Page 49 of On Dry Land

When we get back to the car, Spencer holds the food on his lap and thaws by degrees. As though it had only been hiding, the delight he’d been basking in as we left the wharf returns along with the smile. When we get back to my house, he’s once more making noise about wanting to grab his computer and start uploading the footage. By some mutual understanding that neither of us has to speak aloud, we eat across from one another at the kitchen island. Both of us know the couch is too uncomfortable to subject ourselves to after a day on the boat.

“I don’t trust people like that,” Spencer says eventually, when the conversation naturally flows to the Temptress, frowning over the hamburger in his hands. “That guy at the bar.”

Running my tongue along my teeth, I regard him. “Ryan?”

“Yeah. He was flirting with me.”

He says this with the same level of disgust my mother does when she talks about the price of high jewelry. Wiping my fingers off on a napkin, I lean a hip against the counter and cross my arms, watching Spencer eat a fry.

“He’s a bartender,” I remind him. Ryan once told me his job was to make people feel special. Of course, he’d been giving me a blow job at the time, so perhaps it had been a bit tongue-in-cheek.

“I know. But people only do that when they want something. Flirting isn’t a personality trait; it’s a tool.”

I can’t argue with that, even though I think Ryan flirting with customers to earn a higher tip and a better Yelp review is harmless. But Spencer looks at the world through a lens hazy with lived experiences of people who think he deserves less autonomy than everyone else, a world where he has to choose between saying no and eating dinner. To him, flirtations are a threat. For myself, Ryan’s flirtations were less exciting than the insider information he provided on a decent Black barber in the area.

“Besides, flirting with me when you’re standing right there is insane,” Spencer adds, widening his eyes at me and taking a bite of burger. I tip the takeout bag toward myself, pulling out the second one I’d ordered him and pushing it across the counter.

“You’re new. The townies are curious.” I don’t know why I’m bothering to put any effort at all into defending Ryan, who can more than stick up for himself. I suppose I merely want to keep this vein of conversation going for as long as I can, see what else I might be able to learn about Spencer along the way.

“True. He has to know I’m homeless, though. Everyone else does. So, again, I ask: why flirt with me?”

“Do I not flirt with you?”

“Nope,” he replies happily, grinning around the three french fries in his mouth. “And you have a pool. The perfect man, really.”

“It always comes back to being rich.” I sigh. “More money, more problems, as they say.”

“I weep for you,” Spencer says seriously. I fight a smile, reaching for the last bite of my burger and popping it into my mouth.

I send Spencer off to his cottage to shower and fetch his laptop after dinner, sweeping the trash back into the bag and stuffing it all into the garbage before I head upstairs for my own wash. As much as I’d like to just fall into bed, I’m fastidious enough to not want a working day smeared all over my sheets. Lobstering leaves me sweaty and smelly, and I’d like my bed to be neither unless they come as a product of getting laid.

Because I know he’ll be quicker than me and won’t let himself inside, I walk barefoot back down the stairs the moment I’m dry and in clean clothes. As I suspected, Spencer is standing outside, laptop clutched protectively to his chest and half of his face tucked into the scarf I gave him, protecting it from the cold. Sighing, I push open the door, once more locking eyes with the snowmen.

“Just let yourself inside, Spencer,” I snap.

“Are you irritated by my good manners?” he asks, glancing up at me as he bends over to untie his boots.

“No, I’m irritated by your idiocy.”

“Stop trying to flirt with me, Dry. I already told you I don’t like it.”

He breaks through with that one, making me laugh softly. Insufferable man. Leaving him to the task of de-winterizing himself, I walk upstairs and click the fireplace on. Colorado plays tonight, and I’ll be able to catch some of it live. Standing next to the bed, I bring up the streaming service and wait for it to load. Spencer pads silently through the doorway a few moments later, hair mussed from the quick dry after his shower and the beanie he pulled on afterward. He glances between me and the television as he slides into bed opposite. I almost make a sarcastic comment about him not wanting to come inside without an invitation each time but apparently being comfortable doing so in my bed. I don’t, though, because there’s always the possibility that if I bite too hard, he’ll back off.

“Who are we watching?” he asks, shifting his hips back and forth like he’s nestling deeper into the mattress.

“Colorado.”

“Oh, our favorite! Nice.”

I dim the lights a bit before joining him on the bed. Pulling his laptop onto the pillow in his lap, he opens it and waits for the screen to come to life. There’s a chip in the corner where the screen is black and dead. He brings up the editing software he uses and looks over at me, apparently feeling my eyes on him.

“I can mute the game if the noise will disturb you,” I offer. He laughs.

“I’ve slept under interstate overpasses,” he reminds me, shifting a little bit as he wiggles himself into a comfortable position.

I watch the game, aware of his weight beside me and the soft click of his fingers on the keyboard. He doesn’t talk to himself, and I don’t bother him, content with the silent shared space. When the teams leave the ice for intermission, I yawn and sit up, putting my feet on the floor and stretching as I stand. I need to pee.

When I come back from the bathroom, Spencer is watching the door and smiles to see me. As I slide back onto the bed beside him, he closes his laptop cover, setting it and the pillow off to the side. Rolling to face me like he did the other night, he props his chin on one hand and regards me. I raise an eyebrow.