Page 14 of Moving Forward

CHAPTER SIX

CAIN

She—I still don’t even know her name—starts crying and I move toward her again, just like when I found her on the dock. I was painting the weathered side of the boat when I heard footsteps and crying. I almost ignored it, but I couldn’t help myself—I needed to know if it was her. When I realized it was, something came over me. Every single cell inside me fired up until every piece of me wanted to save her from whatever was troubling her. I haven’t had the courage to touch anyone in a long time, but with her I don’t seem to need courage. It’s just something I needed—had—to do.

I push off the counter, and after three short strides, I’m pulling her into my arms again. She nestles her head against my chest. Hopefully she can’t hear my heart ramming against my chest.

This moment? This is it. It’s perfect.

I wonder how someone like me can have something like this. I never thought it was possible for me to feel this way, and I’d begun to worry that maybe the world didn’t want me to have anything good. But here it is. Here she is. And I have a feeling that out of everyone in this world, she is the one who can understand me—who can accept me.

I bring my hand up to the back of her head and run my fingers through her blond hair. Even the feel of her hair is intoxicating.

After a while, she stops crying but doesn’t make any move to get away from me. If anything, she moves farther into my embrace. I want to freeze everything about this, so that one day, I can look back and know that this is how life is supposed to feel.

She starts to laugh into my shirt. “You must think I’m a freak.”

“Not at all,” I promise. Not even close.

She tilts her head back to see me better. “I’m pretty sure I just ruined your shirt.”

“It was already ruined. Paint, remember?”

She takes a step back and wraps her arms around herself. My body mourns the loss of hers pressed against me. “Can I see what you were painting?”

“It’s nothing really,” I say, leading her back outside to the side of the boat that faces away from town. With my boat on the end of the dock, there isn’t anyone to see what I’m doing. It’s just me and the peacefulness of the lake. I have a chair set up there, but right now it’s occupied by a tray full of white paint.

My grandpa loved this boat more than anything else in his possession. He wanted to see it loved and treated with respect even after he was gone, and decided the best way to ensure that was to keep it in the family. When he gave it to my dad, my dad didn’t feel the same. He nearly ruined it—letting the paint chip away, the floor grow grimy, and the mechanics rust to nothing. Eventually, I took it over. I evicted the family of raccoons who were declaring squatters' rights and began restoring it to its former glory. I hope wherever my grandpa is, he can see my progress, even if it’s slow. I might’ve given up on most everything else, but not his boat.

Before my dad got his hands on the boat, Hazelton was painted on the side in dark blue, along with a boat sailing away into the horizon. Over time it started looking more like a wilting, decapitated flower.

“Wow,” the woman sighs. She presses her fingers against the dried paint, a small smile playing on her lips. My heart beats harder. Never thought I could fall in love with a smile. “You’re doing this by hand?”

I nod proudly. I’ve spent the last half of the month tracing over the old design, restoring it and changing it to fit me. I’ve been making the boat mine.

“How long until you’re finished?”

“A while,” I answer. “I’ve still got to paint the rest of the boat too.”

“And you live here—on this boat? I can’t imagine how peaceful that is.”

“Especially at night,” I tell her quietly.

She sighs again. Her gaze slowly rises to meet mine. A burst of electricity shoots through my body and I feel like I’ve had the wind knocked out of me. I hope that she feels this too—that my isolation over the years hasn’t made me crazy.

“Maybe you’ll have to come by one night?”

Even to my own ears, I sound too hopeful. When she doesn’t answer me, my chest constricts. I’m not used to interacting with people anymore, let alone someone like her. Asking her to come back to see me feels like I’m walking down the green mile toward my execution. Shouldn’t have asked . . .

It’s pathetic to believe something good could happen to me. I’ve only ever been let down. Only right now, I don’t care about the consequences of believing in good things. All I care about is how it feels to be near her, and how holding her is one of the best experiences of my life.

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