Emily
Monday morning, the sky sits heavy and sullen over the bay, a smear of pewter above the slick water. I wedge myself near the prow where the wind and spray slap away any lingering sleepiness, pretending to study the tool manifests on my tablet while my focus drifts everywhere but the screen.
The vibration of the engine works up through the soles of my boots. Diesel, motor oil, and salt hang in the air, stinging my nose. My hair, still damp at the roots from my shower, whips across my temples, and every time the hull slaps a trough, a scatter of briny droplets mists the rail, freckling the backs of my hands.
Kyle’s laughter cuts through the clatter of the waves. “With skies like this, all bets are off on theforecast.” He squints at the shifting seams of clouds. “Could blow clear, could open up and soak us by ten.”
Leif, who stands next to him, digs a battered poncho from the pack at his feet. “Quinn votes for rain. She’s hoping for puddles big enough to float the toy whales.”
He and Kyle stand together with Jared, the three of them forming a comfortable triangle of men and weather talk.
“Wouldn’t mind a little rain if it breaks this humidity,” Jared tosses over, keeping his grip on the helm as a gust threatens to throw the bow off line.
Trying not to be obvious, I watch the way Jared’s hands move over the controls, confident despite the chop jostling the taxi.
With only the construction crew on this morning’s dawn ride to the island, Kyle had given his cousin the reins, and Jared looks happy to be handling the boat again.
The hood of his windbreaker protects his head, but wisps of sun-streaked brown hair escape, lifting in the cold breeze. He keeps his attention forward, but every couple of minutes, he flicks it my way, quick as a sparrow.
Each time, I clamp down harder on the pretenseof work, my fingertips scrolling past columns of numbers and order quantities I’ve already memorized. Staying buried in work is safer, easier than admitting I might not want the distance I demanded yesterday morning.
For a moment, I catch my own face reflected in the tablet screen, jaw set, gray streaks of hair blown wild. I look raw, exhausted, and a little shell-shocked.
As we crest the last bend, Misty Pines peeks through the mist, the cabins and rebuilt homestead smudged into gray outlines, trees huddled close to the shore.
A cluster of birds scatter ahead of the prow, and the slipstream brings their brackish scent, mingling with the sharper bite of fresh-cut lumber. I hold my tablet tighter, trying not to flinch each time the hull shudders through a wave.
Kyle and Leif carry on, their words rambling from wind patterns to the time Kyle swears he saw fog freeze to the dock rails last winter. A tall tale. I was here last winter, too, and it was too mild and wet for frozen fog.
The sound of their conversation fills the world behind me, acting as a buffer. I’m grateful for how the easy give-and-take covers my silence for the whole ride.
Jared’s presence churns up every old instinct, every urge to cross the space between us and close the wound I tore open yesterday morning in the kitchen. I can sense the effort it takes for him to let me hold that line after letting him cross it once already.
Jared leans in to be heard over the wind. “Approaching the dock. Slow speed.” He eases back on the throttle, his focus locked on the pilings ahead.
The pitch and roll of the boat settles as we slide into the lee of the island, and the crash of waves beneath the engines quiets.
I brace a hand on the railing, ready for the landing, while in the seating area, my crew gathers themselves, ready to disembark.
The water taxi rocks up to the dock with a final slap of the hull, and Jared leaves the controls to his cousin as he leaps onto the dock, landing with easy grace to tie the boat off.
I leap ashore, boots finding traction on the slick boards, and the world narrows to the logistics of unloading the crates of boxed fasteners, filter cartridges, and bundles of insulation stacked three high. Even in the dense fog, the silhouettes of my team move with the easy choreography of men familiar with the work.
Clint grips the handle of the fuel filter crate, and Jared hurries over to help. His arms flex with the load, and a spark of heat works up the back of my neck before I force my attention away.
Clint’s the first to break the silence with a grunt from the end of the loading ramp. “You trying your hand at construction again, mechanic?”
Jared shifts his grip, sets the crate on the ground with a thud, and fires back, “Only if you plan to start fixing engines.”
A ripple of laughter breaks through the morning. Even Clint can’t hide his amusement as he circles around to help shift the crate into the supply tent.
The rest of the crew jumps at the opportunity to loosen up. I catch a few grins and the scuff of boots scraping over wet gravel.
I force my mouth into a smile, as much for Jared’s sake as theirs, but the moment sours when a couple of men on drywall detail line up next to me, their shoulders hunched against the cold.
I straighten and lift a hand, signaling them in. “Let’s focus on the schedule, gentlemen. We’ve got a lot to cover before the rain hits.”
Good-natured grumbles rise around me as the crew splits, half heading up the path on foot while the others stage the crates in preparation forbringing down the four-wheeler to drag up the heavier items.