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I’m tired by this time, muscles that went a little soft over the offseason coming back to life with a groan. All three of us have long since lost the layers we started with this morning, working now in shirtsleeves and muck boots as we prep for tomorrow. Oliver sings as we work, the song lyrics lost on me but the melody a nice accompaniment to the cry of the shore birds.

“Thanks, Oli. Same time tomorrow?” I ask him after we finish.

He nods and then adds, “Tuna sandwiches for lunch.”

Oliver’s eyes flit back over to Nils when he says this. I look, too, wondering if he’s doing something he shouldn’t be. As far as I can tell, he’s not doing anything more exciting than crossingoff the last item on our daily checklist to make sure all is as it should be.

“Okay. Thanks,” I repeat to Oliver. “See you tomorrow.”

Before we go our separate ways, I cross the pier until I reach the other side. A sleek, large-sized fishing craft sits in her slip, sunlight glinting off her white paint. TheMaiden Seasis a larger vessel than mine, newer and better equipped for longer offshore trips. Dryden Roy, the owner and captain and semi-new face around town, is hunched over on the deck, access panel pushed aside to reveal the engine compartment. I clear my throat.

“Hey, Roy,” I greet him. He glances over his shoulder, sees me, and grins. I shove my hands into my pockets as he pulls his arm from the access point and reaches for a rag. Oil is streaked up his forearms. He smirks at me, a somewhat coy tilt to his lips and a knowing look in his eye. He’s well aware of what he looks like.

“Lepage,” he says, sitting back on his heels and wiping the cloth between his dirty fingers. “Good day?”

“Not bad. Engine trouble?” I ask somewhat awkwardly.

Roy and I have a…casual relationship. Casual in the way that I struggle to move us along to something more, and he struggles with wanting me to try. We’ve been sleeping together—dating, maybe, in the loosest sense of the word—exclusively for two years. One would think it would be easier to have a simple conversation with the man, but it’s not. Our arrangement, although nice on the nights when my sheets are cold and my heart lonely, doesn’t really work for me. He never spends the night, and our conversations are shallow. Two years isa long time, and it bothers me that I don’t know anything about him. I want to ask him why he’s so comfortable with how things are between us. I want to ask him why he doesn’t seem interested in more. But I can’t because then I’d have to ask those very same questions to myself. I’m not sure either of us is ready for those answers.

“No. Just fiddling,” Roy responds. His eyebrows rise in question. This is always how things go between us. Me awkwardly sifting through my feelings, trying to decide what I want and how to ask for it; Roy waiting patiently and always up for whatever I decide. It’s like he has no opinion at all on the direction his life is going, like he just wants to sit back and enjoy the ride.

“Dinner tonight?” I finally manage to ask, feeling slightly overheated and jittery. It’s not right to feel so apprehensive about asking him to dinner when we’ve been together for two years. Althoughtogetherisn’t even the right word, which therein lies the problem. I add belatedly, “My place?”

“Sure. I’ll finish up here and head your direction,” he agrees easily, the way he always does. Everything is smooth sailing with Dryden Roy. It shouldn’t bother me, but it does. I don’t want him to fight or argue with me, but I wouldn’t mind if the man showed an ounce of initiative about, well,anything.

I stew about it during the drive back to my house, turning the conversation over in my mind and examining it from every angle. I wonder if there’s something wrong with me that I can’t seem to form any sort of emotional attachment to someone I’ve been intimate with for years. I like Roy, but I like him the sameway I like Nils or Oliver. If he left town tomorrow, I’d miss him, but I wouldn’t…misshim.

I would not, I know, miss him with the same devastation with which I’ve missed Ewan Fate after he left town seven years ago. Ewan, who was my best friend for every single formative year of my life, whose presence felt more solid than the cliffs overlooking the bay. Never in a hundred years would I have guessed that I’d ever have to watch Ewan’s taillights glow red as he drove away. Ewan leaving had been the first time in my life where I’d experienced the kind of emotional destruction that leaves people unable to function. I try not to think too hard about that first year following his departure—about the throbbing numbness of my heart beating, and the way I’d sometimes wonder why I was even bothering when life wasn’t enjoyable any longer.

No. Dryden Roy leaving wouldn’t even measure as a drop in the ocean compared to how it felt to lose Ewan Fate. And perhaps that’s the problem. Perhaps when Ewan packed up that old Subaru, he’d packed my heart right along with it. Perhaps he did me a favor in doing so. If I’m incapable of loving Roy, that also means he’s incapable of hurting me.

When I get home, I push through the already unlocked front door and leave my boots on the mat. The organized, scheduled portion of my brain clicks on, and I glide through the motions of returning home after a day at sea. An hour later, when I’m climbing from the shower, I pause in front of the mirror and wipe the steam away with my palm.

It’s probably time for a haircut, and probably also time totrim my beard. I consider taking the time to do so now, but Roy and I didn’t decide on a set time to meet. There are a few things I still need to get done, and all of them rank higher than personal grooming. Shave and haircut later, I decide, and am once more confronted with the fact that I honestly care very little about what Roy thinks of my appearance.

Dressing in an old pair of blue jeans and a simple cotton T-shirt, I pad barefoot back down the stairs and into the kitchen. I’m somewhat regretting the offer of dinner, especially when I open the refrigerator and peruse the contents. It’s not an impressive array of options, but again, it’s Roy who’ll be eating it, so… Knowing that the real reason he’s coming over tonight doesn’t have anything to do with food, I decide to throw together lobster rolls. They’re easy and a fan favorite among those of us who have a ready supply of lobsters. It doesn’t even matter that I had the same thing for lunch—it’s not as though mine will be anywhere near as good as Oliver’s. The comparison won’t even register.

I toss the rolls together and leave them in the refrigerator. Pausing, I tap my fingers idly against the counter and look out the picture window above the sink. I’m not prone to strange moods or emotional roller coasters, so I’m a little uncomfortable with how I’m feeling today. Yesterday, things felt simple between me and Roy. Today, I’m wondering if that’s a problem. Today, that old itch of pain accompanies my thoughts of Ewan like I’m digging at a scar.

It’s not as though I haven’t thought about the man since he left. If I’m being honest with myself, I’ve thought abouthim every day since he left. Some hurt worse than others; all were survivable. Looking to my left across the expanse of the living room, I eye my laptop. I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t. It’s pathetic—truly pathetic—how many emails have gone ignored, and the fact that I’ve kept on sending more. I need to stop, and maybe if I do, this thing with Roy will be able to move forward. I’ve got my fingers tangled firmly in Ewan’s memory, but I’m not holding anyone back but myself. It’s time to let go.

Leaving the kitchen, I grab my laptop and push open the glass accordion doors that lead to my patio. The surf crashes in the distance, sunlight hitting the water and scattering like diamonds. Sitting in the single wooden chair, I cross an ankle over my knee and prop my computer there. Instead of getting right to the business of saying goodbye to my friend, I watch the gulls circling in the distance, swooping low over the beach before cresting upward once more. If I were to leave my porch and walk a few yards away from my house, I could look to the right and see the lighthouse, standing on the cliffs overlooking the bay.

The thought of that lighthouse, and the fact that the last time I visited was with Ewan, spurs me to open the cover on my computer. Pulling up my email, I decide to partake in a touch of self-harm by clicking over to the sent folder. Dozens—hundreds, probably—of sent emails flash to life. All sent from me, and all unanswered. For the first time since I started sending them, I feel ashamed of myself. Taking a deep, painful breath, I open a new draft and say a final goodbye to my friend.

To:

From:

Subject: Farewell

Ewan,

I hope you’re doing well. You haven’t updated your website recently, so I haven’t seen any of your new work. Maybe I’m just not looking in the right place—you know how little patience I have for social media.

We went out on the boat today. You probably don’t remember, but this is the time of year when we get the traps set, and prep for the high season. Anyway, nothing special to report on my end, as usual. I always start these emails feeling like I’ve got so much to say, but I never seem to. I know you’re busy, though, so maybe it’s best to keep it short.

I feel like maybe I owe you an apology. I tried to text you after you left, and your number was disconnected. When I found your website, I thought that maybe email was the best way to keep in touch. Safer, you know? I know I prefer an email to a phone call, any day of the week. But then you never replied, and I kept telling myself it’s because you were busy. And you are, Ewan.I know you are. But were you so busy that you couldn’t reply once in seven years? Less likely.