“So,” she says, “is this boat ride therapy homework or a tactical maneuver?”
“Both.”
“Do you ever just call things fun?”
“Not when they involve clients.”
“Right,” she says. “Client.”
I should be relieved she understands, but I’m not.
*Scene Break
Bluefin Marina is busy. Flags snap in the wind. Charter captains load coolers onto boats. Tourists drift down the docks in sandals and sun hats, already sunburned in places they will regret tonight. Kara stays close without being told. I notice that too.
My boat is in a slip near the end of the dock, a twenty-four-foot center console that has never once cared about looking pretty. It’s practical, fast and reliable. It has good visibility and twin outboards. There is enough storage for medical gear, spare clothes, and supplies I hope I don’t need.
Kara pauses at the edge of the dock. “This is yours?”
“Mostly.”
“How does a boat become mostly yours?”
“Sloane borrows things when they’re useful.”
I step aboard first and do the check by habit. Deck. Storage. Lines. Radio. Fuel. Nothing out of place. When I hold out my hand, Kara places hers in mine. It is small and warm. She’s being careful … and trusting. That should not move through me the way it does.
I help her step down into the boat, then release her as soon as she has her balance. She notices. Kara notices more than she lets on.
Once we clear the marina, Kara’s demeanor changes in increments. The first few minutes, she holds the rail with both hands and watches every passing boat. Then the channel openswider, the water turning from marina-dark to green-blue, and her shoulders lower. I notice the wind does what I cannot. It pulls her out of her head.
Her hair whips around her face, and she laughs under her breath as she tries to trap it with one hand. The sound is small, almost surprised, like she had forgotten her body still could.
I keep the speed steady and the ride smooth. For one clean stretch of water, she is not checking her phone.
The lighthouse rises behind us, red and white against the hard blue sky. From the water,The Beaconlooks almost cheerful, which is funny considering how many weapons, radios, and hard conversations sit inside it. Farther down the shoreline,High Tide Pavilionis visible above the dunes, then the colorful line of rental cottages, and her rental is within sight line view.
Kara points toward it. “That’s mine.”
“For now.”
“It looks peaceful from here.”
“Most things do at a distance.”
She looks at me and frowns. I wish I hadn’t said it. Or maybe I don’t.
I take us farther from the busier traffic, toward a shallow sandbar where the water clears enough to see rippled sand beneath the surface. I cut the engines and let the boat drift. The sudden quiet settles around us, broken only by water tapping against the hull and the thin cry of gulls overhead.
Kara exhales. “This is better.”
“You approve?”
“I know you’re doing your job,” she says, looking out over the water. “But this is better.”
I don’t answer because I don’t trust whatever might come out. She removes her cover-up and folds it on the bench beside her.
I look toward the horizon. Respect is part of the reason. Survival is the rest.
