I look down at my shirt, at the slime and the scattered tackle, at the complete disaster that is my current existence.
And I start laughing too.
We clean up the tackle together. Well, she supervises while I clean up, because she refuses to touch anything that “might have fish residue on it.”
“Fish residue,” I repeat. “That’s what you’re going with.”
“It’s a real thing.”
“It’s not a thing.”
“It’s absolutely a thing. I can smell it from here.”
She’s sitting on the bench with her knees pulled up, coffee in hand, watching me with an expression that makes my chest tight.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing. I just...” She shakes her head. “I missed this.”
“Me getting assaulted by fish?”
“You making me laugh.” She takes a sip from her cup. “I forgot what it felt like. To laugh like that. To just be easy with someone.”
I close the tackle box and sit down next to her. Close. Our knees touching.
“I missed you too,” I say. “Every day since you left.”
Her smile wobbles. “Levi...”
“I know. We said we’d take it slow. I just...” I run a hand through my hair, which isprobably also covered in fish slime. Great. “I need you to know before I leave, in case you’re wondering while I’m gone. I thought about you every single day.”
She’s quiet for a long moment. The water laps. The wind picks up, carrying salt and the faint smell of someone’s barbecue from down the beach.
“Can I tell you something?” she asks.
“Anything.”
“I’m scared.”
“Of what?”
“Of being like her.” She stares out at the water. “Your mom. The way she left. I’m afraid that’s who I am. Someone who leaves, who can’t stay even when she wants to.”
My chest clenches. “Delilah...”
“I’ve been running my whole life. From my marriage, this town, and from you.” Her voice cracks. “What if that’s just who I am? What if I can’t stop?”
I take her hand. She lets me.
“I know I don’t talk about her much, but my mom was a singer. Not famous or anything. She sang at local bars, county fairs, stuff like that. But she was good. Really good. And she got an opportunity. A guy from a record label heard her sing and told her she could be a star. All she had to do was move to LA when “I was eight.”
Delilah’s hand tightens on mine.
“She said she’d send for me, that it was temporary, that she just needed to get set up and then I’d come live with her and we’d have this amazing life together.” I stare at the horizon. “I waited by the mailbox every day for a letter. Checked the phone every time it rang. Kept a bag packed under my bed for years.”
“Levi...”
“She never sent for me. She called sometimes and sent birthday cards. But she didn’t come back. And she never asked me to come.”
