Page 59 of On Dry Land

I swallow down the flippant remark about how he gave me four orgasms. That’s not what he’s talking about, and I think, for Spencer, sex has deeper layers than it does for me.

“I understand,” I tell him instead, because now I do. I don’t like not knowing things, and I’m really starting to appreciate how little I like not knowing things about Spencer. If I could think of all the questions, I’d ask him everything for the simple pleasure of learning the answers. “And you give me plenty.”

“Uh-huh,” he mumbles around a bite of pasta, not sounding as if he believes me. Demon uncurls just enough to twitch her nose in the air, smelling the food.

“No,” I tell her firmly, certain I can see her little food-driven brain kicking into action.

“No pasta for kitties,” Spencer agrees, putting down his plate and scooping her off my belly when she stands up and takes a couple of uncertain steps toward my dinner.

He brings her over to the corner where we have her food and water dish set up. Spooning some of that disgusting wet food onto the plate, he leaves her to her own, far less appetizing meal. He settles against me on the bed once more, closer than before, leg pressed against mine and shoulder sharp against my bicep.

“I watched your video,” I tell him. He snaps his face toward me so fast I can hear his neck pop.

“The new one? You did?” He sounds so eager, it makes me uncomfortable.

I, too, understand the desire for your partner to take an interest in your life. It had, actually, been the best part of my relationship with Shiloh. I’d loved having someone who not only asked about my fishing business, but understood it. I was so used to living with a man who asked cursory questions about my day at work but never bothered to listen to the answer or ask follow-up questions. I was never sure that Dylan actually even knew what I did all day.

And so Shiloh, wrong for me in so many other ways, had stood perfect in this one thing. When I complained about the price of lobster, he’d agree with me. When he wanted to know how the day went and I told him about wind and fog wreaking havoc, I never had to wonder whether he’d lose interest or space out. It was the single thing we shared and the only thing I worked hard to cultivate.

“Yes,” I tell Spencer, returning the smile and watching his grow in return. “I enjoyed it.”

It also worried me. This morning was one of the few times Spencer went to sleep and woke up in the same bed as me, and already I can feel that old ease slipping through my ribs and into my chest. Although I’m beginning to doubt whether I’ll ever be able to handle him leaving, I’m certainly not ready for it to happen tomorrow. I couldn’t help but notice, though, that not everyone is in agreement with me.

I’d gone looking at the comments section after watching Spencer’s video, curious to see what was there after hearing some of the ridiculous things that had been read aloud to me by Spencer himself. None of these comments were silly or flirtatious, though. They were supportive, a little bit strange, and, in more cases than I care to remember, desirous of new things. Two months, apparently, is a long time for Spencer to stand still.

Several commenters even went so far as to provide recommendations of where he could go from here. One intrepid individual offered to pay the fee for a passport if Spencer didn’t have one, wanting him to walk his way across the border into Canada for a new kind of adventure. I scrolled down the comments as doubt curdled in my stomach, acidic enough that not even I was fully able to kill it. How foolish was I to forget for a night—for even a single second—that Spencer would leave. There’s something particularly insane about pretending a certainty won’t come to fruition, and madness has never been a trait I would assign to myself. I’m a logical, intelligent, and, yes, self-fucking-centered person, and letting myself fall into this trap of what-ifs and maybes is hurting nobody but myself. I know better.

I know how the world works, and, specifically, I know how the world works in regards to me. I am not destined for a great romance like Shiloh and Ewan, spanning across years and state lines. I am not destined to experience love, nor incite it in another person. I will not get to keep Spencer. I will get memories and regrets and a kitten.

“That was nice of you to watch. Kind of makes me embarrassed, though,” he says now, sliding his fork across his plate to catch any stray sauce.

“Why?” I ask, not taking my eyes from his face and wondering if tonight will be both the first and last time he cooks dinner for me.

“Mm, I don’t know. Just thinking about all the stuff that’s in those videos, I guess. Especially the old ones.” He grimaces. “I was doing a live stream thing when the dog started chasing me. People thought it was hilarious, and I felt like I was running for my life.”

Taking Spencer’s empty plate and stacking it on top of mine, I set them off to the side. Spencer leans into me, weight resting comfortingly along my right arm. I don’t push him away, but neither do I pull him closer the way I want to. I’d like to ask him how he feels about stopping running away altogether, but keep that to myself as well.

“Shall we watch one together?” I ask him, looking toward the flat screen mounted on the wall in the area meant to mimic a living room.

“Oh hell no,” Spencer replies. “You can watch them when I’m not in the room. I don’t think I could take that kind of humiliation.”

“You post videos on the internet, Spencer. How on earth do you have any shame left at all?”

“It’s not like I know the people watching them! SaraBear1972 is a stranger to me—I don’t care if she thinks I should let my hair grow out a bit. But SexyLobsterGuyDry would be known to me. It would feel like stripping naked in front of you and asking for constructive criticism.”

“How did you manage to find out about my secret internet identity,” I deadpan, making him snort hard enough to jostle my arm. His hand rests gently on my thigh, long sleeve pulled down. After a moment, I rest my hand down on his forearm.

Spencer doesn’t move, but I can tell he wants to by the careful stillness. Through the thin fabric of the shirtsleeve, I can feel the slightly raised scarring. It didn’t look terrible the other night when he had his clothes off and I caught glimpses. Certainly not as ghastly as he seems to fear it looks, as it obviously looks to him. I slide my hand down so I can rub my thumb along the scar on the back of his hand, waiting for Spencer to keep talking about the vlogs.

“Can I come hauling with you sometime this week?” is what he asks instead, voice slightly wary, and body still holding a bit of tension.

“Yes. Same rules as before.” I might even add a few new rules on. When Spencer was walking around on the boat, it looked like it was his first day walking, ever. I don’t care how competent a swimmer he is; this time, I’m forcing the life vest issue. Perhaps I’ll hook a carabiner to the back and tether him to the standing shelter for good measure. Thinking about Spencer and his baby giraffe legs falling overboard is going to give me an ulcer.

“Okay,” he agrees readily, and then, as though he’s unable to think around my hand placement, he adds, “You’re the only person who has done that.”

“Do you want me to stop?” I offer, thumb still tracing the line of scarring up to the cuff of his sleeve and back down again.

I don’t mean anything in particular by it, and I certainly don’t want him to be distressed. But I’ve never seen him roll up the sleeves on his clothes—not even when we were inside, demolishing my living room by hand. He tugs the cuffs down almost obsessively, and if that motion draws anyone’s attention to his hands, he tucks them into his pocket or behind his back. I don’t even think he’s doing it on purpose. I think he had a terrible day that ballooned into an ongoing horror, and because he carries such a stark reminder around on his body, he hasn’t had a chance to move on.