Chapter 20
TWENTY
PAUL
Iwake up thinking about the bandaid.
Not the cut—that healed in two days, barely a mark. The bandaid itself. Cartoon whale. Peeling at the edges by bedtime. I kept it on longer than I needed to because every time I looked down, I could feel her fingers on my ribs.
That was three days ago. Three days of fixing dock hardware, coordinating wedding logistics, and pretending I don’t hold my breath every time Emma walks past the office window.
She’s been different since the rescue. Not distant—the opposite. She makes eye contact now. Holds it. Like she’s decided something and hasn’t told me what it is yet.
I pour my coffee in the galley of my boat and stare through the porthole at her houseboat. The fairy lights are on. Aidan’s face appears in the window, disappears, reappears wearing what looks like a snorkel mask. Normal morning.
Matt arrives in four days.
I drink my coffee. Try not to think about that. Fail.
Justin shows up at seven to help reinforce the walkway ramp to the yacht. The wedding is ten days out, and every inch of this dock needs to hold up under a crowd of guests, a catering crew, a band, and whatever chaos Delilah has planned that she hasn’t told me about yet.
He moves stiff this morning. Slower than usual coming down the dock, favoring his left side, rolling his right shoulder like he’s trying to loosen something that won’t cooperate. Bad day. I file it away and say nothing.
“Morning.”
“Ramp’s listing to port.”
“I noticed. I shimmed it yesterday but the wood shifted overnight.”
We work side by side for an hour. Drilling, bracing, testing weight. The sun climbs. Sweat builds. Justin doesn’t complain. Justin never complains. He just moves a fraction slower and grips the tools a fraction harder and hopes nobody’s paying attention.
I’m always paying attention. I just pretend I’m not.
“Hand me the level,” I say.
He reaches for it and his shoulder catches. He covers it by adjusting his ball cap. Smooth. I wouldn’t have noticed five years ago. Now I see every micro-adjustment, every careful breath, every moment where his body argues with his ambition.
“You good?”
“Yep.”
One syllable. Conversation over.
We finish the ramp by eight-thirty and move to tightening the rope hardware on slip three. The metal tie-downs are corroded from salt air—everything out here corrodes eventually, the salt eats whatever you don’t protect—and half of them need replacing before the wedding.
“I ordered marine-grade replacements,” I say. “They’ll be here Thursday.”
“Good. The current ones wouldn’t hold a kayak in a strong tide.”
We work in silence. Comfortable silence, the Spencer kind—not the absence of conversation but a form of it. Two brothers who grew up on this dock, who learned to read weather and water and each other without words.
“So,” Justin says, not looking up. “Emma.”
“What about her?”
“Heard you went for a swim.”
“The kid’s elephant fell in.”
“The stuffed one.”
“The kid’s elephant.”
“I know what Stomper is, Paul. Aidan’s told me the rescue story approximately nine times. Each version has more drama. In the latest one, you fought off a sea creature.”
“That did not happen.”
“Aidan says otherwise. He’s a very committed narrator.”
I tighten a bolt. Justin holds the brace.
“Also heard you took your shirt off on the dock.”
“It was wet.”
“Right.”
“It was clinging. Uncomfortable. Purely a temperature decision.”
“Temperature.” He nods slowly, the way a man nods when he doesn’t believe a single syllable coming out of your mouth. “And Emma happened to be standing there.”
“She came around the corner later.”
“While you were standing on the dock looking like something off a paperback cover.”
“That’s not what happened.”
“The old lady from the book club has a different version.”
“She has binoculars and an overactive imagination.”
“Plus a notepad. She’s tracking your relationship status. Apparently you’re ‘progressing.’”
I put down the wrench. “Can we not do this?”
Justin almost smiles. Almost. The corner of his mouth lifts a millimeter, which for a Spencer is the equivalent of a standing ovation.
“Holly would have liked her,” he says, quieter now.
My chest tightens. “I know.”
“She would have said you’re in your own way.”
“I’m not in my own way.”
“You’ve been in your own way since age twelve. The science fair project. Asking Holly to prom. Proposing. The only spontaneous thing you’ve ever done was jump into the water for a stuffed elephant, and I think that tells you something.”
I don’t respond. The truth doesn’t require a response. It just sits there, heavy and warm, like the July sun on the back of my neck.
“Matt’s coming Saturday,” I say.
“I heard.”
“The kids are excited. Aidan’s been bouncing off the walls all week.”
Justin sets down his tool. Looks at me directly, which he rarely does when feelings are involved.
“You worried?”
“About what?”
“Don’t do that. You know about what.”
I stare at the water. A pelican lands on the end of the dock with its usual graceless thud.
“He’s their father,” I say. “He has history with them I’ll never have. Sixteen years of bedtimes and birthdays and inside jokes I don’t understand. He can walk back into their lives anytime and he’s Dad. I’m the neighbor who makes pancakes.”
“You’re more than that and you know it.”
“Am I? Because legally, biologically, in every way that actually counts on paper—I’m nobody. I’m the guy next door who dove in for a toy.”
“You risked ruining your boots for a kid who was falling apart. There’s a difference.”
The pelican takes off. Water drips from its beak. The dock rocks gently.
“What if he shows up and he’s wonderful?” I say. “What if he’s charming and present and everything he should have been all along, and the kids remember why they loved him, and Emma remembers why she married him?”
“Is that what scares you? That Matt might finally step up?”
“No. What terrifies me is that he’ll be mediocre and it’ll still be enough. Because he’s their father. And mediocre from your father still beats exceptional from your neighbor.”
Justin is quiet for a long time. A boat engine rumbles somewhere in the harbor. The breeze shifts, carrying the smell of salt and diesel.
“Holly was sick for two years,” he says.
“And every day of those two years, you showed up. You held her hand in waiting rooms. You learned to cook because she couldn’t stand anymore.
You read to her when the medication made her eyes blur.
You did all of that because you loved her, and you did it knowing you were going to lose her. ”
“Justin —”
“I’m making a point. You know how to love people, Paul. You’ve always known. You just stopped doing it because it hurt too much the last time. But jumping into the water for that elephant—that wasn’t a decision. That was who you are when you’re not hiding.”
I pick up the wrench. Put it down. Pick it up again.
“When did you get so smart?” I ask.
“Always have been. You’re just not usually paying attention.”
Lottie and the boys arrive at ten.
The three of them come barreling down the dock—Olson first, Mitch with a bucket, Aidan trailing with his fishing net and a sketchpad. Lottie follows with a coffee.
“Mr. Paul! We’re on a scientific expedition!”
“Stay away from the yacht,” Justin says without looking up.
“We’re not going near it,” Olson says. “This is science. We’re cataloging marine life along the shoreline.”
“Steer clear of my rig too.”
“Your rig smells like shrimp,” Mitch says cheerfully.
Justin’s jaw tightens. Lottie catches it and puts a hand on Mitch’s shoulder.
“What do we say about other people’s belongings?”
“That they’re none of our business.”
“Correct. Go catalog.” She gives the boys a gentle push toward the water’s edge, then turns to us. “Sorry. They have opinions about everything.”
“They get it from somewhere,” Justin mutters.
Lottie’s chin lifts. She holds his gaze for exactly two seconds—long enough to communicate that she heard him, registered it, and chose not to escalate—then walks after her boys.
Justin watches her go. Just for a beat. Then his attention snaps back to the hardware like nothing happened.
I don’t say a word. I don’t have to.
Aidan finds me after lunch.
I’m in the dock office eating a sandwich when he appears in the doorway with a folded piece of notebook paper and the expression of a kid who needs something from a grownup but isn’t sure which grownup to ask.
“Mr. Paul?”
“Hey, bud. What’s up?”
He unfolds the paper. It’s creased from being folded and refolded a dozen times, the edges soft, the pencil smudged in places. He holds it out.
“Can you look at this? I need to know if it’s realistic.”
I take it. The handwriting is careful, the letters pressed hard into the paper like he wanted to make sure nothing faded.
Things to Do with Dad
1. Fishing on the pier
2. Crab walk at low tide
3. Ice cream at Scoops (get the waffle cone)
4. Show him the houseboat (my room specifically)
5. Introduce him to Stomper’s new drying spot
6. Teach him about hermit crabs (I know more now)
7. Ride bikes on the boardwalk
8. Watch the pelicans dive at sunset
9. Show him my marine life sketches
10. Tell him about the science expedition
11. Get hot chocolate at Michelle’s (the big mugs)
12. Introduce him to Mr. Paul
13. Explore the shoreline for hermit crabs (Olson and Mitch can come)
14. Ask him if he wants to stay longer
My chest squeezes with number fourteen.
“Is fourteen too many things?” Aidan asks. “Mom said we might only have one day, so maybe I should cut it down. But I don’t know which ones to cut because they’re all important.”
I look at this kid. Eight years old. Standing in my office with a list he’s been working on for days, trying to fit an entire relationship into one Saturday. Trying to compress everything he wants his father to see and feel and understand into fourteen numbered items on a piece of notebook paper.