Page 86 of The Clinch
The mug suddenly feels too fragile in my hand.
I look over.
“Someone at the hospital called out sick, and she offered to come in.” Then her eyes find mine. “She’s taking the seven o’clock ferry.”
I check my watch.
Ten to seven.
I set the mug down and walk out the back without an explanation.
The dock is a five-minute walk.I make it in three.
The ferry is already at the slip, engine running, the last few passengers filing up the gangway. A deckhand is checking boarding passes. Someone loads a bike. The whole operation has the indifferent efficiency of something that runs on schedule whether you’re ready or not.
I stop at the edge of the dock.
She’s near the back of the line. Hair pulled up, bag over one shoulder, wearing something borrowed and oversized. She moves the way she always does–contained, deliberate, watching her exits.
She doesn’t see me.
I stay where I am.
I’m not here to stop her. I made that decision before I left the kitchen. She gets to go if she needs to. That’s not something I’ll take from her.
But I need to see it.
I need to stand here and watch it happen with my own eyes instead of hearing about it over coffee.
The line moves. She moves with it.
At the top of the gangway, she pauses. Her head lifts slightly, like she’s checking the horizon. Or like something pulled at her.
But she doesn’t turn around.
The gangway comes up. The mooring lines drop. The water opens between the hull and the dock in a slow, widening line.
I watch until the ferry clears the slip and finds its heading.
Then I turn around and walk back to the house.
I step back outsideonto the porch.
The air is already warming. The light is brighter now. The ocean keeps going.
Same as always.
My fingers brush the roll of tape on the porch rail out of habit.
I stop.
That’s not what this is.
I flex my hands instead and let the tension bleed off without giving it somewhere to land.
That’s the part nobody sees.
Not the stopping.
