Chapter 6 #2
The Salty Pearl sits at the edge of the marina, all weathered wood and salt-crusted windows. Amber runs the place, which means the food is incredible and the gossip travels at the speed of light. I pull my baseball cap lower and hope for anonymity.
Dean’s already claimed a table on the deck, Rex lying perfectly at his feet like the poster child for well-trained service dogs. The German Shepherd doesn’t even twitch when I pull out the chair across from them.
“He’s showing off,” Dean says by way of greeting.
“He’s impressive.”
“He knows it.” Dean slides a menu toward me. “Scott came by?”
News travels fast. “Jessica told you?”
“Jo told me. Jessica told Jo. Michelle probably told both of them.” He shrugs. “Small town.”
“I’m aware.”
The server—a college kid named Dylan who clearly doesn’t recognize me—takes our orders. Fish tacos for me, tilapia for Dean, and a bowl of water for Rex, who accepts it with the dignity of a king receiving tribute.
“So?” Dean asks once Dylan’s gone. “How was it?”
“Weird. Helpful. Mostly weird.”
“That’s Scott.” Dean takes a sip of his sweet tea. “He’s not great with people, but he means well.”
“He said Jessica put him up to it.”
“She probably did. Those book club women are relentless.” He almost smiles. “Jo’s been trying to get me to ‘open up about my feelings’ for months. I told her I’d rather run into a burning building.”
“Sounds about right.”
Rex shifts position, resettling with his chin on his paws. His eyes, however, are tracking something. I follow his gaze to a family at the next table—two kids, parents distracted, and a basket of hush puppies sitting dangerously close to the edge.
“Don’t even think about it,” Dean says without looking.
Rex’s ears flatten slightly. Innocent. Wounded, even.
“He’s been weird all week,” Dean continues. “Jo’s been feeding him scraps when she thinks I’m not looking. Now he thinks every meal is a buffet.”
“Jo’s spoiling your highly trained fire dog?”
“Jo’s spoiling everything in a five-mile radius. It’s her love language.” He glances at Rex, who has resumed his perfect statue impression. “He knows better. He just thinks he can get away with it.”
Our food arrives. The fish tacos are perfect—crispy, fresh, exactly the right amount of lime. I’m halfway through the first one when I notice Rex has moved.
Not much. Just a few inches. His nose is now approximately six inches closer to my plate.
“Rex,” Dean says.
Rex doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink. But somehow he’s radiating pure innocence.
“He’s not going to—” I start.
“Just watch your fries.”
I look down. My fries are fine. Rex is still frozen in place like a furry statue.
We eat. We talk—or rather, Dean grunts and I fill in the blanks. He asks about the music without asking about the music. I ask about the wedding without asking about Jo. It’s the Beckett brother way: communicate everything through subtext and long silences.
“You seem different,” Dean says eventually.
“Different how?”
“Less...” He waves a hand vaguely. “Wound up. Whatever Scott said must’ve worked.”
“He told me to stop avoiding my problems.”
“Revolutionary advice.”
“I thought so.”
Dean snorts. It’s almost a laugh. For him, that’s basically hysterical.
I reach for another taco—and freeze.
My plate is missing two fries.
I look at Rex. Rex looks at the ocean, the picture of complete disinterest. His tongue swipes across his muzzle so fast I almost miss it.
“Did he just—”
“Yep.”
“But I was watching him!”
“He’s fast.” Dean sounds almost proud. “Caught a squirrel once. Thing never saw him coming.”
“You’re telling me your highly trained, fire-department-certified rescue dog just stole food off my plate?”
“I’m telling you my dog knows an easy mark when he sees one.” Dean takes a pointed bite of his burger. “You were distracted. He exploited the weakness. It’s tactical.”
Rex turns his head toward me. I swear he’s smirking.
“This is why Jo keeps giving him treats,” I mutter. “He’s got con artist eyes.”
“Don’t let him hear you say that. It’ll go to his head.”
I guard my remaining fries with renewed vigilance. Rex watches me with patient, calculating eyes—the look of a predator who knows his prey will eventually let their guard down.
“So,” Dean says, and something in his tone makes me look up. “Delilah.”
“What about her?”
“You going to keep avoiding her, or are you going to actually do something?”
“I wasn’t—” I stop. Because yes, I was. “Scott asked me the same thing.”
“Scott’s smarter than he looks.” Dean drains his tea. “Look, I’m not going to give you a speech about feelings. That’s not my thing.”
“I’m aware.”
“But she’s different now. Steadier. Whatever happened before—” He shrugs. “People change. Sometimes they come back for a reason.”
“When did you become an optimist?”
“I’m not. I’m a realist.” He stands, fishing out his wallet. “I’m also someone who spent too many years keeping people at arm’s length because it felt safer. It wasn’t.” He drops cash on the table. “Come on, Rex. Let’s go before you steal anything else.”
Rex rises with the fluid grace of an athlete, all evidence of his criminal activity hidden behind those soulful brown eyes.
“See you at the house later,” Dean says. “Jo’s making dinner. You’re invited. And before you ask—no, Delilah won’t be there. This time.”
He leaves, Rex trotting perfectly at his heel, and I’m left with an empty plate and a lot to think about.
I signal Dylan for the check.
Time to go write something real.
Three hours later, I have a verse and the start of something that might be a chorus.
It’s not good. Scott was right about that part. The words are clunky and raw. There’s a line about the smell of her shampoo that’s genuinely embarrassing.
But it’s real.
For the first time in months, I’m not writing around my feelings. I’m writing through them. Every messy, complicated, terrifying one.
She crashed into me like she always does— Coffee on my shirt, chaos in her eyes, An apology that sounded like a question, A question I’ve been afraid to ask for ten years.
I cross out the last line. Try again.
A question neither of us knows how to answer.
Better. Still not good. But better.
I set down my pen and look out the window. The ocean is doing its thing—waves rolling in, pulling back, rolling in again. Relentless. Patient.
She left me twice. She might leave again. Opening up to her might be the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.
But staying closed off hasn’t exactly worked out great either.
I think about what Ellen said at the coffee shop—Find someone who makes you feel stuff. Like, real stuff.
I think about Delilah’s face when she asked if I was still blocked. The way her voice softened. The way she looked at me like she actually cared about the answer.
Maybe I’m about to make a huge mistake.
But for the first time in ten years, I’m ready to find out.
I close my notebook, grab my guitar, and start playing something new.