer, tasting like the actual ocean instead of a freezer bag. I feel a flash of gratitude toward a grumpy shrimper who handed me his best catch and grunted his way through a compliment.
The boys eat like they haven't seen food in weeks. Millie has seconds, which is rare. Jenna eats without her phone on the table, which is basically a standing ovation. The evening air wraps around us—warm, thick, smelling like honeysuckle and the outgoing tide. Cicadas are starting up in the live oaks behind the boathouse, that rising buzz that means the day is finallyletting go.
