“This is terrifying advice,” I tell him.
“Most good advice is.” He stands, grabbing his coffee. “Look, I’m not saying it’s going to work. I’m not saying you won’t get hurt. But you’ve been playing it safe for ten years, and where has that gotten you? Stuck. Blocked. Miserable.” He heads for the door. “At some point, the risk of staying closed off becomes bigger than the risk of opening up.”
“When did you become a philosopher?”
“Around the same time I started writing romance novels under a pen name.” He pauses at the door. “Jessica wants to have you and Delilah over for dinner sometime. I told her that was a terrible idea.”
“It’s a terrible idea.”
“I know. But she’s going to ask anyway, and I’ve learned not to fight her on these things.” He almost smiles. “She’s usually right. Annoyingly.”
“Thanks for coming by. And for the...whatever this was.”
“Unsolicited life advice from a stranger?”
“That.”
“Anytime.” He opens the door, then looks back. “For what it’s worth, the first thing I wrote after I started letting Jessica in was garbage. Absolute garbage. Didn’t matter. The point wasn’t that it was good. The point was that it was real.”
He leaves.
I stand in my living room, coffee cooling in my hands, and think about walls and wounds and a woman who left me twice.
My phone buzzes.
Dean:Lunch? Salty Pearl. Bringing Rex.
I glance at the notebook. At the words I’ve been avoiding all morning.
Maybe a break isn’t the worst idea.
Me: Be there in 20.
The Salty Pearlsits at the edge of the marina, all weathered wood and salt-crusted windows. Amber runs the place, which means the food is incredible and the gossip travels at the speed of light. I pull my baseball cap lower and hope for anonymity.
Dean’s already claimed a table on the deck, Rex lying perfectly at his feet like the poster child for well-trained service dogs. The GermanShepherd doesn’t even twitch when I pull out the chair across from them.
“He’s showing off,” Dean says by way of greeting.
“He’s impressive.”
“He knows it.” Dean slides a menu toward me. “Scott came by?”
News travels fast. “Jessica told you?”
“Jo told me. Jessica told Jo. Michelle probably told both of them.” He shrugs. “Small town.”
“I’m aware.”
The server—a college kid named Dylan who clearly doesn’t recognize me—takes our orders. Fish tacos for me, tilapia for Dean, and a bowl of water for Rex, who accepts it with the dignity of a king receiving tribute.
“So?” Dean asks once Dylan’s gone. “How was it?”
“Weird. Helpful. Mostly weird.”
“That’s Scott.” Dean takes a sip of his sweet tea. “He’s not great with people, but he means well.”
“He said Jessica put him up to it.”
