Page 11 of On Dry Land

It’s too early to go to sleep. I should be filming content or utilizing the running water to wash my socks and underwear in the sink. I should be thinking of all the things I have to be grateful for instead of letting my mind focus on the things that are difficult. Instead, I curl tighter into a ball, cheeks numb where they’re exposed to the cold, and close my eyes. Things will be better tomorrow; I just have to make it there.

In the morning, the pain in my feet has licked up my legs like an out-of-control fire, blazing in my hips and back as I open my eyes to light streaming through the small window set high above the sinks. I bite my lip against the hurt as I straighten my knees and adjust so there is no longer so much pressure pushing my hip into the concrete floor. Sitting up, I tentatively move my head from side to side, testing the mobility of my neck. I’m trembling slightly, which is strange because I’m not all that cold.

The grogginess clears just enough for me to frown and think about that a little harder. It’s freezing outside and in here. I know it is. There’s snow caught in the corners of that window set into the concrete wall and frost coating the inside. I can see my breath.

“Shit,” I mumble, rubbing my hands up and down my arms, trying to stimulate a little blood flow and heat.

I stagger a bit when I climb to my feet, my entire body an odd mix of numb and painful and stiff. I have to get moving. Sitting still in freezing weather is a terrible idea, and even if I have nowhere to go, it’s the going that’s the important part. Having a purpose clears the fogginess from my head, and I carefully fold my sleeping bag back up, tucking it safely into the backpack and grabbing my water bottle. I fill it up at the sink before putting my mouth under the trickle of water and drinking as much as I can straight from the tap. I pee again, trembling and wishing there was a way to complete the practice without baring skin.

The sky is painfully bright when I open the door and step outside, a burst of cold air hitting me in the chest and stealing my breath for a moment. I squint into the light, noting that the parking lot for the trailhead isn’t plowed, but it looks like the road leading in is. Ignoring the way my shoulders are complaining, I adjust my pack and step into the snow.

It’s not a lot of coverage as far as inches, which I’m thankful for. I slip twice on my way out of the parking lot, though, the worn tread on my boots useless against the ice. Walking slower, I shorten my stride and stop lifting my feet so much. My eyes burn with the childish desire to cry. I swallow it down, knowing I’m just tired. Nothing’s really that bad, and once I stretch the ache from my legs, I’ll start to feel better. Walking and fresh air will help.

I walk for what feels like half a mile, maybe more, before I hear a car approach. Immediately, I step off the road as far as I can. My jacket and backpack are brightly colored, but it’s a cloudy, stormy winter day, and I don’t want to take any chances. Getting hit by a car is the very last thing I need.

I watch the vehicle pass, light glinting off the curved lines and the shiny black paint. My stomach clenches when the brake lights flash and the Porsche slows to a stop, snow crunching lightly under its tires as it pulls to the shoulder. I stop moving, swallowing through a scratchy throat, and stare at the exhaust clouding in the air behind the car.

“Fuck,” I mutter when the driver’s door opens and a tall man unfolds himself from the vehicle.

It’s the same guy from the wharf the day before. The same guy who caught me sleeping behind his shed and is now catching me alone on a stretch of back road. His dark clothes are stark against the wintry day, clean and fresh, and he walks in my direction without once losing his footing on the slick road. He looks like a fashion model, getting ready to lean sexily against the rear of the Porsche for a photoshoot. I take a step back, and he halts, staring at me.

“I’ve never had a stalker before,” he muses, expression still but a hint of amusement in the tone. I lose the scowl, mouth falling open slightly. Not what I thought was going to be the first thing out of his mouth.

“I’m not—I was just⁠—”

“I know,” he says silkily, cutting me off. Shifting, he takes a small step closer and lifts his right hand to hold it out to me. “I suppose it’s time for a formal introduction. Dryden Roy.”

Without thinking, I approach, put my gloved hand against his, and shake. It feels awkward, like it’s my first time doing it. There isn’t exactly a line of people queuing up to introduce themselves to me or willing to touch me to do so. I’m out of practice.

“Spencer Davis. I’m not stalking you,” I repeat.

“Wouldn’t be very good at it if you were,” he notes. Again, so seriously I can barely tell if he’s joking. Clearing my throat, I gesture toward the road behind him, trying to indicate he’s blocking my way. He doesn’t move. “Libby’s weren’t up to your standards?”

I frown. I never told him I stopped there. “They were booked, actually.”

“Not many boat sheds up here,” he comments lightly, and this time, I can tell he’s making fun.

“Ha ha,” I deadpan, reaching up to use the back of my glove to wipe moisture from my forehead. I pull my beanie lower. It’s starting to snow. Again. “Thanks for telling me about the diner.”

He tilts his head a degree to the side, dark eyes unwavering. I can hardly tell by the look on his face, but I feel like I’ve surprised him with that. After a moment, he murmurs, “Not a problem.”

“I don’t suppose you have any recommendations for accommodations, too? Something affordable,” I add awkwardly, the Porsche gleaming just a couple of feet in front of me in a fog of exhaust. This man probably has no idea what is affordable and what isn’t.

Dryden Roy thinks about it for a minute, the silence somewhat uncomfortable as it’s paired with the most direct eye contact I’ve ever been subject to. Well used to living in discomfort, I don’t fidget or break the silence. I wait, staring back just as calmly. He looks over my shoulder, smirk tipping down into a slight frown as he contemplates the road behind me. When his eyes come back to mine, I feel like I can see exactly what math he was just adding up. He knows where I slept last night.

“Not in the Point, no,” he says evenly. My shoulders slump, even though I’d been expecting it. Amy would have told me if there was, I’m sure. He adds, “But I might have a solution.”

Immediately, I straighten, warning sensors flaring to life. He’s going to offer to help in exchange for a favor. He’s going to dangle a bed in front of me on a hook and hope I want it badly enough to not mind what comes with it. He’s going to make a lewd comment and offer to take me for a ride.

“I’m good. Thanks anyway,” I bite out, taking a step back, meaning to walk around him and continue past the Porsche.

“Just a moment,” he requests. “I have a detached guest suite at my house. It’s furnished and unused. You’re welcome to sleep there for a night.”

“Uh-huh.” I snort, shaking my head disdainfully. I’ll just bet he’d let me sleep there. “And what do you get out of it?”

“I’d prefer not to get anything at all.”

“Right, well, I’m not going to fuck you. I’m not going to fuck your spouse while you watch. I’m not going to do anything while you watch or let you do anything to me. I don’t deal in favors, so if that’s what you’re wanting, the answer is no.”