“Riveting stuff. Very romantic.”
“It’s not—” He stops. Recalibrates. Takes a sip of coffee like he needs it to survive this interaction. “Your light. Fix it or let me repair it. Those are your options.”
“I will this weekend.”
“You said that last Saturday.”
“And I’ll say it next week too, probably. It’s a tradition now. You should appreciate it. We have so few of them.”
He stares at me. I stare back. The marina stretches out around us, boats rocking, water sparkling, the whole absurd beautiful mess of it.
“Fine,” he says. “This weekend.”
“Yes.”
“I’m holding you to that.”
“You hold me to everything. It’s your favorite hobby.”
He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again, and then just turns and walks toward the dock office with rigidposture.
I watch him go and absolutely do not notice the way he walks or the breadth of his shoulders or the way his hand runs through his hair in frustration or the fact that he glances back—just once, barely a second—before disappearing into the office.
I notice none of these things, because noticing them would be insane. Paul Spencer is a grumpy, infuriatingly capable man who thinks running lights are more important than human connection, and I would rather live on this leaky houseboat for the rest of my natural life than admit he makes my stupid heart do stupid things.
I drain my coffee and head back inside to grab my camera bag. I’ve got a shoot at eleven—a family session on the beach—and I need to prep. This is my life now. Photography, kids, a houseboat that fights me, and a neighbor who?—
My phone rings.
Delilah’s name lights up the screen.
“Hey, Delilah! How’s wedding planning going? Are you?—”
“Emma.” Her voice is buzzing with barely contained energy. “Are you at the marina right now?”
“I’m always at the marina. It’s my permanent address and my entire personality at this point.”
“Stay there. We’re coming to you. Levi and I. We have something to ask you, and we want to do it in person.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“It’s the opposite. It’s...luminous. Levi, is that a word?”
I hear Levi’s voice in the background, low and amused. “It’s a word.”
“Just—stay. We’ll be there in twenty minutes. And Emma?”
“Yeah?”
“You might want to sit down for this.”
The line goes dead.
I stare at my phone, then at the dock office where Paul has retreated to do whatever it is grumpy marina owners do at seven thirty in the morning—probably alphabetize safety violations or polish his complaints.
You might want to sit down for this.
In my experience, nothing good has ever followed that sentence. “You might want to sit down” preceded Aidan’s principal calling to explain that my son had convinced his entire second-grade class that a sea monster lived in the school pond.
