Page 37 of On Dry Land

“I’m hardly going to get some for me and not you.”

“You could.”

“But I wouldn’t,” he replies, voice tight. Settling back in my seat, I let it go. Quietly, I watch out the window as the view bleeds from city back to rural, trees multiplying as buildings become more scarce. I’m happy to see the Welcome to Siren’s Point sign as we pass it, and once more curious as to whom the mysterious recipient of the food is.

“Whose house is this?” I ask Dryden when he’s parking in front of a beautiful navy-blue colonial.

“Come along,” he says, ignoring my question as he gets out of the car.

“Awesome, so now I really am a dog,” I mutter to myself, opening my door and looking up at the house as I climb out. Deciding he can carry everything himself, I wait until we’re walking up to the front door to add, “By the way, this is what houses are actually meant to look like.”

“My house is modern.” He lifts a hand and knocks.

“Modernly hideous,” I murmur, just loud enough for him to hear me. I catch the curve of a smile trying to force itself onto his mouth just before the door opens.

A pretty man stands in the doorway, blond hair mussed and blue-green eyes slightly shadowed with sleep. He looks a little ill and more than a little surprised to see Dryden. Apparently noticing the same thing, Dryden sighs like a man born to suffer and says, “I told you I was coming, Oliver.”

Shuffling back so we can step inside, the man—Oliver—smiles.

“Well, yeah, but I didn’t think you were actually serious,” he says, eyes finding me and smile widening. “You’re Spencer Davis.”

“Oh, hell, not another one,” Dryden says. Oliver laughs, reaching out a hand to shake mine. I’ve never shaken so many hands in my life as I have during my short time in Siren’s Point.

“Come in, have a seat. What have you got there, Dryden? You didn’t really bring food, did you?” Closing the door and wrapping an arm protectively across the front of his stomach, Oliver doesn’t wait for an answer before continuing. “Nils is out back, checking on the chickens. One of the heaters is a bit spotty, and it’s been so cold. Have a seat. Do you want anything to drink? Eat? I love watching your videos, by the way.”

This last is directed at me, and unlike it usually does, the compliment doesn’t make me feel embarrassed. Sincerity drips from his voice, and his eyes are kind when they hold mine.

“Thanks. I appreciate that.” And I do. If this man has viewed any of my videos, then he is directly responsible for putting food in my stomach.

“Oliver, sit down,” Dryden instructs testily. “Where is the kitchen?”

“It’s through there, but I can⁠—”

“Sit down,” Dryden repeats, putting a hard stop between the command. Sighing, Oliver complies, shuffling slowly over to the couch and lowering himself down carefully. I remain by the door, more sure than ever that he’s ill. I’m also wondering how common the name Oliver is and whether this is the same Oliver Martin that Amy Libby mentioned might need help with yard work.

“You wouldn’t happen to be Oliver Martin, would you?” I ask him.

“That’s me,” he agrees, frowning when he sees me standing on the rug directly inside the door. “Come in, have a seat. Do you want anything to drink? I’ll grab you something. Water?”

“I’m fine,” I reply swiftly, wiping my shoes again before moving to sit in the nearest chair. “Amy Libby gave me your name and mentioned that you might need help with landscaping.”

“Did she? That was nice of her.” He relaxes back against the couch, eyes closing slowly before opening once more like he’s struggling to stay awake. “She’s right, I do need help. A problem for summer, though, I think. You’ll still be here?”

“Maybe,” I murmur, not willing to commit to a timeline and trying not to acknowledge the niggle of fear when I consider it.

“Well, you’re hired, if and when the time comes,” he says, tilting his head back to watch as Dryden walks around the edge of the couch, plate in hand. “Wow. Thank you. You don’t have to serve me. I can get it myself.”

Silently, Dryden stands and waits until Oliver takes the plate carefully from him. I try to peek at the food piled on top, eager to see what it might be, but it just looks like normal food to me. Settling into the other chair, across from mine, Dryden crosses an ankle over one knee and rests his hands on his stomach. He raises an eyebrow at Oliver, who takes a small bite and chews like it’s the hardest thing he’s ever had to make himself do.

“Comfy,” I note, patting the arm of the chair I’m sitting in, unable to help but needle Dryden a little bit. Every time I sit and watch a hockey game with him, I leave with an ache in my lower back.

“This is Nils’ house,” Oliver chimes in, lowering his food to his lap and smiling at me. “Nils Lee. He’s the one who decorated. Beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Mm-hm,” I agree, pressing my mouth closed when I catch the expression on Dryden’s face.

“I live next door,” Oliver continues, putting another minuscule bite into his mouth and swallowing. “In a fixer-upper. A bit of a mess, but it’s getting there. Honestly, I’m having fun renovating, so it doesn’t really bother me. I tell you what, I’m definitely getting one of these when the time comes.”

He pats a hand on the couch cushion under his leg. I nod.