Page 65 of The Shield
“You’re going to make every woman in Charleston raise the bar,” I murmured.
He looked drily pleased. “Good.”
The waitress arrived, two waters already sweating on the tray. “What can I get y’all?”
“Raw oysters to start,” I said, “and the hushpuppies. Then the crab boil for two. And—” I looked at him. “This is a shrimp town.”
“Do your worst,” he said, and the waitress grinned like we’d passed the test.
“Y’all want local beer? Or sweet tea?”
“One of each,” I said.
The hushpuppies hit the table—hot, corn-sweet, the outside just this side of aggressive. Ethan broke one open, watched the steam escape, and looked at me like he was reconsidering living his entire life far from a fryer. “What is this sorcery?” he asked around a mouthful.
“Boring heroics of the kitchen,” I said. “We’ll make it a plank in the platform.”
“You’re going to feed the city into submission.”
“That’s the backup plan, if the drains won’t behave.”
I doctored his first oyster—lemon, a bruised hit of horseradish, a fringe of mignonette—and held the shell while he tipped and learned. He swallowed, blinked at the brine, and then smiled in a way that hit like the first clean breeze after a long heat. “That tastes like everything outside your door.”
“It does,” I said, pleased he understood the point of oysters, which is not taste but place.
Reporters orbited. A couple of phones came out. One of the crew from a station I grew up with lifted a hand from across the deck in a gesture that asked and didn’t assume. I shook my head just once. He dropped his hand and ordered another beer. Good man.
“New normal,” Ethan said.
“New normal,” I echoed. “We get to decide what parts of it feel like us. We wave when we want. We go home when we want. We never let them watch you kiss my shoulder unless we intend to set the city on fire.”
“Please don’t set the city on fire,” he said. “We have enough problems with the water.”
“The fire department needs something to do,” I said, and he snorted into his tea.
The boil arrived in a pan so proud it should have had its own chair—crab legs like red commas, shrimp pink, corn and potatoes. I tied the ridiculous bib around his neck while he gave me a look that said “really?” and also “fine.” I taught him the crack-and-pull and the twist-and-suck, and when he got cocky I stole the biggest claw and cracked it for myself just to keep him honest.
Halfway through, a little boy with earnest ears and the posture of a man on a mission approached. “’Scuse me,” he said to Ethan, dead serious. “Are you the horse guy?”
Ethan swallowed, wiped his hands, and turned in his chair so he was the boy’s size. “I am sometimes,” he said. “You ride?”
“No, sir,” the boy said. “My mama says I’m too little and also too expensive.”
“That seems right,” Ethan said, gravely. He glanced at the boy’s mother, who looked mortified and hopeful in equal parts. “What’s your name?”
“Ty.”
“Well, Ty,” Ethan said, “next time you see a horse, keep your fingers flat when you feed him, stand at his shoulder where he can see you, and tell him what you’re going to do before you do it. Works on a lot of things. Even people.”
Ty nodded like someone had just knighted him. “Yes, sir,” he said, then added to me in a rush, “I’m glad you didn’t die,” and bolted back to his fries.
The table next to us pretended not to sniffle. I pretended not to, too.
We finished slow. The waitress brought a slice of lemon icebox pie on the house, and I said, “We can’t accept,” and then I tipped the price of the pie times four and left a note that saidthank you for feeding us like normal people.
We walked the boardwalk after—the planks damp, the string lights stubborn in the mist. Boats knocked gently. Ethan put his arm around my shoulders, and I slid my hand under his shirt at his back because I could. Because I had almost not had this.
“Tell me about Holly Hill,” he said into my hair.
