Page 50 of The Words We Lost

Once they’ve met their driver at the end of the dock and Joel and I are left standing alone on the deck, Joel begins to reel in the back bumpers.

“I think you’ve forgotten your place at that fancy helm, Captain,” I tease. “Bumper retrieval is my job.”

The mischievous glint in his eyes when he turns is so surprising that I don’t register what’s happening until it’s much, much too late.

Before I can even think to shield myself, Joel peels a giant piece of wet seaweed off the bumper and flings it at my bare legs. It slaps against my kneecap and sticks.

My mouth drops open, and his laugh is one I haven’t been privy to in years. “You did not just do that.”

His lips pull to one side. “Pretty sure I just did.”

“Joel Campbell. We are too old to engage in seaweed wars.” But even before I’m finished speaking, I dash to the edge of the deck and jump onto the creaky dock in search of suitable retaliation. I scan the water for the first patch of kelp I can lay eyes on.

His white shirt is starting to look a bit too white.

He bounds down the long dock after me, but I pay no mind to his apologies or to the speed at which he’s approaching. My eyes are locked on my target at the end of the marina. In a quick maneuver I doubt I could repeat a second time, I drop flat onto my belly and grip the briny, soggy stalk of sea kelp floating near the shore. And much like a cowgirl lassoes a rope, I swing it in a wide circle and let it fly.

He hollers as it wraps around his middle and smacks him squarein the chest. I’m still on my haunches, barely able to catch a breath from wheezing in delight.

He holds out his once-clean shirt and looks down at the kelp-imprinted design. “I’ve always wanted an Ingrid Erikson original.”

I laugh until my cheeks hurt nearly as badly as my hamstrings.

“Glad I could provide one for you then.”

Joel reaches his hand out to me. “Truce?”

“Not before you admit defeat.”

“Ingrid, you won long before you even knew there was a race.” He pulls me up and then removes something green and wet from my shoulder. “But I don’t think seaweed makes for a very good trophy.”

“I agree,” I say a bit breathlessly.

He stares at me a few seconds too long to be playful before shifting his gaze to the horizon. “We should probably head back. We still have two hours ahead of us and the sunset isn’t too far behind.”

We walk the length of the dock together in companionable silence, and I breathe in the briny sea air like a rare perfume. Somehow the scent is different here in the Sound than in the San Francisco Bay, more pungent and decipherable. More familiar.

By the time we’ve finished prepping the cruiser for our course, the sun’s golden reflection on the water is as blinding as it is mesmerizing, and I drag my gaze away from it. I’d forgotten this. I’d forgotten so much of everything that used to be my normal routine.

“Want to join me on the sky bridge? It’s the best spot this time of night.”

I glance at the stairs leading to the second story cockpit. Nerves shimmy up my spine as if his invitation to be out in the open air with him is somehow more intimate than when he was navigating from the helm inside the cabin. But there’s no use trying to reason with logic; I’m too acquainted with the alluring nature of the sea to be innocent to its charm.

I’m halfway up the steps before I remember to answer him.

Joel sits at one of the two white swivel chairs facing a navigation system any experienced seaman would covet. There is little aboutthis vessel that reminds me of the one my father was hired to captain for the Campbells all those summers ago. But this spot, this bird’s-eye view of the open water and surrounding islands and mountain ranges, these rocky shores and beaches where I used to read the day away in between shifts at the hotel and charter bookings with my father ... these are the moments that swarm my heart with something that feels too much like homesickness. I rub at the fabric that covers my heart, hoping to ease the ache building beneath.

When I reach Joel, he gestures for me to take the seat beside him.

“Thank you for—” he starts at the same time I say, “You did a—”

He chuckles. “Ladies first.”

“You’re a good captain.”

He follows my honesty with a hesitant expression. “You can’t possibly know what it means to hear you say that.”

His arresting tone holds me hostage until he reaches across his chest with his left arm, taps his right shoulder, tweaks his nose, and then points out to sea.

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