Page 81 of On Dry Land

“What if I scratch the paint or something?” I’d asked, nervous. It had been a long time since I drove a car, and I’ve never driven one like his.

“Then it has a scratch.” He’d shrugged, uncaring. “Or I’ll get it repainted. Who cares?”

Not Dryden, that was immediately apparent. He didn’t backseat drive or rescind the offer. He’d reclined the passenger seat a bit, stretched his legs out, and rested his hands on his stomach like he was settling in for a nap. Every time I’ve asked to drive the Porsche since then, he’s let me.

“You can push it a little,” he tells me as I navigate the winding roads up to our property. I shake my head. I’m a both-hands-on-the-wheel, speed-limits-are-meant-to-be-followed kind of driver. It doesn’t matter that this is essentially a race car. I’m going to drive it like a minivan.

The construction crew is still here when we crest the top of the driveway. I wave back as I drive carefully over the grass to the cottage, parking next to the Land Rover. Both of us sit quietly for a second, watching behind the privacy of the tinted windows as the crew buzzes around. The framing went up only last week—it’s finally starting to look like a house.

Our house, which is still something I’m having a difficult time wrapping my mind around. It was Dryden and I who sat together and created a blueprint for the house. We mapped out a floor plan together. We drove into the city and looked at paint, tiles, flooring, and marble together. Dryden asks for my opinions and listens to my answers as though I have any understanding of how to do any of this. We’ve watched hundreds of hours of home improvement shows and have a shared notes file on our phones where we can jot down ideas.

Our house, I think, looking at the concrete slab and the wood frame. Turning, I look at Dryden in the passenger seat.

“Want to go for a walk?”

Epilogue

DRYDEN

Five Years Later

“This is a mistake,” I tell Shiloh, leaning against the open doorframe, hands in the pockets of my slacks.

“Inviting you?” he asks, not even looking up from where he’s fidgeting with his cufflinks. I smirk at him. He knows I was talking about getting married.

“That as well,” I concede. He chuckles. Sighing, I take pity on him and step forward to help him with the cufflinks. His tie is lopsided, I notice. He stands still as I fix the cuffs, quiet until I reach for his tie. “Thanks.”

“I don’t suppose there is any way for me to convince you not to get married,” I continue, driven to get the warning out despite the humor glinting in his eyes. He won’t be laughing if Ewan breaks his heart. Again.

“No, but I’m a little curious to hear how you’d try,” Shiloh admits. I tug on the tie, cinching it up and shaking my head at the way he’s smiling when he tips his chin up to give me room. Finished, I step back to give him space to turn around and peek at the results in the mirror. Retreating back to the doorway, I tuck my hands into my pockets and watch him, not bothering to try and convince him. I know a lost cause when I see one.

“Look okay?” he asks, holding his arms out to the side before dropping them. After a moment, he reaches up to tug on the tie.

“Stop it. It’s where it needs to be. Haven’t you worn a suit before?”

“Yeah, to funerals,” Shiloh mumbles.

I leave him to finish getting ready when his father joins, slipping quietly down the hallway and out the front door, joining the crowds of people mingling on the lawn. Spencer is sitting where I left him, glancing up from his cell phone when I slip down the aisles of chairs. He smiles.

“Wedding off?” he jokes.

“He’s determined not to see sense.”

“Ah, well, you can’t save them all.” Spencer pats my knee in a conciliatory manner as I take my seat next to him, not quite hiding the humor pinching the corners of his mouth.

I drape my arm over the back of his seat, unbuttoning the front of my suit coat. He leans into me, shoulder tucked under mine. Brushing my thumb up and down his arm, I look around at the crowd. Oliver is sitting next to Nils, turned to the side and facing the row behind him, chatting with an older couple I don’t recognize. They’ll likely have added him to their Christmas card rotation by the end of today.

“Did you get your packing done?” Spencer asks. I turn and look at him.

“Mostly.” I have a more relaxed routine when it comes to travel prep, unlike Spencer, whose suitcase has been packed and sitting in the closet for two weeks. He has a checklist on his phone and another for the itinerary. He is anxious he’ll forget something, as though we’re not going to a place where we could simply stop into a store and replace the item that got left behind.

“I’ll help you tonight,” he offers. I sigh. He’ll pull everything out and redo it—organize the packing cubes and fold the clothes into tight little squares meant to maximize storage space.

“Thank you,” I say out loud. He smiles, resting a little more of his weight against me, pleased.

I think the real reason for the anxiety isn’t the packing so much as it is the air travel. He’s never been on a plane, and starting off with an overseas trip is bound to induce a little stress. Particularly in Spencer, who never rides when he can walk. I brush a hand up and down his arm. I’m eager to go—he’ll feel better once we’re there and the excitement smothers the nerves.

“We should probably talk to Oliver again, make sure he knows how to take care of Demon,” he adds.