Rex makes a sound of defeated fondness. I lean into him slightly. The tourists are watching. It costs me nothing.
This is what we do now.
I don't look at Muir.
Don't need to. I know he's at the equipment rinse station working through post-dive checks with the same competence he brings to everything.
I'm thinking about him being there with exactly as much energy as I'm putting into not thinking about it.
***
We're closing the shed when I say it.
“You know what's not fair?”
Rex glances over. “Many things. Which one specifically?”
“When someone breaks your heart, they should look the part. Develop a scar. Grow a villain mustache. Start wearing all black.”
“Ah.” Rex secures the padlock. “But villains make it to 'hear me out' lists all the time. And wasn't Lucifer described as an angel of light or something? Hot, basically?”
I give him a gimlet stare.
He grins. “Just saying.”
Tours end at five.
We’ve closed the shed. Run tomorrow’s booking confirmations.
Rex gives me a look before he goes. “You good?”
“I’m good.”
“Want company tonight?”
“No worries, I’m set,” I say, holding up my bag of empanadas. “I got dinner and quiet tonight.”
I accepted a bag of empanada from Roarke, who strolled up here during his lunchbreak with Nugget.
He’d brought Nugget for soaring practice. We all treat him like a baby dragon even though he’s pony-sized and has been for six months. Blue scales. No flight capability yet. Just enthusiastic launching and graceless descending. He practices over the lake because water’s softer than land. Also helps with fish population control. He’s allowed in the north inlet and eastern shallows. Respects those boundaries.
More than I can say for some people.
Roarke is Liana’s husband. Seven-foot lion-man. Town vet. He brings me food at Liana’s urging since she cooks way too much, and, as a fellow Filipino, likes to make sure I have enough to eat.
The empanadas are still warm in the cloth bag. There are at least eight of them.
Rex gives me a quick side hug and heads down the shore path toward his truck.
I watch him go. Lock the shed. Take my water taxi home.
My neighborhood iswhat real estate agents call “established.”
Old money. Bigger houses, farther apart. Quaint that costs extra. Wide lawns. Mature trees. Neighbors who wave from a distance and respect boundaries.
My house has alpine porch chairs facing the water. Wide armrests perfect for a beer or a book. I bought them because they looked like the chairs from my grandmother’s house in the mountains. They cost more than my first month’s rent.
My dock is small. Weathered cedar. Creaks underfoot. Single post with a light I don’t turn on. The water here is quieter than the marina.