Page 25 of These Rough Waters

Grace. I wondered if Grace was Ruthie’s best friend’s daughter. She never told me what happened to her. Or maybe she was his girlfriend? I couldn’t picture a woman with Torin, not with all his standoffish behavior, how would one ever get close?

“She died.”

I swallow my gasp and take a gulp of wine, “I’m sorry.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why are you sorry?”

“It’s what you say when someone dies, Torin.”

“Is it?”

Awkward silence settles and I avert my attention to the fire. Inviting him in wasn’t my smartest move. We weren’t friends. We could never be friends. But I feel him staring at me, feel his eyes as they watch me and it makes my skin burn, my stomach twist.

“What did you run from?” He suddenly asks.

“I didn’t invite you in to share stories,” I tell him defensively.

Behind me, he stands up and I listen to his careful, light footsteps as he crosses the space between us. I hold very fucking still as he stops at my side, and my breath catches in my throat as his roughened fingers, calloused by hours of labor, move the tendril of hair that was covering the fading marks on my face.

“Who did this?”

My skin pebbles when I feel a tip of his finger gently whisper across the bruises, so lightly it feels more like a brush of air. His scent, sea breeze and leather fills the air around me, it was almost intoxicating. Or maybe that was the wine.

“I think you should go,” My voice comes out with a shake, and I swallow, flicking my eyes to see him staring intently at me.

He nods slowly, “You should stay away from me, Maya.”

“You came here.” I point out.

“And you invited me in.” He tucks that strand of hair behind my ear. “Monsters, Maya. We’re everywhere.”

Thirteen

There were days when it was harder to ignore the pull of my old life. Days where my fingers itched to be wrapped around a blade or holding a gun. Days where I wanted to swap out fishing on these waters to scoping out a target.

And it was almost tempting to call Rett and cash in on that job.

But I don’t, instead I haul crates from the boat onto the dock, today’s catches ready to be sold to the town.

“Are they heavy?” A sudden, small voice asks, and I glance over my shoulder to see Harper watching me, her hair braided, and head cocked in curiosity.

The little girl steps closer, “Stop.” I order. “Those are sharp.”

I point down to the pile of hooks, knives, and other gear I’d hauled off the boat.

“What’s that for!?” She gasps.

“Gutting fish.”

Her nose crinkles, “That’s not very nice.”

“It’s the way of life here, kid.”

“Can I come with you?”

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