Chapter 20
Hank stood at the edge of the south pier and tried not to think about all the ways a boat could go wrong.
The rental outfit was a low, weathered shack with peeling blue paint and a hand-lettered sign that said HARBOR HOPPERS.
A row of small day boats bobbed at the dock, their hulls knocking gently against rubber bumpers.
A teenager in a faded life jacket sat on a stool out front, scrolling on his phone.
“You the guy who called about the afternoon slot?” the teenager asked without looking up.
“That’s me,” Hank said.
“Boat’s fueled and ready,” the kid said, jerking his chin toward a twenty-foot center console with a small outboard. “Keys are in it. There’s a chart and a radio; if you get into trouble, call Harbor Patrol on sixteen. Bring it back with the prop still attached, and my boss will love you forever.”
“Solid motivation,” Hank said.
He signed the waiver on the clipboard, trying not to dwell on the words assumption of risk.
The Marine in him cataloged wind speed, wave height, and the placement of nearby buoys; the part of him that had grown up spending summers at the lake remembered the feel of a boat under his hands and relaxed a notch.
Footsteps approached on the wooden planks. He turned; Bree walked toward him, hair pulled back in a low knot, sunglasses perched on her nose, a light sweater over her T-shirt. She carried a small canvas bag and her sketchbook.
“You look like a brochure,” he said.
She snorted. “If this ends with me falling in, I’m demanding a refund,” she said. “And I’m not paying extra for trauma.”
“I’ve got you,” he said.
“I know,” she replied.
He helped her into the boat, steadying her with his hands on her waist. The brief press of her body against his, the trust in the way she stepped down without looking, made something warm expand in his chest.
He untied the lines, pushed them off from the dock, and eased the throttle forward. The little boat responded smoothly, carving a path through the gentle chop.
They passed the harbor entrance slowly, idling near the breakwater while he got a feel for the engine. Gulls wheeled overhead; a larger fishing boat chugged by, its wake rolling under them.
“Okay?” he asked.
Bree sat on the padded bench beside him, one hand resting on the rail, the other shading her eyes. “More than okay,” she said. “This is… beautiful.”
Copper Moon spread out around them in a curve of shoreline; the boardwalk, the old lighthouse, the distant sparkle of the Cup banner still hanging near the civic center. From the water, the town looked both smaller and more solid, like a model someone had built with unusual care.
“Where to?” he asked.
“You’re the local now,” she said. “Show me your favorite view.”
He thought for a moment, then angled the bow south, toward a quieter stretch of coast. After a few minutes, the boardwalk noise faded; low cliffs took over, dotted with scrub pine and patches of wild grass. A narrow strip of sand appeared, tucked between two rocky outcrops.
He cut the engine and let them drift.
“This is where I come when the track noise gets too loud in my head, and there are too many people on the beach.”
She looked around, taking in the curve of the cove, the way the light hit the water. “You come out here alone?” she asked.
“Most of the time,” he said. “Sometimes Brian tags along and complains about the lack of burgers.”
She smiled. “I can see why you like it,” she said. “It feels… tucked away.”
“Protected,” he said.
He dropped the small anchor; the rope pulled taut, the boat settling into a gentle sway.
Bree took off her sunglasses and set them beside her. Her eyes were very green in the reflected light. “So,” she said. “What do people do on normal dates again? I feel like I skipped a chapter.”
“We sit,” he said. “We talk. Maybe we kiss, if the mood strikes. We do not have to make any decisions about mortgages or security systems for at least an hour.”
She let out a breath that sounded like relief. “That sounds perfect,” she said.
He leaned back, draping one arm along the back of the seat. “Tell me something you’ve never told anyone,” he said. “No pressure.”
She laughed softly. “That’s low pressure to you?”
“Fine,” he said. “Tell me something you usually leave out when you tell your story.”
She looked down at the water for a long moment, watching the ripples.
“When Bryn died,” she said slowly, “everyone kept telling me to take my time, to not rush into anything. ‘Grief has no timeline,’ they said. So I did what they told me; I froze. I stopped everything. I took the safe jobs, the small pieces, the commissions that did not require me to feel anything. I kept my apartment like a shrine of Bryn’s things because I thought moving on meant leaving her behind.
We didn’t live together, obviously, but I kept all the little things we’d picked up at festivals, art shows, and sister days.
” She swallowed. “Little secret? Part of me was angry. At her. For dying and leaving me there to deal with life without her.”
He stayed quiet; it was the only thing to do.
“I never said that out loud,” she said. “I painted around it. I walked it. I wrote it in sketch margins and then scribbled over it. But I didn’t say the words. It felt like betrayal.”
“It’s not,” he said.
“I know that now,” she said. “But back then, it felt like wanting anything meant I was choosing something over her. So I chose nothing. For a long time.”
He traced a slow circle on the back of her hand with his thumb. “And now?” he asked.
“Now I’m trying to choose,” she said. “Even when it’s terrifying.
The warehouse. You. Telling my parents I’m staying.
Using the insurance money for something important and for my future.
It feels like shouting into the universe that I want a future.
That I believe I might have one. I called Charlie and told him I was staying, and he sounded excited for me.
He said Bryn would be proud of me. That means everything to me. ”
He exhaled. “I wonder if he even knows how much you needed to hear that,” he said. “That’s survival.”
“What about you?” she asked, turning the question back on him. “What do you usually leave out?”
He looked out at the horizon, where the water met the sky in a hazy line.
“People like the neat version,” he said.
“Guy goes over there, sees bad things, comes home, rides fast to keep the ghosts quiet. Wins races, gets the girl. They don’t want to hear about the nights I drank too much just to sleep, or the time I stood in my parents’ garage and thought about turning on the car and closing the door. ”
Her breath hitched; her fingers tightened around his.
“I didn’t,” he whispered. “Obviously. Colby walked in, looking for a torque wrench, and saw my face. He dragged me out by the shirt and sat me on the driveway and talked sports statistics at me for an hour until whatever had me by the throat loosened. Then he made me promise I’d tell him if the dark ever got that loud again. ”
“Did you?” she asked.
“Not every time,” he said. “But enough. Every time I thought about not bothering anyone with my crap, I saw his face in that moment, the way it went white, and I made myself say something.”
She blinked hard. “Thank you,” she said. “For staying.”
He smiled, small and a little crooked. “Kind of glad I did,” he said. “Otherwise, I’d have missed out on you calling me responsible in public.”
“High praise,” she said.
The boat rocked gently; a gull cried somewhere overhead. The air tasted like salt and possibility.
“Can I tell you something selfish?” she asked.
“Always,” he said.
“I like this,” she said. “Not just the boat. You. The way you talk about the dark without pretending it never touches you. It makes me feel less broken.”
“You’re not broken,” he said. “You’re… rebuilt. So am I.”
Her smile trembled. “Rebuilt,” she repeated. “I can live with that.”
He leaned in, slow enough for her to see him coming, and kissed her.
It started soft; a question, not a demand. She answered it with the way her hand slid up his chest, fingers curling at the back of his neck. He deepened it gradually, letting the world drop away until there was nothing but the gentle sway of the boat and the press of her mouth against his.
She shifted closer, one knee pressing against his thigh. He set his free hand on her hip, anchoring her. The kiss turned hotter, the kind of slow burn that had his pulse pounding and his brain shorting out in the best possible way.
She broke away on a breath, eyes dark. “This counts as a normal date, right?” she asked, voice a little rough.
“Pretty sure,” he said. “We have a boat, a view, and the possibility of getting sunburned in awkward places.”
She laughed; the sound slid right into his bloodstream. “Then I’d say it’s going well.”
“Want to make it better?” he asked.
Her gaze flicked to the small cuddy cabin under the console, then back to him. “Are we about to become those people?” she asked. “The ones who tell stories about that one time on the boat?”
“We don’t have to,” he said. “We can just sit here and make out like teenagers.”
She considered that for a moment, then shook her head slowly. “Seems a shame to waste the scenery,” she said.
He kissed her again, harder this time, his hand sliding under the hem of her sweater to find warm skin. She shivered, but not from cold.
They moved together in the confined space of the bench; bodies twisting, hands fumbling with buttons and zippers, the boat rocking gently under them. Every brush of skin, every small gasp from her, ratcheted his desire higher, but he forced himself to stay present, to watch her face, to listen.
“You okay?” he asked when he had her stretched out along the seat, her sweater bunched near her ribs, his hand splayed over her stomach.
“More than okay,” she said, breathlessly. “Keep going.”