I walk down the dock steps and put my arms around him.
He's very large to hug. It requires a particular physical commitment. But he returns it the way he does everything, with the steady uncomplicated warmth of someone who loves without complication. His arms come around my shoulders and he holds me for a long moment in the noon sun with the lake bright below the dock and the sound of the Snack Hut's loose awning moving in the breeze.
I can feel his heartbeat. Steady and slow, the rhythm of something that lives in deep water and knows how to be patient.
"Thank you," I say, into his shoulder. "For all of it. The backing up and the covering and the fake dating and the, all of it."
"What are best friends for," he says.
"You know what I mean."
"I do." He's quiet for a moment. "He's good, Cor. He's who he said he was." A pause. "I made him tell me the whole thing before I decided how to feel about him."
"I know you did."
"Just wanted you to know I checked."
I laugh, muffled against his shirt. "I appreciate the due diligence."
He sets me back at arm's length and looks at my face. Whatever he finds, it settles him. He nods once.
"Good," he says. Simple and complete.
I walk him to the shore path. His bag over his shoulder, his shoes on, his truck keys in his hand, and the easy rolling gait of a man heading toward something rather than away from it. At the bend in the path he turns once.
"Tell Muir if he hurts you I'll know," he says.
He holds my gaze when he says it. Not joking. Not casual.
The air between us shifts. This is the were-shark speaking now, not the golden retriever himbo. This is the predator who threatened to tear Muir apart and sleep soundly.
"I'm your family, Cor," he says quietly. "That doesn't change because I'm in a different ocean. You call me—any time, any reason—and I'll be there. I'm your brother. That's what brothers do."
It's both tender and genuinely solid. The kind of promise that comes from someone who loves you enough to mean it.
"I'll tell him," I say quietly.
"Good." He shifts back to easy warmth, the Rex I know. "And get a card reader for the Snack Hut. It's the twenty-first century."
"Goodbye, Rex," I say.
He lifts a hand. He goes.
CHAPTER 14
MUIR
The paddle takesme two weeks.
I start it on a Thursday evening in late August, after the last tour and the gear check, when Cora has gone to Liana's and I have the shed to myself. The wood is cedar—straight-grained and light, but dense enough to take the kind of treatment that makes it last. I've been thinking about the shape since the houseboat conversation, since we talked about the future on the dock with laughter and tentative hope.
This isn't a decorative piece. It's meant to withstand seas and storms, to hold up through rough water and hard seasons. I seal it properly—three coats of marine varnish, sanded between each application until the surface is glass-smooth. The grain shows through like honey in sunlight, protected but visible.
The carving on the blade face requires the most thought. Two symbols, inlaid with shell pieces I collect from the sandbar over three evenings. The selkie mark from my clan's visual language—a seal in motion, simplified over centuries into pure meaning. The sirena mark from the Philippine water spirit tradition—thespiral that meansengkanto ng tubig, the one Cora draws in the margins of tour manifests without realizing she does it.
I take my time with the inlay. Each shell piece is set with marine epoxy, flush with the wood surface so nothing catches or lifts. The symbols run close without touching, their lines parallel in the way two currents can flow side by side in the same water.
I sand everything four times. Then I sand it again.