Page 15 of On Dry Land

“I love it when things work out.”

Hanging up, I tuck the phone into the back pocket of my jeans and lift the crate of food. Nudging open the back door with my hip, I skirt the outer edge of the pool and walk casually toward the guest cottage. The temperature has dropped with the sun, and the air nips below the fabric of my turtleneck sweater. I wonder for a second whether I shouldn’t have tucked some nicer winter clothes into the box for him as well, and then immediately decide it’s not my problem. I’ve put a temporary roof over his head and am providing food. I’ve done enough.

Adjusting my grip, I tap the knuckles of my right hand against the door and take two big steps back. As I knew would happen, the curtains on the window twitch as Spencer looks out, making sure it’s me. As though he’s expecting other company tonight.

I count all the way to a hundred and twelve before he opens the door, only far enough for me to see him, but not far enough for me to get in. I glance down, noticing the absence of his right foot. He’s probably got it planted on the other side of the door, knee braced, just in case I try to force my way past. I lift the crate.

“Food.”

Even in the rapidly waning light, I can see the indecision on his face. The battle between stepping out and taking it from me or letting me walk in and deliver it. Both, I imagine, feel unsafe, as they’d require either leaving the door unguarded or allowing me entry. He’s still wearing his shoes and winter coat, I notice, although the pockets are bulging with what I imagine are his hat and gloves. Short brown hair is the next thing I notice, a darker shade than his eyes—more a rich chocolate color where his irises are closer to a caramel or gingerbread brown.

Deciding to solve the dilemma for him, I take a single step forward and bend to put the food on the ground. Retreating back to where I’d started, I tuck my hands casually into my pockets and go back to staring at him. I think, if he were introduced to shampoo and a razor, he might be handsome.

“Going somewhere?” I ask lightly, looking pointedly at his attire. His eyes squint closed into a semblance of a glare.

“Hope not,” he replies. Ah. So he’s planning on sleeping in the clothes he’d need to run in, were I to come looking for that favor he seems worried I’ll try to collect. I never thought I’d meet another person as mistrustful as me, yet here one is, living and breathing right in front of me. I move back another step.

“Coffee, bread, peanut butter, deli meat, a couple bananas, an orange,” I rattle off, nodding down toward the food, “and some cold lobster meat, of which I have a surplus. If you want more, ask. Oh, and bottled water.”

“That’s—you didn’t have to do that. Thank you.” He lets the door fall open a bit more, exposing another inch of his blue jacket.

“Need anything else?” I know he investigated every inch of that cottage and is aware of exactly what is in there. He has a better idea than me, that’s for sure. Penny, the woman who comes to clean, is the only person who goes in there these days.

“No. Thank you,” he repeats.

I wonder if I should let him know he can crank the heat if he wants. Let him know that it’s okay if he stands under the hot water in the shower until his skin prunes. I’m not worried about electricity or water bills. It’s unlikely I do need to voice any of this, though. I don’t exactly hide my wealth, and it’s usually the people who have none that are able to pick it out in others. Spencer knows the bills mean nothing to me. The only thing he wants is for me to leave him alone.

“Have a good night, then.”

Hands still in my pockets, I walk unhurried back to my house. The interior lights flood the yard through the uncovered glass wall that takes up the majority of the rear half. I reach the pool, walking along the edge of the cover, when Spencer replies, voice raised to carry across the expanse of the lawn.

“You too.”

Chapter Seven

SPENCER

Dryden Roy isn’t a supervillain at all, I realize, watching the back of him as he walks away. He’s fucking Batman. Quickly, I snatch up the crate of food and retreat back to the cottage, catching the door before it can slam closed. I watch through the corner of the window, food balanced on my hip, making sure he goes all the way back to his house and inside. I can see everything with the interior backlit and the light flooding through the windows. Just the way I could see everything when Dryden Roy was standing in front of me, fancy clothes draped over his body like they’d been made specifically to be there, his brown skin glowing bronze against the cream of the turtleneck sweater, black eyes liquid in the shadowy light. Rich, drives a Porsche, and looks like that? Oh, yeah, this motherfucker is totally Bruce Wayne.

Satisfied that he’s inside his house, I put the food on the little sliver of counter next to the refrigerator and go back to the door. Checking that the dead bolt is secure—even though it’s useless since he has a key—I begin sliding over the wooden dresser. It’s probably illegal to bar the entrance on a building I’m not the owner of, and it’s definitely a fire hazard. I do the same thing when I stay anywhere with a door, though. Could he still force his way inside? Probably. But at least I won’t sleep through it and wake up with a hand covering my mouth.

Panting, I get the chest of drawers slid all the way over, glad for the rug protecting the floors. Richy-rich up there probably wouldn’t appreciate gouges in his hardwood. I would bet every cent in my pocket that they’re real wood. Patting the top of the dresser, I check out the window to verify Dryden is still up at the house. He’s moving around the living room, tall form easily visible as he looks down at something in his hand. I wonder if he feels like he’s living in a fishbowl with all that damn glass.

Feeling a little more secure now that the door is barricaded, I unzip my jacket and check the thermostat. The little room has warmed up nicely—a cozy seventy-eight degrees that I’m considering bumping all the way up to eighty. You only live once, right? And tomorrow, I could be back out in the cold, so I might as well reap the benefits while I can. Pressing the button, I raise it the last two degrees. Slipping my coat off, I drape it over the back of the chair I’ve got my little tripod balanced on. I’d been about to film when Dryden showed up, or at least preparing for it. I’d had a feeling he’d come down to check in and hadn’t wanted to get too comfortable until he did. I’m dying to take a shower and crawl into bed, giddy now that Dryden is gone and I might have a chance.

Peeking into the stuff he brought, my heart thrums at the sight of so much food. Pulling the package of deli meat out, I laugh to myself. It’s actual deli meat. The kind you need someone in an apron to cut and weigh for you while you wait on the other side of a glass display, the kind that costs twice, sometimes three times as much as the stuff that comes prepackaged. I’m a little surprised he eats deli meat at all, but if it’s going to be any, it’s for sure going to be this kind.

Putting it, along with the waters, into the narrow refrigerator, I place the bananas and orange on the counter. The bread and peanut butter follow, everything lined up and as tempting as a feast. It seems incredible that just yesterday morning I ate a full breakfast, and now I’m about to have a full dinner. And sleep in a bed inside a room with heating. I feel like I’m living someone else’s life.

Fully smiling now, I reach for the final bit of food Dryden brought me. Lobster. Fucking lobster. I grin stupidly down at the container, unreasonably excited about it. Deciding that since I’m living like a king tonight, I might as well eat like one, I grab a plate and open the bread. Dumping half the lobster on one slice and the other half on another, I make two full sandwiches.

Taking my bread and lobster meat sandwiches with me, I settle cross-legged on the floor, facing where I’ve got the camera set up on the chair. Balancing the plate on my knee, I click the recording on and smile a smile that isn’t fake.

“Boy, do I have a story for you,” I tell the viewers.

I eat while I talk, deciding that showing my first time trying lobster might be something that turns people’s cranks. You never know what will hit with the audience, and I have a feeling there will be one or two people who enjoy watching me chow down on a lobster sandwich.

The abject joy I get from the experience isn’t manufactured either. This is, hands down, the best thing I’ve ever tasted, and that’s saying something after the breakfast I had yesterday. I don’t give any specifics about where I’m spending the night but feel like it can’t hurt anything to show a little bit of the inside. It’s not like anyone will see the wallpaper and know I’m sleeping in Dryden Roy’s lair. Again, I don’t have to pretend to be happy or grateful when I give the room tour—showing off the tiny kitchenette and the equally tiny bathroom, the bed—a queen!—and the love seat tucked into the corner that looks cushy and soft and is the most beautiful shade of forest green I’ve ever seen.