Page 22 of On Dry Land

“Correct. The bottom warp is connected to the top warp by a weak link, which ensures that if a whale becomes entangled in the lines, they’ll break apart.”

I gape at him. That would never have crossed my mind, but now that he says it, it makes sense.

“We’ll do that tomorrow,” he continues, rubbing a thumb into the palm of his left hand. He nods toward all the rope lying on the warehouse floor. “Measure them out to the length we need and coil them all back up together so they’re ready. That’s the rope for the ground lines.”

I follow where he’s pointing, turning my body so the GoPro can catch it.

“It’s sinking rope—again, to avoid entanglement of ocean life—so it lies on the bottom.” Sighing, he rubs a hand across his forehead. “Unfortunately, because it’s being dragged and sawed over the seafloor, it wears thin. It breaks. When we lose traps, most often it’s the ground lines to blame.”

“You said you were retrieving lost traps when the Maiden died, right?” I realize, squinting at the equipment again and seeing it in a new light. A lot of work and, I’m sure, money goes into setting these traps. Even without understanding the financial nuances, I can see why anyone would be pressed to salvage anything that had been lost.

“Correct. Four of them.”

“Can you replace any of them with these?” I ask, pointing at all the traps he’d worked on today.

“It’s not only the trap itself that’s the loss. It’s the tags on them. We receive a set number of tags per year, and they are not reissued if lost. What you have is what you get.”

“Got it.” Biting my lip, I look around the warehouse. We’ll do that tomorrow, he’d said. We. “Can I tag along when you come back tomorrow?”

“If you’d like.” He tips one shoulder in a half shrug. “Not bored of watching me tie ropes together?”

“Honestly? No. This is really fascinating. I’d like to be more help, if I can.”

“Looking for a job?” he asks, eyes on mine and hands dangling casually between his spread legs, forearms resting atop his thighs.

“I’m not expecting you to pay me,” I rush to say. Hell, if anything, I would owe him free labor for letting me stay in the guest cottage. “I’m just interested in this, so I’d like to help if possible. But, to answer your question, I do also need to look for a job, yes.”

“Staying long?”

“Long enough.” It’s my turn to shrug. I don’t know how long I’m staying. Long enough to see everything Siren’s Point has to offer. Long enough to give my feet and knees a rest. Long enough to gain back some of the weight I lost on the road.

Someone shouts an inarticulate request into the boat shed, drawing Dryden’s attention off me. He waits, staring at his boat, until Lex comes around the front and walks toward us. Rising, he slips around the traps we’d stacked up throughout the day and goes to meet her.

I hang back, not wanting to eavesdrop on private conversations, no matter how invested in the outcome of this whole endeavor I’ve become. Running my fingers along the cage of one of the traps, I tug on the dog bone anchored to the top. I wonder if Dryden would teach me to tie a hitch knot if I asked.

“Figure out what’s wrong?” I ask Dryden when Lex walks off and I deem it safe to approach. I’ve been able to mostly ignore their presence in the boat shed with us, tuning out their voices in favor of putting all my attention on Dryden.

“Possibly,” he replies noncommittally.

I’m surprised to find it’s nearly three in the afternoon when we step outside, the sun weak and already making its steady way downward. I feel invigorated, though, and already excited for tomorrow. I wait for Dryden to lock up the boat shed, keeping an eye on him and the activity at the wharf at the same time. It’s important I don’t let myself get too comfortable with him too soon. Probably best not to get comfortable with him at all. He seems all right, but I can’t start to rely on him for things nor expect him to shuffle his life around for me. It’s important to remember exactly who I am and precisely where the power lies between us.

Silently, I hold out the keys to the Porsche when he turns around. His fingers brush mine when he takes them, both of us having left our gloves off. My skin tingles at the contact, jolting me a little bit. When I meet Dryden’s eyes, they’re black and unreadable.

“Sorry,” he says, voice a little thicker with what I take to be sincerity. Usually, his words seem to be carved with a fine edge of sarcasm and disdain, like the only reason he’s speaking at all is to humor the world and not because he wants to.

I nod in acceptance, hand resting on the passenger door as I wait for him to unlock the car. My demand for him not to touch me had been literal, but not quite so all-encompassing. Don’t touch me means don’t come up behind me and press your groin against my back. It means don’t grab my hand or my wrist or my forearm, and it means do not crowd me into a corner and cage me in. It doesn’t mean that accidental brushes based on simple proximity are something that needs to be apologized for.

“No worries,” I tell him out loud, pulling the door open the moment the locks click. Relief seeps into my veins as I settle in, brushing my fingers over the fabric of my pack. Knowing it hadn’t disappeared and verifying that with my own eyes are two separate things.

A few people put up a friendly hand to Dryden as we leave. He responds with a slightly less-friendly version of a greeting, only going so far as to lift two fingers from the steering wheel. He doesn’t say anything, and for the first time all day, I feel like I shouldn’t either. Instead, I sit back, hand looped into the strap of my backpack, and watch the town pass us by out the passenger window.

Chapter Ten

DRYDEN

Social exhaustion and a desire to be alone is something I often ascribe to being a nail in the coffin of my marriage. Even when I was working as an engineer and spending upward of ten hours a day in an office building, I rarely talked to people. I’d go home at the end of the day and want to stay there. I’d go home, exhausted by people, and look forward to spending time alone with one person. Even if I had to keep working, it was the company I’d enjoy and one of the first things I learned not to rely on. Dylan had never known social fatigue and could never truly be happy with an audience of one. Now, of course, I recognize social butterfly to mean cheating bastard, but at the time, I’d simply kissed him goodbye and tried not to feel too disappointed that he wanted to go to a bar instead of sit on the couch.

Spencer rests quietly beside me, and while a part of me wants to talk to him, the larger part is grateful for the break. I’d regretted letting him tag along the second we’d gotten in the car, exhausted by the notion of babysitting him while so much work needed to be done. I’d wanted to sit in the boat shed in silence, putting the traps together alone. Had, in fact, been looking forward to it, craving the sort of calm that only seems possible while doing a mindlessly tedious task. If I’d wanted help, I would have called Cody.