We stand there on the dock, her fingers on my bare skin, my chest rising and falling under her palm. The afternoon sun is warm on my shoulders. A pelican lands on the piling behind us with the total disregard of a bird that doesn’t care about human tension.
“Thank you,” she says, and she’s not talking about Stomper. Or maybe she is. Maybe she’s talking about all of it—the rescue and the pancakes and the fireworks and the morning I fixed her running light without telling her and every other small, stupid thing I’ve done that I keep pretending is about dock maintenance and marina safety and not about the fact that I am falling for this woman so hard I can’t see straight.
“You’re welcome,” I say, and I’m not talking about Stomper either.
She pulls her hand back. Steps away. Looks at the first-aid kit like she’s forgotten how she got here.
“You should probably put on a dry shirt,” she says.
“Probably.”
“Before you catch a cold.”
“In July?”
“It could happen. Theoretically.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
She picks up the first-aid kit. Walks toward the houseboat. At the screen door, she turns around.
“For the record,” she says, “you jumped into the ocean for a stuffed elephant. Without taking off your shoes.”
“And I’d do it again.”
She goes inside. The screen door bounces twice.
I stand on the dock, shirtless, in wet boots, wearing a cartoon whale bandaid, and I think about Holly’s sticky note in the logbook.Don’t forget to eat lunch.
Holly would have liked Emma. That’s not a guess. That’s something I know the way I know the tide schedule and the weight rating of my dock cleats. Holly would have liked herlaugh and her chaos and her camera and the way she puts her kids first and herself last and never complains about it.
Holly would have told me to stop thinking and go.
So I did.
I go to my boat, change into dry clothes, make lunch, and eat it. Don’t forget.
NINETEEN
EMMA
I’m in the galley making a grilled cheese for Aidan—who is currently telling Millie the Stomper rescue story for the fourth time, each retelling more dramatic than the last—when there’s a knock on the screen door. Jenna is in her room with the door closed and her earbuds in, which is her natural state. Lottie’s twins are on the dock with Aidan’s fishing net, doing something that will probably require an apology later.
Grandma Hensley is standing on my deck. Harold is behind her, hands in his pockets, looking like a man who’s been told to stay quiet and is barely managing it.
“Emma, dear.” Grandma Hensley steps inside without waiting for an invitation because GrandmaHensley treats all doors as suggestions. “I wanted to check on you.”
“I’m fine. Just making lunch.”
“Of course you are.” She settles onto the bench at the galley table like she plans to stay through dinner. Harold stays by the door, leaning against the frame, and there’s something in his expression—a warmth, a knowing quality—that makes my stomach tighten.
“We were on the yacht,” Grandma Hensley says.
“Oh. Nice. How was the tour?”
“The tour was lovely. Four staterooms. Italian marble in the master bath. A champagne cooler that I think Harold is already plotting to use.” She folds her hands on the table. “We also had a very clear view of the dock.”
My spatula stops moving.
