Page 98 of When We Are Falling

I get out of the truck and shove the phone in my jean’s pocket, following Bandit toward the boys on the other side of a small group of trees. The wetlands stretch out around us, a mosaic of marshy grasses swaying gently in the breeze, the water shimmering under the early morning sun. Reeds rise from the shallow water, their golden tips catching the light, while a heron stands tall on one leg, its sharp eyes scanning the surface for a meal.

We come face to face with the boys, and they all turn to look at us. “Look who finally showed up!” Jake calls out, a grin on his face as he gives me a mock salute. “Did you get lost, old man?”

“All I’ll say is it takes one to know one, grandpa.”

Liam’s leaning against a tree, arms crossed as he looks at me. “Don’t let Jake get under your skin. He’s just bitter because he’s got two left feet. Saw him try to dance at the Tavern the other night. He looked like he was trying to swat a bee.”

Jake rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “Whatever I was doing, it worked. The ladies were all over me.”

Patrick chimes in from where he’s quietly setting up the equipment. “Yeah, well, I heard Ethan’s got some new moves. Maybe he’ll give you a lesson, Jake.”

I bark out a laugh despite myself. “Not a chance. I think I’ve retired from the dance floor. It leads to nothing good.”

The others move to help Patrick set up, while Mike and Antonio walk closer to me, Mike giving me a solid pat on the back, his lumberjack beard looking wild and untamed. “You doing okay today?”

I shrug, not trusting myself to speak for a moment. “I’m getting by.”

Antonio’s usually bright eyes are a little more somber. “We’re here for you, buddy. We’ve all been there. We get it.”

Liam told the boys as soon as he found out Blake and I broke up, and the rest of Harbor’s Edge knew shortly after that. Someone in the restaurant must have let Dot McLellan know, because it seemed like pretty much the whole town knew within a day or two.

Mike nudges me with his elbow. “Just don’t take it out on us when we’re scraping up these last bits of oil, alright? Channel your anger into the shovel.”

I manage a smile, appreciating their efforts. “I’ll try to keep my temper in check. Can’t make any promises, though.”

Patrick stands next to the equipment—shovels, bags, and absorbent pads—and claps his hands together.

“Alright, enough talk. Let’s get this done so we can finally say goodbye to this place. Last day, boys. Let’s make it count.”

We all nod. We’ve been out here too many times to count, and it’s almost over. None of us are planning to slack off now. Bandit and Barks trot over, sniffing at the equipment before plopping down in a patch of sun, watching everyone work.

We pick up shovels and equipment, and spread out along the marshy edge, dropping the pads into the water, the bright white quickly darkening as they soak up the last of the oil. The sun climbs higher, the heat warming us as we dig the blackened earth, dumping it into bags.

Jake pauses for a drink, leaning on his shovel. “Hey, Antonio, you remember that time we got stuck out here ‘cause someone didn’t check the fuel gauge?”

Antonio shoots him a mock glare. “I told you, that wasn’t me. That was Mike.”

Mike raises his hands. “Hey, I’ll own up to a lot of things, but that wasn’t me.”

Laughter ripples through the group, but I know they’re being careful with their jokes for my sake, never crossing the line into anything that might hit too close to home.

Bandit gets up from his sunny spot where he’d settled down beside Barks, and follows me as I move around the wetlands, sniffing at the absorbent pads, looking up at me with those big, trusting eyes. As we work, there’s that connection, that unspoken understanding with the boys and Bandit: no matter what else is going on in our lives, we’re in this together.

But beneath it all, there’s still that gnawing emptiness, the hollow ache that Blake’s absence has left behind.

The sun climbs higher and finally, almost unbelievably, we’re done, the last of the oil-slicked dirt going into a bag. We take a moment to exchange fist-bumps and high fives before Patrick pulls out his phone.

“Mayor Roberts, this is Patrick O’Connor. Just calling to let you know the good news that we’re finally done.” He pauses, listening. “Okay, will do.” He terminates the call. “Mayor Roberts sends her personal thanks. We all did good, boys.”

There’s a sense of accomplishment in the air, and I catch a glimpse of a family of ducks gliding across the clean water, their reflections rippling in their wake. The afternoon sun casts long shadows over the shoreline, our conversation blending with the distant call of birds as we start to load the bags of oil-soaked dirt into the back of Mike’s truck.

We’ve nearly finished packing the equipment away when the sound of an engine reaches us. A moment later, the mayor’s black SUV pulls up, the vehicle coming to a stop just behind my truck. The door swings open, and Mayor Roberts herself steps out, balancing several boxes of pizza on one hand and holding a cooler in the other.

“Thought you boys could use some food!” She walks over to us, the smell of pizza wafting through the air, and I realize just how hungry I am. The guys stop what they’re doing, Patrick and Jake exchanging grins as they wipe their hands on their pants.

“Beer and pizza?” Patrick says. “Mayor, you’re spoiling us.”

She laughs, setting the boxes down in the back of my truck. “You’ve all earned it. I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done here. The town owes you big time.”

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