Page 52 of Here & There

I want to tell him it’s fine. That I really can call a cab this time. But he’s already heading for the door, where he pulls on a set of sneakers and grabs Tink’s leash.

It really would be good to have a vehicle today. This place isn’t exactly high on the walkability scale.

“Okay,” I say. “If you’re sure—thank you.”

He nods, whistling for Tink, who comes bounding down the stairs.

“Oh, and my number’s on the fridge. Text if you need anything,” he says as he opens the door.

“Stay off the deck!” I joke.

He snaps his gaze to mine, and I wish so badly I had a different brain.

“I’ll need to get on it to lay down the grating,” he says.

I open my mouth to tell him I was making another bad joke, but to my utter astonishment, the man winks at me, with a little grin to go with it.

Holy shit, Alasdair MacGregor just played me at my own game.

As forewarned, Mac’s gone for the next few nights. And I don’t run into him in the mornings after that first day. I thought he was going for his runs earlier than usual, but this morning, when I went out to the truck, I noticed the wetsuit hanging on a hook in the garage that I hadn’t given much attention to before has a little puddle under it. Is that where he’s been in the mornings? Freaking scuba diving?

The man continues to surprise me.

Despite the lack of his physical presence, Mac’s not altogether absent. As promised, he leaves food in the fridge for us in tidy glass containers, with little notes taped to them about how to prepare them. Somehow even Mac’s writing is sexy—all slants and slashes.

Would it be weird to fantasize about a man while reading his handwriting? Because I’ve been doing that. I don’t bother trying not to anymore, not when I keep seeing his naked form superimposed in my brain. Even sprawled out and in pain, he was so sexy I blush remembering it. Late at night, I even imagine other ways it could have gone. Like if we’d been alone, and I could have brought him into my room to “check him over.” A.k.a. play nurse…

In lieu of that, I write him back. Just little things like how the risotto was outrageously delicious and how Tink got thisclose to actually murdering a squirrel that day. They’re ridiculous, but it makes me feel like we’re having a little conversation, which makes me happy.

With Nate mostly hiding in his room, I take advantage of my time. I spend the week exploring Redbeard Cove, for reconnaissance for the Dinghy before I start working with Macnext week, but also in my own search for Shelby Jessica Fox. Extensive Googling has told me nothing. She’s not on archival sites, and she’s not in any search results remotely related to the coast of British Columbia. I found one in Florida, but she was in her twenties. I found another one in California, but she was a B-list actress who died thirty years ago. There’s no one with that name in Canada at all. According to the internet, my Shelby Jessica Fox doesn’t exist.

The impression I got with Chris that first day stands as I pay more attention to the town. It’s the perfect mix of local small-town flavor and newer big city sensibilities. It’s clear the tourist population is minimal at this time of year, though I can sense the businesses gearing up for their influx as the weather warms up. When I pass by the bakery, there’s a man outside redoing the curved vinyl lettering on the glass. He tips his hat at me as I pass, making me laugh and tip an imaginary hat back. And even though it’s only May tomorrow, the hardware store already has outdoor displays for summer lined up on the sidewalk: beach umbrellas, Adirondack chairs, and wood-carved signs that say things likeLife is better at the cabinandGone crabbing.

I strike up a few conversations with the few people of a certain age—a woman in the square in a purple hat who smiles kindly at me when I sit next to her with my London Fog. An older man next to me in the checkout line at the little grocer. Neither of them recall anyone called Shelby Fox living in town.

On Thursday, I come home to another closed door from Nate, and I envision another night on my own in my little loft. But just as I pull out tonight’s meal—a casserole-looking thing and a salad—the doorbell rings.

There’s a handsome man on the other side of the glass door.

I grin and open the door. “Cal!” I’m genuinely happy to see him. Especially because he’s carrying a bag full of Chinese takeout.

“Is that for me, or are you just taunting me on your way somewhere?” My dinner looked delicious, but I haven’t had takeout in way too long. I miss all the local spots in my neighborhood back home.

“I heard my bestie’s abandoned you,” Cal says. “So I come bearing food for you and Nate.”

I laugh. “Well done getting the nomenclature right.” I step aside so he can come in.

“You doing okay on your own?” Cal asks as we head to the kitchen. “He told me he had to pick up some shifts, and I know Nate tends to hide out in his room.”

“Of course,” I say brightly. “It’s not really my place to try to coax Nate out of his room; I’m just a temporary guest. But Mac doesn’t need to entertain me.”

It’s true, he doesn’t, but Cal’s expression tells me he might see the truth: It’s been lonely here without him.

“The man’s dedicated to his business,” he says.

“Admirable, don’t you think?”

Cal shrugs. “I prefer working as few hours as possible so I can carpe the fuckin’ diem, if you know what I mean. What’s the point of living out here if you don’t spend at least half your time in or around the ocean?”

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