11. Never a Secret #3
For once, nobody had stopped the world because Nolan Callahan wanted something.
Lawson gave the valve between us one last tightening turn, then pulled back and wiped the wrench against his jeans.
“Pressure should hold now.”
“I’ll check the outside station after I finish this batch.” I glanced toward the propeller near the wall. “Just keep that clear of the flats.”
He nudged it farther aside with his boot. “Done.”
The interruption had bought me a few minutes of ordinary work, and I intended to keep them.
I crossed back to the table. Fish heads, torn fins, and bloody scraps had piled along the edge of the cutting board while Nolan tried to turn my shift into a marriage summit. I swept the waste toward the chum bucket and sent it over the rim in one wet drop.
Nolan watched from the other side of the room.
“Piper, I know I handled that badly.”
“You handled all of this badly.”
“I’m trying to change that.”
I wiped the table clean enough to work again. Over by the sink, Lawson checked the pipe one last time while the aerators hummed behind us.
“Lawson is right. Skipper and I have a business to run. You can’t just barge in here throwing apologies around when people are trying to work.”
Nolan took a step toward me, then stopped before entering the aisle again.
“I am trying to fix this marriage. I am standing right here, ready to do whatever it takes to bring you home.”
The phrase caught harder than the apology had.
Bring me home.
As though this place were temporary. As though the apartment above the shack, the charter sheets, the bait orders, Skipper’s coffee, and the mornings I had built here were only a waiting room until Nolan decided I belonged somewhere else again.
I reached beside the sink and picked up the knife.
He stared at the blade.
I did not point it at him. I angled the blade toward the door.
“You still don’t understand.”
Nolan bristled. “Then tell me.”
“I left the house four months ago. I found work. I built a life. People here know my name because of what I do, not because I’m attached to you.”
“I know that.”
“No, you keep saying you’re here to bring me home.”
He opened his mouth, but I kept going.
“Home isn’t the mansion anymore. It isn’t wherever Reid says the cameras are safest. It isn’t a place where I disappear so your sponsors stay comfortable.”
Lawson stayed quiet beside me.
Nolan stood near the stacked flats, still looking like he wanted one more argument, one more chance, one more minute.
I pointed the knife toward the exit.
“This is my home now. Please leave, because you are literally standing on my inventory.”
Nolan looked down from the knife to the floor.
One of his boots sat beside the nearest flat, close enough that another careless step would have caught the corner. Mud from the yard had streaked the mat around him. He stared at the mess for a moment, then shifted sideways until both feet were clear of the flats.
“Where do you want me to stand?”
The question caught me off guard more than another argument would have.
“By the door.”
He moved there.
Lawson stayed beside the sink with the wrench in his hand, watching neither of us for long. He bent toward the valve again, giving Nolan the same amount of attention he would have given any other person taking up room during a repair.
Nolan looked back at the flats.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t come in here to trample over the things you’ve built.”
The demanding edge in his voice was gone. There was no new explanation attached to the apology, no reminder that he had flown from New York or scraped hulls until his hands split.
I lowered the knife.
For years, every argument with Nolan had ended only after somebody surrendered to his schedule. Usually me. He always had film, practice, a sponsor meeting, a flight, or Reid waiting in the next room.
Now the work was waiting on me, and he was the one being asked to leave.
“Then you understand why you can’t stay in here,” I said. “I have an entire flat left to process.”
His gaze shifted from the cutting board to the cooler.
“I understand.”
I waited for the rest.
It never came.
Nolan backed toward the door, taking care not to clip the stacked flats or catch himself in the nets again.
“I’ll get out of your way. I’ll be outside doing chores if you change your mind.”
“That doesn’t mean I will.”
“I know.”
He grasped the door handle.
For once, he did not ask me to promise anything. He did not tell me how long he would wait or turn his departure into another sacrifice I was supposed to acknowledge. He simply opened the door.
Sunlight cut across the floor near his feet. The marina yard stretched behind him, full of the work Skipper had already found for him.
Nolan glanced back once.
“I’m sorry, Piper.”
Then he stepped outside.
The hinges groaned as the door swung shut. Lawson rested the wrench on the edge of the sink and waited a beat, leaving the quiet there just in case.
I didn’t.
I set the knife back on the board, pulled the cooler closer, and reached for the next fish. The aerators filled the shack again, steady and familiar, while Nolan returned to the dirt outside.