Page 14 of At First Catch

The tide has shifted since this morning, carrying darker water into the inlet while sunlight eases over Back Bay, gold spreading across the surface in long, fractured ribbons. The breeze coming off the water smells like salt and diesel and warm wood baking beneath the sun. Somewhere near the bait shop, old country music crackles through a radio while gulls circle overhead screaming like tiny criminals.

The marina is still rough around the edges. Several dock boards need replacing entirely. The electrical lines along the western slips are outdated, and the old restaurant building remains one hard storm away from becoming driftwood.

I crouch, pressing my palm against one of the warped boards beneath my boots. Solid. Older than it looks. Worth saving.

I straighten.

Maybe that’s true of more than just the marina.

Holt left about an hour ago after helping me inspect the southern dock supports and eating two burgers like a man preparing for winter migration. Somewhere between discussing electrical permits and replacing fuel lines, he’d started talking about Coral Bell Cove’s summer festival schedule with enough enthusiasm that I’m beginning to suspect the entire Wright family was genetically engineered to emotionally adopt people against their will.

The strange part is that I don’t entirely mind it.

That realization lingers uncomfortably while I climb down from the service ladder near slip 12 and wipe grease from my hands with an already ruined rag.

Most of my adult life fits inside moving boxes.

Apartments.

Hotels.

Jobsites.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped unpacking everything.

It made leaving easier.

My phone buzzes in my back pocket.

I pull it out, pulse kicking once when I see the screen.

Still pathetic. The message isn’t from Hadley. It’s from my real estate agent in Richmond forwarding final escrow documents with three additional questions I no longer have the mental capacity to answer today.

I stare at the screen for a moment before locking it again and shoving the phone back into my pocket.

The sun hangs lower now, warming everything in amber light as I walk toward the old marina office. The building sits near the center dock beneath a faded Sweetspire Marina sign that probably hasn’t been updated since the early nineteen-nineties. Inside, the office smells faintly like mildew, coffee grounds, and old paperwork. A rusted ceiling fan turns lazily overhead while stacks of outdated boating permits cover half the desk.

I drop into the worn office chair and lean back with a slow exhale.

Water knocks against the pilings outside. Wind rattles loose metal somewhere near the fuel station. The old ice machine hums unevenly in the distance.

Still, compared to Richmond, the quiet here feels almost startling.

No traffic.

No sirens.

No construction noise echoing between buildings.

Just water and weather and space to think too much.

Which is unfortunate. Because once my brain has room, it circles back to Hadley Wright.

Again.

I scrub one hand over my jaw and stare out the office window toward the docks.

I walked into Sweet Gum Café expecting awkwardness, maybe. A polite conversation. Some version of distance that would make existing in the same town manageable.