Page 69 of On Dry Land

I’ll see you soon. Please be safe. Love, Spencer

Love, Spencer. I frown down at the messy letters. Is he left-handed? Perhaps that’s why he writes his As boxy like that. I should have asked him. It’s strange that I never saw him write anything, and I never thought to bring it up. It’s also strange that he signed this with love. I’d like to ask about that, too, if I ever get a chance.

Wishing that the car could simply drive itself home—and, while I’m at it, that dinner would just magically appear, ready to eat—I sit in silence a little longer, staring down at the note. Love, Spencer.

Ridiculous. I’m being ridiculous. Folding the paper carefully back up, I angle my head from side to side, encouraging my neck muscles to relax. Tension has settled in and made a home in my body, and no matter how many minutes I spend stretching, massages I schedule, or hours I spend lying prone on my bed, it doesn’t seem to abate. I turn on the radio to drive home, only to flick it back off after five minutes, wanting silence. A couple of minutes after that, I’m wishing for noise. And not just any noise, but the kind that comes in the form of chatter from the passenger seat.

I used to love driving home from the wharf—the tree-lined, curvy roads, the hum of the car, and the ability to decompress after hauling. I used to look forward to my quiet house, the privacy and the ability to do exactly what I wished, whenever I wanted to do it.

I work my jaw back and forth. I miss picking Spencer up from the animal clinic and giving him a hard time for the pet hair he was shedding all over my car. I miss hearing about his day and having a captive audience when I told him about mine, no matter that I did the same damn thing as usual. I miss watching him float around my pool, steam rising gently around him from the temperature of the water reacting with the cold air. And I miss how everything mundane that I usually did felt less so with him around. Lying around watching hockey and eating an entire bag of potato chips is boring and a bit sad of me to do alone. But with Spencer, it wasn’t.

It was relaxing in a way I don’t often experience, as if he was so content with how I am that I never felt like I needed to pretend and be something else. He’d lie right there next to me, pushing my hand out of the way when I started hogging the snacks, and wonder random and inane things out loud about the hockey players that just popped into his head. How much protein do they eat in a day? Do you know how much the sticks cost? Do you think it comes out of their paycheck when they break one? How can that guy change the blade on the skate like that without cutting his hand?

It should have been annoying. I put on the games to watch the actual play, not waste time looking up Remy Stone’s birthday because Spencer was “picking up fire sign vibes,” even though he had never met the man and had only watched him play hockey for fifteen minutes. It really should have bothered me. And if I’m being honest, had someone else been the one asking stupid questions during a game, I probably would have snapped at them. I certainly wouldn’t have actually entertained the curiosity and willingly spent an entire period looking up the fucking astrological signs of NHL players.

What I wouldn’t give to still be doing just that, I think, resting my head back against the seat as I put the car in park. The contractor had recommended I park as close to the tree line as possible, so I’ve got both vehicles wearing tread into the grass beside the guest cottage. This is more off-roading than the Porsche has ever been asked to do.

I sit in the car as it slowly loses the heat from the drive. I would probably sit out here until it became too cold to do so if a car I don’t recognize didn’t pull up the driveway. Frowning behind the blessedly tinted windows, I watch Hailey Johnson get out and hustle around to the passenger side to retrieve something. When she starts walking across the grass toward the guest cottage, I entertain the idea of hiding in the Porsche. I doubt she can see me through the tint.

When I open the door, she startles at my abrupt appearance, laughing at herself. “You scared me!” she says as though I hadn’t just watched it occur in real time.

“They’re done for the day,” I tell her, waving a hand at the construction equipment, stationary next to the house. She steps up along my shoulder, joining me in the few yards to my front door. Which, I’m realizing now, I hadn’t locked on my way out this morning. Hoping for Spencer to come back and let himself in, I suppose, although right now, with a hollowness in my gut like I haven’t eaten in a week and a headache pounding at my skull, I’d settle for a text.

“Oh! No, actually, I’m here to see you! I brought you something for dinner!” Hailey, exuberant as always, grins at me over the dish. My facial muscles don’t work like that, so I don’t return it.

“Why?” I ask instead, glancing down at the dish in her hands and trying to recall if anyone I know has died.

“I just know you’re going through a tough time! I wanted to make sure you were eating properly!” Her smile loses some of its joy. I frown. Good lord, this is a pity casserole.

“I don’t need that,” I tell her, thinking about the toaster strudel I’m about to have for dinner. Gently, she pushes the pan into my stomach, waiting for me to take it.

“It’s only a little something. Go on, then!” Hailey smiles again, adjusting the strap of her bag on her shoulder. The dish weighs about five pounds, which, in my experience, isn’t only a little something. Perhaps misreading the sour expression on my face, she adds, “And don’t worry about returning the pan—you keep it!”

Of all the things I have to worry about, that had not even made the list. We stand there in front of my door—solace a bare two feet away from me, and yet so far out of reach—Hailey trying to make small talk and me trying hard to respond in a way that won’t have her husband coming around to punch me. After what I deem to be an appropriate amount of time, I urge her along back to her car by telling her I’ve got to go inside and feed my cat.

Demon cries plaintively the moment I get in the door, feet pattering on the floor as she scoots over to me and sticks her claws into my pants. Hands full, I can’t pull her off, so she comes along for the ride as I bring the dish to the kitchen. It does smell good, even though I’m considering throwing it away out of spite. The people in this town are ridiculous.

“Enough,” I tell the kitten, wrapping a hand around her stomach and unsticking her claws from my thigh. She stares up at me with big, liquid eyes. “Pretty soon, you’ll be too big to do this, you understand that, right?”

I put her down, and she streaks off under the bed. After a couple of seconds, I hear the scratching noise that lets me know she’s shredding the underside of the mattress. I’d like to work up enough emotion to be upset about it, but all I can manage is a vague, numb sort of disconnect. Spencer would have been laughing. He’d have told me that’s why baby animals were born so cute, so they could get away with mayhem. Sighing, I rub a hand into my forehead and go to the bathroom for a shower. I’m going to test whether or not I can drown myself in only a foot of water.

The small bathroom is filled with steam when I finally emerge and wrap a towel around my waist. The dressing gown Spencer was fond of loafing around in is hanging on the back of the door. I stare at it in the mirror. How had something as simple as helping a stranger become this? I was such an idiot. The exact kind of fool I mock for doing something as dangerous as falling in love.

I dress in sweats, leaving Spencer’s dressing gown hanging where it is, even though I know I should throw it out. He’s not coming back, and the sooner I accept that, the better off I will be.

I feed Demon per the instructions Spencer gave me when he brought her home, gently sliding her away with my hand when she tries to eat before I’ve got it all situated. She cries, and I scowl at her. There’s no need to act like she’s starving. Hyenas have better manners than this creature.

She makes little purring noises as she eats, face shoved directly into the food. I watch her as I wash my hands, finding it impossible to remain annoyed at the kitten for long. Demon, she may be, but a cute one.

Grabbing the toaster pastries in defiance of the perfectly good lasagna sitting on the counter, I’m just about to drop them in the toaster when there’s a light knock at the front door. Hope—painful, useless, disgusting hope—spreads through my chest like wildfire. Pressing my hands down onto the cool marble of the counter, I stay where I am. It could be Spencer, but it’s not. I hope it is, but I know it’s not. It’s been days when he said he’d be gone weeks. If he even comes back at all, which I cannot let myself consider. A second knock, and I push back from the counter to answer it. Even though I knew it wasn’t him, I’m disappointed anyway when Spencer isn’t on the other side.

“I’m perfectly capable of making my own dinner,” I tell Shiloh, surprised and frustrated to see him.

“Glad to hear it,” he replies, hands in the pockets of his jacket. I look him up and down, noting the clean clothes and the damp hair. He doesn’t seem to have any food with him.

“What do you want, then?” I ask, leaning against the doorframe and crossing my arms. I peek over my shoulder to check that Demon is still occupied.

“I just wanted to talk with you, if you’ve got a minute.”