Page 16 of On Dry Land

“Okay, so I might be a little bit in love with that couch,” I joke, knowing people will enjoy giving me a hard time in the comments for waxing poetic about upholstery. Sitting back down, I settle the tripod back on the chair. “Anyway, this is home for the night. The next time you see me, you’ll actually be able to see me.” I stroke a hand over my beard, counting down the seconds until I can shave the monstrosity off. “Hopefully, it’ll make the job search go easier.”

I hadn’t had time to get to it yesterday, too focused on finding a place to stay, and, admittedly, detrimentally distracted by the diner. I shouldn’t have wasted so much of the morning there, but it was just so damn cozy and inviting, with all those people around, enjoying their breakfast and chatting, the smell of bacon and coffee and bread doing just as much to warm me up as the actual heat. The daylight bleeds away fast here, in the winter, and although my visit is right on the cusp of spring, it’s not yet close enough. I could, and should, have planned better.

I chat a little bit longer but keep it pretty short. This sort of content always makes me feel a little strange, no matter that I’ve been doing this for years now. It’s pretty insane how many faceless strangers across the globe care about what I have to say or are interested in what my days look like. A couple have gone so far as to ask if I have a GoFundMe or even just a Venmo, wanting to send me money for food or lodging. Strangers. People I’ve never, nor will ever, meet. It blows me away and is the sort of kindness I try to focus on each time things get hard. There is good, even when it’s hard to see.

Like this, I think, looking around the little cottage as I unclip my camera and fold up the tripod. I’ve been in Siren’s Point for a whole twenty-four hours, and although I let my mood get the better of me, the good is far outweighing the bad. I have so much more right now than I had yesterday. And despite my brain telling me I need to be smart about this, my gut is telling me that Dryden Roy isn’t a bad person. A weird one, probably, since generosity like this unfortunately isn’t a personality trait that most rich people possess.

I’m curious about him. And now that I’m here, basking in my eighty-degree sauna, belly full of lobster, I allow my imagination to play. Moving the chair back where it belongs, I put my tripod back into my pack and start methodically removing the things I need to shower. Lobster fishing isn’t the kind of mega-million-dollar industry that would keep a person swimming in cashmere and riding around in Porsches.

Which means Dryden Roy probably came by his wealth the Bruce Wayne way. Family. It begs the question as to why my handsome new benefactor is lobster fishing at all. It seems like a strange job for someone like him to choose. Of course, I’m judging by appearances alone, so what do I know. Maybe he just likes fishing. Maybe he’s one of those super-macho, hypermasculine guys who fall in love with things that have engines. He probably calls his Porsche his baby and waxes it by hand. All that time he spent in the boat shed yesterday was him stroking his lobster boat.

Smiling to myself, I bring my Dopp kit and my spare, somewhat clean, clothes with me to the bathroom. Closing the door, I tug off my boots and leave them in the corner. Shoes are the most important piece of clothing, which means I never let mine out of my sight. I still haven’t decided whether I’ll be wearing them to sleep like I usually do or trusting my makeshift blockade—and Dryden Roy—enough to remove them and leave them next to the bed.

Whistling, I turn on the shower, leaving it on the cold setting for now, and stripping off the rest of my clothes. The little cottage is so warm, I’m comfortable standing there naked as I hold my pants under the water and start scrubbing them. There is a little washer and dryer unit in the corner, but I can’t find any detergent. This will work fine, anyway. It’s better than I can usually do.

Using the bar of soap I carry around, I scrub the fabric against itself, tilting my face away when the cold water sprays into my eyes. Dirty suds swirl around the drain as I finish the pants and sling them over the shower bar to dry. Shirt and sweatshirt are next, followed by the long johns I was wearing under my pants. When I finish the socks and add them to my little makeshift drying rack, I’m shivering slightly.

Cranking the heat on the water, nearly as high as it can go, I step into the shower and sigh. It’s almost hot enough to burn my skin off, but I don’t care. Eager to be rid of the dirt layered on my skin, I grab my soap and pause. There’s a fancy-looking bottle of bodywash sitting on the alcove built into the wall of the bath, next to an equally fancy-looking shampoo and conditioner. Glancing down at the scentless, utilitarian bar of soap in my hand, the scalding water sluicing down my back, I consider. Dryden didn’t tell me I couldn’t use the soap. In fact, he made it seem like I could use whatever I wanted in here. That the cottage, and everything in it, is mine for the night.

Putting my soap back into the little plastic tray I carry it in, I reach for the bodywash. It smells faintly feminine, in a dark, sensual way. Like how a burlesque dancer might smell or a drag queen in one of the shows I got to see in New York. I pour a generous measure into my palm and get to work. The water around my feet gradually turns from brown to tan to clear, soap suds mixing with the dirt as it’s washed down the drain. I use my shampoo—which is meant to prevent lice—first, before also using the stuff Dryden has stocked in here. It’s the same scent as the bodywash, which, for some reason, really tickles me. It seems like such a luxury, being able to buy matching sets.

The water is still running hot when I turn it off, even though I’ve probably been in here thirty minutes. More, if I counted the laundry I did beforehand. I dry off with a big, white, fluffy towel, smoothing my palms down it. I can hardly believe this is a towel at all, so used to the scratchy, papery ones that it’s hard to wrap my head around the fact that something this soft exists. There’s a matching dressing gown hanging on a hook by the door. I regard it, thinking about how clean I am right now. I don’t want to put stiff, slightly dirty clothes on. I want to be wrapped in something soft, for once, not functional. Sliding the dressing gown off the hook, I put my arms through the sleeves and belt it around my waist.

Finally, I grab the shaving cream I found earlier when I’d snooped through every nook and cranny of this place. I don’t often get to use shaving cream, as it’s not a staple item and therefore not worth the money, and takes up too much room in my pack even if it was. Frivolous self-care items are not necessities. But, just like the bodywash and hair products in the shower, since it’s here, I’m going to use it.

The face in the mirror after I shave is one I can hardly recognize. Without half my features being obscured by hair, my eyes look bigger, my bone structure sharper, and me younger. Sliding my fingers across my smooth cheeks, I swallow hard around the sudden burn in my throat. There is nothing like a good shower to make you feel human again. Turning away from the stranger in the mirror, I grab my boots and turn the light off, leaving the bathroom. I’m going to sleep in the dressing gown. I’m going to leave clothes at the end of the bed where I can reach them if I need to dress in a hurry, tuck my shoes underneath the frame, and try to relax enough to enjoy the incredible gift I’ve been given.

Yawning, I bring my laptop with me when I slide into the bed, almost groaning at the feel of the sheets against my bare feet and calves. Holy. Fucking. Shit. Abandoning my laptop on the cushy comforter, I bend over the edge of the mattress, looking for the corner of the sheet with a tag on it. I grin. One hundred percent authentic Egyptian cotton. Flopping onto my back, I spread my arms and legs in a starfish. This bed is the closest I’ll get to Egypt.

I manage a couple of solid hours of editing as the rest of my electronics charge in the various outlets scattered through the room. When my eyes start to cross, I call it quits and slide from the bed, repacking my backpack so everything is ready if I need to leave in a hurry. I peek out the front window again as I brush my teeth, curious to see if Dryden is still swimming around in his fishtank. The lower half is dark, though, and although there is a light on in an upper window, it’s muted by a curtain. I wonder if he took a shower tonight and if it was even half as satisfying as mine.

I feel like a king when I lie back down in bed, leaving the lamp on the lowest setting so the room isn’t fully dark. Or perhaps not a king, but a pharaoh, I correct, sliding my palms across the sheets. I’m not even nervous right now, lulled into contentment by having all my basic needs met at one time. I forget, sometimes, that I used to live like this. Well, not exactly like this, I suppose, but close enough. I had a roof, a bed, running water, electricity, and food. And I barely appreciated it at all.

Sighing, I roll over, facing the door, and scrunch one of the extra pillows up in my arms. Silk pillowcases, I’m pretty sure, smooth and cool against my cheek. Closing my eyes, I nestle a little further into my cocoon, listening to the low click of the thermostat as the heat turns back on. The fall into unconsciousness is smooth and quick. I sleep all the way through the night, with no dangers—real or nightmarish—to disturb me for the first time in years.

Chapter Eight

DRYDEN

The first thing I do before I crawl into bed is look out the window at the guest cottage. The lights are still on inside, but I catch no movement behind the curtains. I feel a faint tug, like a fishhook caught in my navel, pulling me toward the little building. Toward Spencer. I should have gotten his phone number so I don’t have to walk down and scare the shit out of him just to check and make sure he’s fine and has everything he needs.

I really don’t know why I seem to care so much. I shouldn’t. He’s a stranger and means nothing to me. But, as I also keep reminding myself, this is the grave I’ve dug, and there’s nothing for me to do but lie in it. I invited him here, which means I have no choice but to make the stay as comfortable as possible.

Letting the blinds fall closed, I push Spencer from my mind and approach the wall panel next to the bed. After checking the security system is engaged, I slide my finger down the left side to dim the lights. Climbing into bed, I nestle a pillow between my back and the headboard and reach for my book. My current is a painfully dull tome about recent trends in mechanical engineering. Not a fun read, by any stretch of the imagination, but the subject matter is gripping enough to keep me engaged. I’m not looking for enjoyment, anyway. I’m looking for practical knowledge.

Sliding the pen out that was keeping my place, I idly click it as I read. It’s harder to focus tonight. The house, which is always still and quiet, feels eerily so. It’s strange, being in here while knowing there is someone out there, just a meager distance away. I’ve never invited people to stay, beyond that flippant offer to my sister, which never came to fruition. Shiloh spent a little time here, but never the night. Nor did I ever stay a full night with him. And although it hardly counts—with Spencer sleeping not just in another bed but a whole other house—it still feels as though I’m breaking my own rules.

I didn’t let Shiloh stay here for a reason. I don’t invite Cody up for drinks, nor Ryan here for a quick, easy fuck for a reason. This is my space, and I do not want to share it. Yet, for reasons still unknown to me, I am. Sighing, I drop the pen back into the center crease of the book and close the cover. I can’t focus.

Sliding the book back onto my nightstand, I reach up and tap the lights off before putting the screen to sleep as well. The room plunges into full dark, barely a trickle of moonlight peeking around the blinds. Flipping around to my stomach, I deliberately turn my head away from the window and rest my cheek on the silken pillow. One hand lying palm down on the far side of the mattress, I think, as I always do when I’m trying to fall asleep, that I wish I weren’t falling alone.

In an almost comical parallel to my evening routine, the first thing I do when I wake up is look out the back window toward the guesthouse. I think there is a fifty-fifty chance that Spencer packs up and leaves with the daylight, quietly walking off into the sunrise. I don’t think the thirty-seven miles from here to town would deter him in the slightest.

The cottage unchanged and still, I force myself away from the window and into my routine. I’ve found, in the past few years of lobster fishing, that I am a bit lazier than I previously knew myself to be. When I worked in a corporate office and lived with Dylan, both of us kept similar schedules. At least insofar as our morning routines went. It made it easier, getting up and showering and fixing breakfast, when he was there doing the same thing. It also felt intimate and is one of the small, painful things I try not to think about, lest I miss it too much.

Now, on my own and working as a lobsterman, my days start even earlier. And, perhaps more detrimentally, there is an offseason. There are three full months of downtime, not spent on the water. Three full months of doing nothing but routine maintenance and repairs, and three full months for me to grow fond of sleeping past six in the morning and never changing out of my pajamas. I actually enjoy lobster fishing. More, in fact, than I’d been expecting to. I could really do without starting the day at the ass crack of dawn, though. And some of these fools, like Shiloh, actually like hearing their alarm go off at three-fucking-o’clock.

Downstairs, early morning light comes through the glass, reflecting off some of the furniture, which is also glass. Strange preferences the previous owners had. Peeking over my shoulder as I walk to the espresso machine, I squint at the guest cabin. No movement. Five minutes later, coffee in hand, I turn around and see him.