Page 34 of Shifting Sands

“Ugh, maybe I should forget it,” I say, frustrated.

Willis scratches his chin. “You still got that old Coleman cooler I gave you?”

“Yeah,” I say.

“You could pack it with sandwiches, take her someplace quiet. Somewhere with a view. You know I got that boat sittin’ in the back still.”

I blink. “A boat? Wouldn’t that be just as cold?”

“Nah, she’s got a small diesel heater. Doesn’t smell that great, but it’ll keep you warm.”

“Wow, thank you.”

Willis shrugs like it’s no big deal. “She ain’t a big, fancy sailboat like you have, but she floats. Got a little outboard on her that still runs. She’s a bit weathered, but then so am I.”

Anson nods. “It’s not a bad idea.”

“Are you sure you don’t mind?”

“I didn’t say I was givin’ it to you,” Willis barks. “Just lettin’ you borrow it.”

“I don’t know what to say,” I stammer.

“Say you’ll fill the tank before you bring it back,” he sputters.

I grin. “Deal.”

Sunset on the water. Just me, Brandee, a cooler full of snacks, maybe a little speaker for music.

We break for water and sit on crates out by the big sliding door, the garage half in shade now. The scent of hot rubber mixes with the salty breeze drifting up from the marsh behind the building.

“Romance isn’t about money,” Willis says again, more softly this time. “It’s about intention. You show someone they matter by putting in the time, the thought. You make them feel like they’re the only person in the world for those few hours.”

“That’s kind of poetic, old man,” Anson says, nudging him.

He glares at him. “I was a hell of a romantic before you two were even ideas in your parents’ heads.”

“Was?” Anson says.

“Still am,” he growls. “I just save it for behind closed doors.”

“Hey, this is just one date. Not intention and all that other stuff,” I tell them.

Willis slaps me on the back. “I hate to be the one to break it to you, son, but all that other stuff starts with one date.”

We finish the racer’s tune-up just as the sun starts to dip behind the trees. It purrs to life on the first turn of the key, the kind of deep-throated rumble that you can feel in your chest.

Willis smiles—just a twitch of the mouth.

“She’ll be ready for the track again before you know it,” he says.

“Thanks to us,” Anson adds, patting the hood.

“Mostly me,” Willis says. “But sure, let’s pretend you two contributed.”

We pack up the tools and clean our hands with gritty orange soap at the bay’s sink. I linger for a moment, looking past the garage toward the back lot, where the boat rests under a faded tarp.

I sure hope I still remember how to drive a fishing boat.

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