Page 5 of Sometimes You Stay

“Think you can make it about ten minutes down the boardwalk?”

She nodded, then stumbled on her next step, grabbing at his arm.

Yeah. This wasn’t going to work.

“Do you mind?” He wasn’t quite sure what he was asking, and the raise of her eyebrows said she didn’t know either.

But there wasn’t a smooth way to put it into words. At least not into words he knew. So he leaned down to hook his arm behind her knees, but she hobbled back, stuffing her fist to her mouth to muffle a low groan.

“I’m all right. I can make it.” The pinched lines around her lips contradicted her words.

Putting his hands on his hips and staring her down likehe would an ornery goat, he said, “At the rate you’re going, it’ll be a lot longer than ten minutes.”

Her shoulders twitched, and she crossed her arms, hunching in on herself.

“You’re cold and wet. Let me get you somewhere warm, and then we’ll figure this out.”

She opened her lips, and he was sure she was going to make another argument. Nobody had time for that. Instead of waiting for her, he scooped an arm around her back and the other under her knees, lifting her against his chest.

She let out a soft “eep” and pushed against his shoulders. His grip slipped, and he nearly dropped her. With a cry, she slung her arms around his neck. Whole body trembling, she leaned into him.

“You’re warm.” She sighed and pressed her face into his neck.

Not for long. He could feel the icicles forming where the wind met the damp tracks she left around the collar of his white T-shirt.

“Let’s get somewhere we can both be.” He started toward the boardwalk, careful not to jostle her. This wasn’t exactly the walk he’d planned, though he took this path through the dock and around the harbor most days.

Before he got more than a few steps, she croaked, “My backpack.”

He paused to make sure Joe Jr. was pulling his weight, and the dog indeed had her bright orange bag between his teeth. The top flap hung open, and water still dripped a trail as Joe trotted along. Everything inside had clearly been doused in salt water, and anything electronic was probably ruined. So he said only, “Got it.”

She sagged against him, letting out a loud sigh.

Two minutes of silence shouldn’t have been awkward, but it was. He’d never been this close to a stranger. Was rarely this close to personal friends. The last girl he’d held against his chest had been Jessie Sloan—aged fifteen months. And that was only to make sure she didn’t run off while her mom rounded up the others from Sunday school.

Clearing his throat, he said, “I’m Finn, by the way. Finn Chaffey.”

She nodded into his neck. “Cretia Martin.” She emphasized the last syllable with a longe, the mumbled name almost sounding Spanish.

Good. Introductions out of the way.

“Thanks,” she said. The single word was more breath than sound, and he almost missed it.

“You’re welcome.”

“I thought your dog was a bear.”

“A lot of people do.” He chuckled. “Guess he just has one of those faces.”

She giggled too, the sound low and throaty. Maybe her laugh always sounded like that. Or maybe it was a by-product of swallowing half the harbor. He had a sudden desire to know for sure. But that would have to wait.

“Almost there.” He jogged up the steps from the boardwalk to the road above, holding her a little tighter to keep her from bouncing too much. Joe Jr. had no such concerns, bounding up the steps and racing across the road, not even bothering to look both ways. He leapt into the front yard of the two-story blue house with the white porch and bright door.

“Joe Jr.” Jack, Marie and Seth Sloan’s eldest, raced downthe steps from Rose’s Red Door Inn and dove into the dog’s side. Joe happily dropped the load he’d been carrying, letting his tongue hang halfway to the ground as he slobbered all over the boy. Jack had to be seven or eight, but the dog was at least twice his size. And a total sucker for a good ear scratch. Jack had his number, and Joe wiggled and writhed in the grass as he basked in the attention.

The front door opened, and Marie poked her head out. “Jack, what are you—” Her eyes swung from her son, and her eyebrows shot beneath her dark curls. “Finn? What happened? Who’s—”

“This is Cretia. We had a little accident in the harbor.” He offered a helpless shrug.

---