Not just as a business partner or BFF. As someone she’swith. Someone she’s chosen. Someone who came back into her life and stayed.
The door closes. Locks. Seals itself shut.
I slide into the driver's seat and let myself sit.
I take my phone and pull up the browser, searching for the Snack Hut.
The website loads—cheerful, simple, with photos of the lake and paddleboards. San Pedro Eco-Tours, it says. Cora San Pedro and Rex Navarro, proprietors.
There's a tab for the Snack Hut as well—her seasonal cafe that hosts bonfires and community events through the summer. The eco-tours launched about a year ago, expanding what she already loved doing: being on the water, protecting it, sharing it with others.
I scroll down to the news section and there it is: a Help Wanted notice, bright and official.
Seeking experienced water guide for summer season. Diving certification required. Interested applicants welcome to stop by the marina and speak with Rex about the position.
I stare at it for a long moment.
She won’t answer my calls. Won’t respond to my emails. But she needs staff. And I need a way to be near her that isn’t showing up at her door like some kind of desperate ghost from her past.
A legitimate reason to be at the dock every day. A professional context that gives me the chance to prove I’m different now, that I can be trusted to show up and stay.
It’s not creepy if it’s a job, I tell myself. It’s just work.
The Snack Hut is just down the street, and I walk because I need the air and because I’ve been sitting more than walking for two days.
The evening is settling in, the lake going from bright to pewter, and I can smell it from here. That freshwater smell that has followed me around for four years in the way that places you love do, attaching itself to other lakes and rivers and even to the sea itself and always arriving insufficient, always arrivingnot quite right.
This is the smell of right. Even now, even with everything, the lake smells exactly like coming home.
The lakeside is a cheerful sprawl of weathered docks and equipment sheds and a bait and tackle shop called Monster Catch, which I find inexplicably charming. There’s a large paint-colored glashtyn behind the counter visible through the shop window. Finnbar Clague, according to the sign. He appears to be having a detailed disagreement with a fishing lure about something, which makes me feel immediately that I could grow to like this place again.
“Hey! You interested in the position?”
I turn.
The guy is enormous. Like, genuinely takes up space without even trying. Broad across the shoulders, dark-haired, maybe mid-thirties, with the kind of build that suggests a lifetime of sustained physical activity rather than gym membership.
The guy is enormous. Like, genuinely takes up space without even trying. Broad across the shoulders with dark brown skin and dark eyes that hold that subtle were-shark quality—a just-there sharpness, like water in shallow sunlight. He moves witha preternatural fluidity, the kind of physical grace that marks him unmistakably as a shifter, each gesture fluid in a way that humans rarely achieve. But there's nothing guarded about him. He's grinning like I'm already his new favorite person.
“Maybe,” I say carefully. “Depends on what you’re looking for.”
“Someone who knows their way around the water. Diving experience, ideally. We’re expanding our operation this summer—adding dive packages, underwater photography tours, that kind of thing.” He gestures broadly at the lake like it’s a personal gift he’s offering me. “I’m Rex, by the way. I run San Pedro Eco-Tours with my partner.”
Partner. The word lands with a specific weight, but his face shows nothing but friendly openness.
“So what’s your experience?” Rex asks. “You dive?”
“I do. Been doing marine work off the west coast of Scotland for the past few years. Research dives, equipment maintenance, some commercial salvage.”
His eyes light up. “Scotland! Man, the water there must be incredible. Cold as hell, right? I’ve always wanted to dive the North Atlantic. What’s the visibility like?”
And just like that, we’re talking about water. He asks about currents and temperature gradients and the difference between freshwater and saltwater diving with the genuine enthusiasm of someone who could talk about this subject for hours.
There’s no pretense, no careful assessment. Just a guy who loves the water talking to another guy who loves the water. This is someone who cares deeply about the ecosystem, who clearly understands why Cora started all this.
“The lake here is completely different,” he’s saying, gesturing out at the darkening water. “Warmer, obviously. Visibility’s pretty great in summer, maybe twenty to thirty feet on a good day. We’ve got some really cool underwater formations on the north end, and the ecosystem is wild. Tourists lose their minds.”
“Sounds amazing,” I say, and mean it.