Page 47 of At First Catch

Mom said, and I quote, “That poor boy needs a real meal.”

Jesus Christ.

Me

I’m thirty-six years old.

Holt

Doesn’t matter. She’s already decided you’re underfed.

Me

This town is terrifying.

Holt

See you at six.

I stare at the screen for another second before locking it again.

Dinner with the Wrights. The idea should make me uneasy. Instead, something warmer and more complicated settles beneath my sternum. Because despite how overwhelming they can be, there’s something addictive about the way that family loves each other.

It’s impossible not to notice when you grew up the way I did. Most of my childhood was built around temporary spaces and conditional affection.

Claire never asks who’s staying for dinner. She asks how many extra potatoes to make. That tiny difference keeps following me around.

By four o’clock, music drifts from somewhere near the bait shop while charter boats move through the inlet farther out on the bay. Several locals wander through the docks to “check progress,” which mostly seems to mean offering unsolicited opinions while bringing baked goods.

I’ve now received ham biscuits, blueberry muffins, a suspicious amount of banana bread, and one casserole I’m afraid to identify.

Apparently, buying the marina means the town collectively assumes I can’t feed myself.

Not entirely inaccurate.

Walter Greene reappears sometime after three, carrying a folding chair and enough confidence to imply he plans to supervise me recreationally.

“You look tired,” he announces.

“Good afternoon to you, too.”

“You sleeping here?”

“No.”

“Hm.”

I’m beginning to hate “hm” as a sound.

Walter taps one of the weathered pilings with the toe of his boot as he looks out across the slips.

“See that post?”

I follow his gaze toward a thick support piling near the end of the dock.

“Old Bill carved kids’ heights into it.”

I glance closer. From here, I can just make out shallow knife marks climbing the wood. Initials. Dates. Some so faded the salt had nearly erased them.