Page 32 of Spindrift

“Whynot?”

“She’snot into damsels in distress,” said Stevie.

“Morgan?Not into damsels?”

“No,I mean Emilia didn’t appreciate the rescue.” Stevie gave Morgan a sidelongglance. “Which is a first for you, isn’t it?”

“Shutup. I save lives every day.”

“Youalso stick your hands up assholes. Oh my god. Asses’ assholes. Get it?”

“That’sa new low for you,” said Angie. Her wet hair was wrapped in a towel and piledon her head, and another towel did its admirable best to cover the rest of herbody.

“Niceoutfit,” said Stevie.

“Myclothes are in the dryer.”

“Youdo realize people will be here any minute?” said Lillian.

Angiesmiled sweetly. “Yes. I thought I would wear my birthday suit. . .” She let hertowel slip a few inches. Stevie’s cheeks pinked, and Lillian and Morgan meteach other’s eyes.

“Angie,”said Morgan, “as much as we all appreciate the female form, I can’t let younear the fire pit naked, and I definitely saw mosquitoes. So, unless you wantyour ass bitten, clothes might be a good idea.”

“Shemight be into the ass biting,” Lillian said under her breath.

Angieand an armful of dry clothing reappeared, then vanished.

“Beersfor queers?” called a voice from the front hall.

“Stormy!”Stevie pushed herself off the counter as Stormy arrived bearing a growler ofAngie’s favorite beer and a kiss on the cheek for the three of them.

Stormyfilled them in on the latest drama from the bar, which consisted mostly ofoverheard conversations about lobster fishing rivalries. Not much happened intheir sleepy harbor town. She broke off to squeal over Angie a few minuteslater.

LikeLillian, Angie’s hair was still wet, and she’d looped it into a loose, heavybraid that tumbled over one shoulder. She wore a simple three-quarter sleevedress that hugged her curves, made of a material that looked so soft Morganfelt an immediate desire to stroke it. She refrained. Acknowledging clothingwas dangerous: it often sparked long conversations about fashion and thrifting,topics Angie, Stormy, and Lillian could debate at length.

DanielleWatson and her wife showed up loaded down with a cheese dip that smelledheavenly, followed by a cluster of veterinary technicians and assistants. Morganchecked her watch. 6:05. Still no sign of Emilia, but there was plenty of time.She exchanged a few jokes with her friends and then went to prepare the steaks.

• • •

Emiliapulled into the driveway of 16 Bay road and slid into a spot on the grass nextto a Jeep with a zombie stick figure family, complete with an absurd number of pets,stuck to the back window. The white farmhouse gleamed in the evening light. Shecould see people through the porch window, and wood smoke flavored the air. Shewished her heart would relocate from her throat to her chest, where it belonged.

Shekilled the engine and got out of the car. Dogs barked somewhere nearby, anechoing, contained sound that she remembered from working in shelters. So manyunwanted animals. So many wasted lives.You’re done, she told herself.Youdon’t have to do that anymore. You don’t have to care.Her therapist hadtermed part of her condition compassion fatigue. It was common among health careprofessionals, and an unavoidable result of the sheer volume of cases seen in aday. The formula was simple: too many pleading eyes, plus limited resources,equaled a psychological distancing that ultimately made it impossible toconnect with anything at all. This, in turn, often led to crippling depressionand other coping mechanisms, like drugs and alcohol. She’d known what she wasgetting into when she’d decided to go into shelter medicine. Like so manyothers, she’d thought she could handle it. She’d believed in the necessity ofher work.

Nowhere she was, afraid to enter a house full of her peers, shattered by the soundof a bark. Her hand fumbled for the car door.Leave, her mind urged. Shecould text Morgan with an excuse. Flat tire. Sudden illness.

Laughterfloated toward her as a door opened and shut elsewhere in the house. If sheleft, she’d be running. Running was different from taking space and time toheal, and she knew herself well enough to understand that once she startedrunning again, she’d have a hard time stopping.I can always leave early ifit gets to be too much.She checked her mascara in the car’s mirror,smoothed the front of her shirt, and forced her legs to march across the drive,up the steps to the porch, and to the green front door.

Aslender woman answered with a laugh still on her lips. Thick black hair fell toher shoulders, and her loose shirt and tight dark jeans softened her muscularbuild.

“Hi.Um, Morgan invited me,” Emilia said, feeling lost as the warmth from the housespilled over her. The woman offered her an equally warm smile.

“Emilia,right? Lillian.” Lillian stuck out her hand and shook Emilia’s firmly, usheringher inside. Emilia caught a hint of perfume, something floral and rich thatreminded her of a summer garden. “Hope you don’t mind dogs. We’ve locked themoutside for now, but they’ll track you down the minute they realize there’s anew person in the house who might not be immune to their charms.”

“Ido like dogs.” She followed Lillian into the hallway and noted a jumble ofshoes, jackets, hanging dog leashes, and what looked like a tangled collectionof sheep halters. She raised the tray of cookies. “Where should I put these?”

“Cookies?Here, I’ll take them so you don’t get mobbed. Come on in. Morgan’s out backwith the grill.”

Lillianled her down the front hall—decorated with photos, not of the humaninhabitants, but of a collection of dogs, cats, horses, and even a tortoise—andinto a crowded farmhouse kitchen. Exposed beams spanned the ceiling, andgranite countertops were partially visible amid the group of people gatheredaround the island. A few glanced up as she entered. Stevie extricated herselffrom the small crowd and sauntered over with a grin. Emilia did her best tohide her surprise at how well Stevie cleaned up.

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