Page 2 of Unmoored: How to Fail at Hating the Boss

“Really? I’ve never seen you before,” I answer, dripping with skepticism. “Songbird Ridge High School, Class of 2010. When’d you graduate?”

I let my gaze wander over this man’s stature and notice his forearms are tatted up as well, with looping nautical ropes meandering around and over his tanned ridges. These were done years ago. Maybe even decades.

“Oh, you’ve seen me. Probably never noticed me.” The accent lines up; he certainly sounds local.

“What’s the difference?” I ask.

“I know you’re Quincy Travers, of the Buzzard Mountain Traverses.”

Goosebumps form along my bare forearms. He’s right on the money.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

He’s certainly local if he knows these facts about my family. But he lacks a certain something. The laid-back and unhurried ease that defines us in this town. His shoulders are tight, and he shifts the weight of his thick legs back and forth as he stands there. The vibe is giving college basketball coach, and it’s ten seconds to the final buzzer and we’re down by two points. He’s wound up tight and ready to pop with red-faced fury. Intense, in a word.

“You’re a teacher, right?” The amusement in his face builds, but only one tiny bit at a time. I wouldn’t call what he’s doing smirking, but it has a hint of arrogance that rubs me the wrong way. The way some people say that word, “teacher,” you know they’re about to follow it up with their non-expert ideas about what’s wrong with the public school system. God. Please, no.

“Yeah,” I answer, turning my chin away while I watch him because I’m not sure where he’s going with this.

The barely-there smirk expands into a half-grin. “Then I trust you’re a smart lady who can figure it out on your own without me, a man, explaining it to you.”

He says “man” that way because he thinks he knows what I’m all about. He thinks that in my eyes, he’s a mansplainer, based on nothing. If there’s one thing I detest as a teacher of history, it's people who make assumptions.

“I don’t have time for that,” I say, quickly, mockingly looking at my wrist to check the time on the nonexistent watch. “So why don’t you explain the difference between seeing and noticing?”

“Patience,” he says back to me, “Is a virtue. You should work on that.”

A staring contest ensues.

Something is going on in that stare, and I can’t decide if it’s flirtation or if he hates me. “Ms. Travers? Your order’s ready.”

I slide my sunglasses down from the top of my head to the bridge of my nose and turn around, freeing myself from this man’s dark gaze for the moment.

After I pay for the drinks, I turn and give the stranger a brisk obligatory nod, then book it down the block to my car. I’m eager to get to work. And yet, oddly wanting to explore the feeling of intrigue and annoyance that the stranger has stirred up in my lower belly.

When I crank the engine of my aging Volkswagen, I realize he never did tell me what class he was in. Nor did I ask his name. That part’s on me; I can’t believe I was so rude. I hope he didn’t take it that way. I was flustered.

Not that I care what he thinks. He’s too cryptic and gruff for me to worry about his opinions.

When I make the left turn out of town, headed to Merlin Lake, I also realize he knew I was a teacher because he was eavesdropping on my conversation with Levi.

Eavesdropping? Or paying attention?

The reaction in my body is the same either way.

I chug my iced coffee and let the brain freeze erase the deep, dark curiosity.

The marina is humming with activity when I arrive. Less than a mile out of town, Merlin Lake only exists up here in the mountains because some rich landowner a hundred years ago decided to dam up a river and make a reservoir so he could go fishing in his own backyard. Today, a couple hundred homes dot the shoreline, anchored by a marina with dozens of boat slips and enough dry storage docking for twice as many vessels.

I park in the small, gravel lot behind the main building that houses the office where Captain Mack interviewed me last week, as well as the Minnow Bucket, the bait and tackle shopthat doubles as a convenience store. I smile and feel that rush of first-day anticipation at the sight of boats launching in the water, and early morning fishermen returning to their slips. As I walk with my coffee drinks through the employee entrance, I expect to see the grizzled but basically friendly Captain Mack.

“Hello?” I say, knocking on the office door inside the dank, tiled hallway. “Captain?”

“He’s in Florida. Can I help you with something?”

With two iced coffees in my hands, I turn to find a chirpy blonde woman in her twenties wearing a uniform of boat shoes, white shorts and a bright blue dry-fit shirt with the marina logo over her left breast. She blinks at me, genuinely not knowing who I am.

“I’m supposed to report to work today,” I say, confused.