Page 21 of Spindrift

“Somuch. I could eat it by the block.”

“Istill don’t think that’s on the same level as falling off a boat.”

“Whatif I told you I was lactose intolerant?”

“Areyou?”

“No.”

“Notgood enough. Sorry.” Emilia crossed her arms across her chest, a motion Morganrefused to let her eyes dwell on. The old blue wool sweater might have been toobig for Emilia, but it didn’t conceal nearly enough.

“Okay.How about this. First time I drove a tractor.”

Emiliasmirked.

“Issomething funny?”

“That’sjust . . . very gay.”

“Thisis Maine. You’d be surprised how many people can drive tractors. Anyway, Ididn’t realize you had to engage the clutch to use the brake. I was working fora friend of my dad on her farm, and all I wanted to do was put a new round baleon the hay spike and feed it out to the herd. But I couldn’t stop. I didn’teven make it out of the parking lot. My boss had just bought some new fenceposts, and I drove right into the pile. Most got busted, and the tractor onlystopped because I drove into a hill. The worst part was that I had a huge crushon my boss’s daughter, who was obviously watching the whole thing.”

“Didyou get fired?”

“No,but I wasn’t allowed to drive the tractor again for a long time.”

Emiliatapped her fingers on the table. “That’s pretty bad. I accept your proposal.Friends?” She raised her glass.

“Friends,”said Morgan, clinking her drink to Emilia’s.

“Ihave one more question.”

“Shoot.”

“Doyou eat cheese from a can?”

“Ido have some standards.”

“Butdo you?” Emilia mimed squirting cheese from a nozzle.

“Totally.”She leaned in. “I’ve even tried the cheese they sell at pet stores for dogs.It’s not half bad.”

“I’veactually tried that too,” said Emilia.

“Iknew I liked you.”

“Ifquestionable judgement in cheese is your criteria, then we’ll get along fine.What about beer?”

“Iknow more about craft beer than I want to.” Morgan nodded at the bar and at Stormy,who was foaming milk for a lobsterman Morgan hadn’t figured as a latte kind ofguy. Just went to show that stereotypes didn’t always hold up under scrutiny.

“Believeme, I can sympathize,” said Emilia. “Boston is the home of the Craft Beer Bro.I’ve had the incredibly complicated and holy process of drinking fermentedplant matter explained to me more times than I care to count.”

Morganrelaxed as they stayed on safe ground. Dogs. Drinks. Food. Music. Nothing toopersonal, besides the story she’d told her about the tractor. As they talked,she studied her companion. Emilia had a way of glancing down before she smiledthat revealed the absurd length of her eyelashes. She wore no makeup, thoughMorgan had no way of knowing if this was normal for her or not, and her fulllips were slightly chapped from a day on the water. Faint dark circlessuggested she didn’t sleep well. Morgan’s mind categorized these details withthe same level of attention it gave the rest of Emilia: too much. She wanted torun her thumb along Emilia’s lower lip to soothe the dry skin. Chapstick wouldbe more effective, she told herself, and jerked her eyes away. They fell on theclock on the wall.

“Oh,shit. I’ve got to get home and feed this guy.” She patted a perturbed Kraken,who eyed her with reproach. He was too well behaved to whine, but she knew hewas hungry.

“I’llsettle the tab,” said Emilia. She rose before Morgan could protest, forcing herto leap to her feet and chase after her. They arrived at the till—and an amusedStormy—at the same time.

“Youdon’t need to pay for my drink,” Morgan said.

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