Page 2 of Weathering The Storm

“That’s all I get?” he needles. “Come on, Nicky, admit it. You missed me.”

I don’t miss Seth.

I miss sunshine during Alaskan winters, and cozy, early nightfall during the summers. I miss chocolate malts when they run out of ice cream at Lucy’s. I miss the open ocean when I’m stuck on land.

Missing something implies you can get it back and feel whole again. When I get him back, I’m reminded of just how empty I am.

“I don’t know, you’re alright,” I say. “Think I missed Jorgensen the most.”

“Ouch.” Seth rubs his chest, smiling because he knows I’m full of shit even though he doesn’t know preciselyhowfull of shit I am. “And to think, I brought you a gift.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Sure as hell did.”

He reaches into the front pocket of his jacket, and I’m waiting for him to pull out somethingSeth.A keychain with a goofy crab pun on it—like theLegs for Daysmug he got me last Christmas, with a crab leg for a handle. Or a broken marine switch he found this morning on the control panel that I’ll have to replace before we can head out.

Instead, he holds up a pair of gloves.Verynice gloves. Like the ones I’ve picked up off the display racks at outdoor outfitters, admiring the fabric, only to hang them right back up when I notice the price tag.

“These are expensive,” I say.

“Good thing my boss pays me well.”

I can’t accept these. But I’m so irrationally worried about dropping them and kicking them into the water, I take off my worn pair and slip on the new ones. For safekeeping.

“Guess he doesn’t pay himself well, though.” Seth snatches my old gloves as soon as I stuff them in the crook of my elbow, inspecting the loose threads and friction holes in the polyester. “It’s only getting colder from here on out. Can’t drive the boat if your damn fingers fall off.”

It’s hard to argue when my fingersareinstantly warmer. I flex them, curl them into fists. The fabric is more flexible, more weatherproof, and softer on the inside. But I know he paid a pretty penny to marry those three qualities.

“You should keep these for yourself. You spend more time on deck than I do.”

He laughs, chucking my old gloves into the nearest trash bin. “That’s not how gifts work, just so you know. But you’re welcome. I’m glad you like them.”

“Thank you,” I say belatedly, tailing him to the boat. Good thing his back is turned. I’m staring so intently at my gloved hands, I almost trip over a cleat. “So, how’s your family?”

It’s the same question I ask all the guys. A safe place to retreat to.

“Same old, same old. Staying busy with the lodge. I think we’re all relieved the season’s over. Mom barely left the kitchen all summer, Dad decided to rip up the whole deck, and Audrey’s husband was gone for work. Crabbing’s gonna feel like a fucking vacation after the last two months. Nothing but construction projects, guest services, and babysitting my sister’s litter.”

“I’ll remind you of that when you’ve gotta get up to pound ice after three hours of sleep.”

“I’d rather chisel ice with myteeththan watch another episode ofBubble Guppies.”

My lips twitch. “Bubble Guppies?”

Seth groans. “Be thankful you don’t know.”

We reach the slip, and Seth hops onto the gunwale of my hundred-footer, theSuoja—her namesake courtesy of my mother’s native tongue. The Refuge. The Guard. The Shield. Her only way of protecting my father, now me, and wishing us a safe voyage when we’re away from home.

I’d consider myself far less superstitious than the average mariner, but to Mom’s credit, something about her blessing takes a bit of the edge off when we’re out at sea.

“Need a hand, Cap’?” Seth extends an arm.

“I’m not that old,” I protest. A baby compared to plenty of boat captains, at thirty-four. Only two years older than Seth for that matter.

“Maybe I just wanna hold your hand, Nicky.”

His laugh sparkles in his light brown eyes and rattles right through my bones.