“I’d shower with the shark. Obviously.”
Of course. How silly of me not to realize that showering with a shark was the obvious solution.
Millie, my ten-year-old voice of reason, doesn’t look up from her line. “You’re not going to catch a shark, Aidan. There aren’t sharks in the sound.”
“Therecouldbe sharks.”
“There couldn’t.”
“There could be alostshark. One who took a wrong turn and ended up here by accident. Who needs ahome.”
I take a long sip of my cold coffee, which I brought in a thermos because I am a mother who plans ahead, except I forgot cups so I’m drinking directly from the thermos like some kind of caffeinated gremlin.
This is my life now. Houseboat. Fishing pier. Three kids who are somehow simultaneously the best and most chaotic things that have everhappened to me. A photography business I’m building one wedding at a time. And an ex-husband in Raleigh who sends child support checks and occasional texts that say things like “Tell the kids I’m thinking of them” as if thoughts are a substitute for showing up.
But I’m not bitter. I’m really not.
Okay, I’m a little bitter. But I’m working on it.
“Jenna.” I turn to my teenager, who is sitting on a bench with her headphones in, aggressively not participating. “You want to try fishing?”
She looks at me like I’ve suggested she eat a live spider. “I’m good.”
“Fresh air. Family bonding. The simple pleasures of...”
“I’m literally outside, Mom. I’m bonding. This is me bonding.” She gestures at herself, sitting alone, scrolling her phone. “Maximum bonding achieved.”
I decide not to push it. Jenna is fifteen, which means she’s legally required to find everything I do embarrassing and everything I say wrong. I remember being fifteen. I remember thinking my mother was the most clueless person on the planet.
I owe that woman so many apology cards.
“Reel in a little,” I tell Millie, who’s actually taking this seriously. “Let it drift, then reel.”
“I know, Mom. You’ve told me like eight times.”
“I’m providing gentle guidance.”
“You’re hovering.”
“I’m a mother. Hovering is my love language.”
She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. Millie is my easy one, my steady center, the kid who somehow emerged from the chaos of divorce and relocation with her feet firmly on the ground. She’s been the one reassuringmethat everything will be okay, which is both beautiful and slightly concerning because she’s ten and shouldn’t have to be anyone’s emotional support child.
I’m working on that too.
The pier stretches out into the sound, weathered wood and salt air and the kind of golden evening light that makes everything look like a movie. I still can’t believe this is my life. The houseboat I inherited from Aunt Dottie, the one that leaks in mysterious places and has electrical issues that my annoying neighbor insists are my fault. The photography business that’s finally taking off, one client at a time. The community that welcomed us with open arms and casseroles and weekly book club meetings where we drink too much wine and argue aboutfictional men.
Book club is tonight. Hazel’s hosting, which means her famous cheese dip and at least one dramatic reading of a spicy scene that will make Michelle snort wine out of her nose.
“Mom!” Aidan’s shriek cuts through my thoughts. “There’s a couple!”
“A couple of what?”
“A couple ofpeople. Walking on the pier. Toward us.” He squints. “The lady hasflowers.”
I turn to look.
He’s right. A man and a woman are walking along the pier, hand in hand, silhouetted against the sunset. She’s carrying a small bouquet of what looks like wildflowers, and she’s laughing at something he’s said, her head thrown back, completely unselfconscious.
