Page 38 of On Dry Land

“Don’t get one like Dryden’s,” I caution. “They went the pain-and-torture route instead of comfort when they made it.”

Oliver laughs, short and quick, but stops with a wince and a hand pressed to his belly. Dryden, sharp eyes on his friend, clears his throat.

“Eat, Oliver,” he instructs.

“I don’t think I can finish all this,” Oliver replies morosely.

“Really? How rude. And after I drove all the way to get it for you.”

Oliver opens his mouth, closes it, opens it once more, and puts a bite of food in. Dryden smirks and looks pleased with himself.

We don’t stay long, as it’s clear Dryden is tired of socialization, and Oliver is just tired in general. I meet Nils Lee, the owner of the beautiful house, who says nothing except a quiet thank-you to Dryden for the food. After that, Dryden says we’re leaving, and Oliver tells him we can stay longer if we’d like. When it becomes clear that Dryden has no intention of doing anything except walking out the door, Oliver tries to push slowly to his feet.

“I know where the front door is, Oli. I can see myself out,” Dryden tells him, exasperated.

And, indeed, we have no trouble finding our way, with Oliver saying one last thank-you for dinner and Nils following us to the door to lock it behind us. Outside, I tug my beanie back on and eye my companion, walking swiftly to the Porsche like he’s fleeing a crime scene.

“Your friend is nice,” I tell him when we’re seated inside.

“He’s an acquaintance, not a friend.”

“Right,” I agree in a tone that makes it clear I know he’s talking bullshit. He slants a look at me out of the corner of his eye, driving slowly down the gravel drive. “He’s the guy who got hurt when your boat malfunctioned, isn’t he?”

I’d guessed it inside, watching Oliver with the practice of a person well used to paying attention to everything around them. He’d looked sick, but he’d moved and reacted like a person guarding an injury. And Dryden, though he’d done a good job of smirking and looking disdainful the entire time, hadn’t quite managed to completely cover up the concern and guilt in his eyes.

“Yes,” he agrees and then follows up with a silence long enough for me to think that’s the end of the conversation. After a moment, he adds, “He’s a sternman on Shiloh Lepage’s crew. A man I used to date.”

Butterflies erupt in my stomach. It’s a feeling so close to nerves that it takes me a second to distinguish it for what it really is. Yearning.

Shifting in my seat, I frown, turning my face away under the pretense of looking out the window. It’s dangerous to want Dryden. To want anything from him, but to want a relationship most of all. The disparities between us are glaringly stark, and class differences can’t be bridged as easily as people think. Already, I’m at a severe power disadvantage, living on his property for free, eating the food he gifts me, and accepting the rides into town. I don’t think there is a single thing in this world that would enable me to rise to his level and make us equals, nothing at all that I bring to the table. As far as Dryden is concerned, I’m a parasite. A leech, sucking up money and time and resources, and giving him nothing in return.

“Well…he was really nice,” I repeat, too stuck in my own head to think of anything else to say. Feeling unduly sweaty, I reach for my half of the controls at the same time Dryden does. His fingers brush against mine, and the fluttering in my stomach increases, making me feel sick.

“Sorry,” Dryden says immediately, withdrawing to his side of the car. I shift my shoulders, wishing I could wipe away the sweat suddenly dotting my skin.

“You don’t have to—you can touch me, it’s fine. You don’t have to apologize.”

He thinks about this for a second, staring out the windshield. I pull off my beanie, tucking it into my pocket with the gloves, and once more reach for the heating to turn mine down.

“That’s not what you said before,” he comments.

“Right, because I didn’t know you, and I didn’t want to get raped or solicited,” I reply. Dryden glances over at me, dark eyes unreadable. I suppose the upper class probably considers it rude to talk about sexual assault in anything above a whisper.

I’ve always considered myself to be a good barometer of emotions. Gut instincts are, many times, the only thing I have to rely on. I trust that feeling that tells me Dryden won’t test any of the boundaries I erect. He hasn’t given me a reason to run, and every instinct is telling me it’s safe to stay.

The weight of the air between us remains heavy as we drive back to Dryden’s house. He doesn’t speak again until the car is in park, engine off and more weight added to the silence between us. There is no way I’m the only one who can feel this. No way in hell.

“Would you like to come in? Or we can split the food. Whichever you prefer,” he offers.

“Together,” I tell him, opening my door and getting out. The cold air feels heavenly on my face. I can’t wait to get inside and take this coat off.

In the house, Dryden spreads containers across his kitchen island, tossing the empty bags to the floor like he’s going to deal with them later. I leave my jacket draped over the back of the couch and slide onto a barstool, chin propped in my hand as I watch him uncover everything. I’m surprised when he doesn’t hand me a plate, just a fork. Perhaps seeing that on my face, he pauses.

“Spoon?” he asks as though questioning whether the disbelief is stemming from his choice of tableware.

“Fork is fine,” I murmur. “Thank you.”

Instead of taking a seat next to me, he leans a hip against the island opposite and dips his fork into one of the pasta dishes, swirling the noodles around the tines. I watch, still unable to believe that Dryden Roy is the kind of man to eat a shared potluck with anyone, let alone me, a person who had, up until my arrival in Siren’s Point, only brushed their teeth three times a week.