At a red light, music plays from an open-roofed Jeep beside me. Young girls in bikinis laugh as the light turns green. Life probably seems so easy for them. They probably feel invincible and think time is limitless. Not worried about bills, braintumors, or the need to find gold with a father who doesn’t know they exist or divorce a husband they’ve told everyone is dead.
A salty breeze blows through the downed windows but does nothing to cool me. North Carolina is warm this time of year, but the closer I get to the coast, the thicker the air becomes. If I would’ve known I was driving into an inferno, I would have opted for a pair of overalls not made of the thickest denim known to man. But as hot as it is—ninety-three degrees according to the radio—the windy heat has me the closest to free I’ve felt in years.
Two more bridges and I’ve arrived, my face contorting at the scene in front of me.
The parking lot is nearly empty and home to a dilapidated building that should be condemned. Down a ramp, four rows of docks are filled with boats defying all odds by merely floating.
I blow out a shaky breath and tap my fingers on the steering wheel. Out of all the bad news dumped on me in the last days, me having a new dad and a fake dad sits lowest on the trauma scale; I haven’t spent much time thinking about it. Now, possibly minutes away from meeting this man who doesn’t know about me, I might be panicking. This might be a big deal.
Who gets a new dad at forty-two? Who goes to meet that dad for the sake of finding gold?
Jonathan might be right—this might be a horrible plan.
No.
This is a good plan.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, take a deep breath, and focus on all the ways this will be fine, convincing myself Rueben will be a perfectly delightful man.
He has a criminal record, but my mom said her friends said that he has health issues. Those things cancel each other out; he can’t be dangerous. If my mom loved him, he can’t be a complete lunatic. She gushed about how wonderful he was, and he can’thave changedthatmuch. People are who they are. He’s probably a hugger. A big teddy bear on a boat. He’ll be so happy to see me and eager to help.
I’ll walk up, introduce myself, get the information I need, and be on my way. We never have to see each other again.
My nerves are fried, my knee is bouncing, and this is terrifying. But not as terrifying as the fact I’m down to $575.29. I have to do this.
I fire off a quick text to Jonathan letting him know I made it even though I don’t need to. We use an app that shares our locations to remove any guesswork on days we’re too busy to call. He’ll know I’m here if he checks. Judging by how annoyed he is, he probably won’t check.
Deep breath, I can do this.
Out of the car, I make the grave mistake of checking my reflection in the side mirror and yelp. My sweat-slicked bangs, tattered denim overalls, coffee-stained white tank, and worn sandals make me look more like I belong in this run-down marina than I care to admit. I’m a disastrous, middle-aged, bastard child nobody should claim. Since I finished the water I brought halfway through the drive, I’m also parched but refused to spend three dollars on a bottle of water.
And yet: onward.
Shoving the newspaper article into a pocket and slinging my purse over my shoulder, I navigate the signs toward the slip number my mom was given from her friends. Each step bobbles with the rock of the dock from the wake of passing boats. The air carries the distinct smells of salt, seafood, and gas from boat motors. Across the marina, echoed voices of people getting on and off boats intertwine with the gentle sound of water smacking against the dock. It’s a scratch-and-sniff soundtrack of summer.
At the slip I’m looking for, a boat as worn as the rest of them bobs,The Gypsywritten across the back in faded maroon letters.I think of my mom but don’t know what to do next. There’s a little door, but I’d have to get on the boat to knock on it. Unsafe. Not happening.
A loud cough rattles from somewhere inside—someone is in there. Maybe him. My father. Nausea comes and goes in a wave.Don’t think, Rue. I hold my breath and knock on a partially opened window at the side of the boat, eyes squeezed shut as I do.
There’s a grumble.
A hack.
A clatter.
The little door swings open and out he emerges: Rueben Vance. Frowning.
Speechless, I take him in. He’s wearing an old captain’s hat with yellow-gold details and a powder-blue button-up shirt, completely unbuttoned to expose a forest of chest hair and a thick gold chain around his neck. He’s as thin as he was in the one photo I’ve seen of him, just softer around the middle.
In one hand, a wooden cane.
In the other, what looks like a vape pen.
Out of his shorts, one leg is prosthetic from the knee down—a plastic calf and steel rod leading to a fake foot.
In his nostrils, tubes lead to an oxygen tank slung over his shoulder.
When his eyes land on me, they widen slightly before he grunts. Or maybe it’s a snarl.
