“Oh, so she’s Delilah to you now?”
I step around her. “I don’t have time for this.”
“She’s dangerous, Maverick!” Sam calls after me. “Are you really prepared to let everything you’ve built here go to waste for one woman?”
I don’t stop, but Sam’s words ring in my ears with every step. Have I been neglecting my other responsibilities to spend time with Delilah?My mind reels, thinking through the last few days. If I’m really honest with myself, the answer is probably yes. But for whatever reason—even if she decides to go back—I don’t want her tothink of me, to think of this place, and have nothing but negative memories.
When I get to the shoreline, Bec is waiting near the small boat we use for supply runs. She hands me the satellite phone with a raised brow. “You good?”
I shake my head. “Fine.”
The look she gives me makes it clear she doesn’t believe me. “The wood you were chopping this morning might say otherwise.”
I close my eyes briefly, forcing my shoulders to relax. “Sam stopped me on my way here.”
Bec sighs. “Of course she did.”
“She thinks I’m spending too much time with D”—I clear my throat—“with Mrs. Sinclair.”
Bec rolls her eyes. “You and Della are both adults. What you do with your time, or who you spend it with, is none of Sam’s business.”
My brows pull together. “Della?”
Bec smiles proudly. “She’s loosening up, huh? I might even like her.”
I might like her too, I think.“Anything I need to know before I leave?”
My number two reaches up and pats my cheek, a little harder than necessary. “Go. We’ll be fine.”
I bite my tongue, knowing anything else that would come out of my mouth would simply be stalling. I hop in the boat and start theengine. Bec gives it a small push, then offers me a mock salute, which I return. This newfound hesitancy to leave the camp is fucking with my head; I’m probably just tired after the craziness of the last few days.
I spend the hour-long ride through the water trying—and failing—to think of anything but the woman who’s currently lying in my bed, until I make it to the abandoned port we’ve used for supply runs for the last several years. My father lifts his hand in greeting, and I immediately feel lighter. His presence is grounding, always somehow easing the heaviness of my burdens.
We’ve done this enough times by now that he starts tossing bags to me without any direction. “Hey, son.”
“Hey, Dad.”
Legally, as soon as I pass into Canadian waters, I’m supposed to report my presence to the government.Technically, however, if I don’t disembark and my feet don’t touch solid ground, I don’t have to call. So I keep my feet in the boat and organize the supplies, everything from basic toiletries, to camp supplies, to food, to electronic devices.
I extend my hand and hoist my father up. He pulls me into a hug, slapping me on the back a few times. “How ya doin’, kid?”
We both find our seats among the supplies and I shrug, steering the boat back toward our new island. “How’s Susan?”
We both know I’m dodging his question, but he doesn’t push it for now. “She’s good. She got her book club to knit some scarves and hats for the camp.”
“That was nice of her,” I say, and I mean it. My father remarried a few years ago, and Susan’s good for him. He was only fifty when Mom passed away, and for a while I think we both assumed he’d just stay single. He met Susan—who was newly widowed at the time—at a local farmer’s market and they bonded over their mutual love of gardening and the fact that they’d both lost spouses. I haven’t spent much time with her, but I know my father loves her, and since I can’t be with him, I like knowing he has someone to share his life with.
The engine hums, and I watch my father look out over the open water. “Your mom always loved being out on the boat.”
I smile at the memories of our summers spent on the lake. Water skiing, tubing, wakeboarding, countless hours in the sun until we were all sunburned and sore. “Yeah, she did.”
My father turns to me, crossing his arms to keep out the biting wind. “I saw the strangest thing on the news the other day.”
“Oh yeah?” I ask casually, even as dread knots my stomach. The news has always been unreliable, but after the Reckoning, it became downright fraudulent. In Canada, it’s not the outright propaganda that the Brotherhood spews, but it’s not much better. As much as they like to claim objectivity, someone somewhere is always biased.
“It was your old friend Gabe.” My dad watches me to gauge my reaction.
Fuck.My father is well-aware of the falling out we had a dozen years ago, but I have no idea if he truly grasps who Gabriel is now. “What did he say?”
