Page 60 of On Dry Land

“No, you don’t have to stop. It just feels strange, is all. And the scar is gross.”

“It’s just a scar, Spencer. The only thing that bothers me about it is how much it bothers you.”

He breathes out hard, arm relaxing enough for it to fall heavier in my lap. Demon scratches her way up the side of the comforter, ambling over, food caught in her whiskers, and still licking her lips. When Spencer reaches out to pet her, she meows so loudly one would think he tossed her from the bed.

“Good lord,” I murmur.

“Is that right?” Spencer says to the kitten, as though he understood exactly what she said. Demon makes another aborted meow as she bends into a downward dog. “Oh, big stretch.”

She snuggles up to Spencer this time, purring like a little lawn mower as she kneads her toes into him. The white tip of her tail disappears as she curls tight into a ball and, like last time, immediately falls asleep.

“Imagine sleeping like a cat,” Spencer muses. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I can sleep anywhere. But it’s not good sleep.”

“Do you sleep well here?” I ask.

I don’t know why I keep doing this—fishing for approval like this one thing will be what makes him stay. The truth is, I don’t know what, if anything, could make Spencer stay. I hardly know anything about him, and what I do know is rather damning for wishing he’ll remain. He likes to walk. He likes to visit new places. He told me, during one of his evening swims, that he dreamed of being able to save up enough money for a plane ticket overseas and a backpacking trip across Europe. I can’t remember the last time I even had a dream.

“Really great. This is the best place I’ve been in years,” Spencer confirms. The words feel like one of his kisses, warm and sweet.

“Good,” I say, staring up at the ceiling. “Good.”

Chapter Nineteen

SPENCER

Dryden starts pulling away. It happens slowly enough that I can see it in real time, while also moving just quickly enough for me to be unable to stop it. It’s small things—micro-expressions and silence and stretches of time that didn’t use to be empty. He steps carefully through conversations, speaking words but not really saying anything. He lets me come out lobstering with him and Cody and then spends the entire day rigid and frosty, never speaking to Cody in anything other than a clipped, sarcastic tone and barely speaking to me at all except to warn me away from the side of the boat. He stayed in the cottage one night instead of joining me when I went for a swim, which hurt so badly I ducked my head under the surface and held my breath as long as I could, thinking that there was probably no better place for a good cry than a pool full of water.

Now, he’s standing on the lawn, talking with a man holding a clipboard. After a moment, they walk into the big house, and I watch their reflections move across the glass. Dryden lifts an arm as though to point things out. I watch for a few moments longer before letting the curtain fall over the window once more.

Sitting cross-legged on the couch, I put a pillow on my lap and grab my laptop. I’ve gotten behind in what I consider the “admin” side of my job—responding to comments, direct messages, and emails. As low on the food chain as I am compared to a lot of other creators, there are still a fair few people who regularly reach out. There have been several times in the past where I’d been hungry, cold, and exhausted, but the loneliness had seemed most unbearable of all. Those faceless internet commenters had seemed the closest thing to friends.

I smile at the comments asking for more Dryden. He was a quick fan favorite, and every vlog or short I’ve posted since that inaugural video has seen my inbox flooded with different variations of the same question: where the hell is that superhot lobster fisherman? That was, in fact, the exact wording on several.

But on top of the messages asking for Dryden—which, admittedly, I kind of enjoy—most of the remaining comments are concerning my plans. Stagnation isn’t kind to content creators. And although I don’t put a lot of effort into growing, I can see a definite nosedive in my stats. Fewer views, fewer comments, fewer likes, none of which would bother me except that a decline in all of that also means a drop in capital. If I don’t produce—and produce things people want to watch—then I don’t make money.

Biting my lip, I log in to my bank and check my savings account. I don’t carry a debit or credit card with me, too worried about being robbed or losing it. Instead, I take out small bits of cash here and there and stretch it as thin as it can go. I try to leave as much as possible in my savings, padding it slowly to keep for a big emergency or, hopefully, something nice. I like to daydream about owning a house, having money to travel on adventures, and a home base to return to. It’s a pipedream more than anything, though. Saving is hard. The nearly two thousand dollars that is in there right now is an incredible amount of money and ten times what I’ve had at once in years.

But due entirely to Dryden’s generosity, I’ve been able to save nearly every penny of what Rudy has been paying me at the vet clinic. I spend thirty dollars on groceries every week—another extravagance that makes my heart pound every time I check out at the register—and other than my cell phone bill…nothing. I don’t pay rent. I don’t have a car I need to service or put gas in. I wear the same five clothing items every day, and when I noticed the shampoo and conditioner getting low in the bathroom, Dryden had replaced them before I could. Life has never been so sweet to me as it has here in Siren’s Point.

Looking at my royalty statement for last month, I worry my lip with my teeth and wonder how long I’ll be able to push this. Theoretically, I could offset the lost income from my videos with my wages from Caring Claws. I have a job—an actual one, and not one based entirely off the twenty-second lifespan of people’s attention—and the most stable home I’ve had in years. There are still things to do in Siren’s Point, and as winter slowly bleeds into spring, everyone keeps telling me that things will really pick up with the start of the tourist season. I could ask Dryden for more time on the Maiden Seas and maybe even convince him to let me do some lobstering myself. The boat videos still garner the most attention; more of those means more views and more time in Siren’s Point.

And, more importantly, more time with Dryden. Because that’s the real reason I haven’t moseyed on down the road yet, even if it’s a reason I’m trying not to look directly at. I don’t like the endless hunger of living on the road, nor the way I can never truly feel warm or safe or rested. I don’t like dialing my senses up to red alert and having to consider every person I meet a threat. I don’t like the fear I feel when a police cruiser coasts by the patch of sidewalk where I’m sleeping or the endless dread of never truly knowing what the next day will bring.

But all of that is bearable. Discomfort is like an old pal at this point—not my favorite friend, nor one I’d invite in if I had any say in the matter, but something familiar. And truthfully, I’m starting to really question what would be worse in the end: two weeks without food, or two weeks without Dryden?

I could stay. I could stop walking and start adding bricks to the small bit of foundation I’ve started here. I could take Rudy up on his offer to help me with a veterinary technician recertification. And maybe I could live here with Dryden, keeping hold of his hand no matter how hard he tries to pull it away. Or I could leave. As much as I enjoy Siren’s Point, it’s just a place like any other to me. I’ve visited big cities and small mountain towns. I’ve walked through deserts and slept on beaches. I’ve been so many places, and in nearly all of them, I could find something to love.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned in the last few years, it’s that I’m an adventurer at heart. I could have done without the shove in the back that sent me into motion, but now that I’m here…well, maybe rock bottom was exactly where I needed to be to make myself look up. The life I’d been living had felt like happiness at the time—a job, an apartment, and a good friend I’d see once a month when we’d catch up over drinks on all the things that stayed the same in our lives. And then everything had gone wrong, and I’d felt like no matter how low I got, there was still further to fall. Leaving had felt like a step away from the wall my back had been pressed against. It had felt like the first clean gulp of mountain air after reaching the summit of a fourteener.

It had also felt like socks crusty with blood from blisters that never seemed to heal and shoulders rubbed so raw that even the lightest touch of air would send fire through my skin. It was a throat so dry that drinking water physically hurt and a stomach so empty that I didn’t even crave food. It was walking into the unknown hand in hand with fear and excitement and the absolute peace that comes from following a road that doesn’t end. There is so much to like in my life, even when it’s hard for me, or others, to see.

And right now, staring at the most money I’ve ever had in my bank account, sitting on the softest couch I’ve ever sat on, in a house owned by a man I think I could fall in love with, I weigh that life against this one. Adventure versus stability. Lonely miles to be walked or a heated seat in Dryden’s Porsche. Sleeping in the woods with a full view of the night sky or sleeping curled up in bed with an arm across my middle, keeping me safe. Adventure versus stability.

And there is, of course, the possibility that the choice isn’t mine at all. Dryden’s no fool, and I’ve never pretended to be anything more or less than what I am. I walked into town on a snowy winter day, and I’ll probably be walking out on a spring one. I think he must know it better than I do, in the ways he’s been withdrawing from me. He’s already decided I’m leaving and is making sure he’s prepared when I do. I’m not sure what it says about me or what we’ve been doing that he’s assumed one thing without even considering the other.

Which, as I bite my lip hard enough to hurt, perhaps says plenty about Dryden’s side of things. He didn’t sign up for a life caring for, as he puts it, a stray. He offered me a temporary place to live and went far beyond the call of duty where that was concerned. With any other person, in any other town, I would have moved on by now. I would have placed a kind note on the dressing table, expressing my gratitude, and left the room as clean and tidy as I found it. I wouldn’t overstay a welcome he hadn’t even needed to offer.

Feeling antsy, I shut my laptop and slide it onto the cushion. My thoughts buzz loud enough that I can feel the hum down to my toes. In a somewhat metaphorical way, my body feels like it’s telling me to get out, to seek fresh air and natural light and the burn of muscles as I walk my way to clearer thoughts.