He takes out his phone and starts texting. I’m about to ask him who texts at a time like this, but then I see his name pop up on my screen.

We’ll try this, he says.

Okay

K: Do you remember the day you taught me how to make eggs?

Yes…

I look up at him. His head is bent over his screen, and he’s grinning.

K: I went home and started writing. An hour with you and I felt like the inspiration I’d been waiting for my whole life hit me all at once.

Why didn’t you tell me?

K: Why would I? You were my girlfriend’s best friend. And you were with Neil. I took it for what it was. You were my muse.

I’m grinding my teeth so hard I can hear the cracking. Kit pauses texting to nudge my glass of wine toward me.

K: Helena, I love you. I’m in love with you. Say something…

Men tell lies

And then I stand up and walk out before he can stop me.

I don’t know where to go. I press the heels of my hands into my eye sockets and breathe in the sharp, piney air. I feel compressed. I’m folding my emotions like a piece of paper—a tiny square, into a tiny square, into a tiny square. When they’re folded up enough I can leave them in a corner of my mind somewhere, to be forgotten. That’s how I deal, isn’t it? And sometimes, on a day like today, I imagine that my brain is littered with hundreds of bastard feelings I won’t claim.

I’m on the sidewalk looking left to right, ready to sprint. I forgot my coat inside the restaurant, which is unfortunate because it’s cold. I’m afraid he’s going to come after me, and I’m also afraid he’s not. I’m not sure what’s worse at this point? I have to get out of here so I can think. I duck my head and stick my phone in my back pocket as I head for the docks. It’s late for Port Townsend. I’m dizzy from the wine; my limbs feel loose like the spaghetti I was eating. Most of the shops that sit along Main have closed for the night. A few stragglers walk the sidewalk with their dogs, already bundled up for the cooler weather. I clutch my arms around myself, and try to smile as I pass them. I’m in a hurry, and they move out of the way for me.

The walk to the marina is ten minutes; the run is six. I’m not wearing the right shoes, and my feet are aching. I stop when I reach the Belle, my favorite. She’s rogue among the other boats—handcrafted and hardworking with rustic milled logs. She makes all the other boats look like they’re trying too hard.

My wine cork is in my hand. I spin it around my thumb over and over as I look at the water. I don’t even know how it got there. It always finds its way into my hands when I’m distressed. It’s so stupid, holding onto a little piece of cork like it’s a security blanket. I lift my fist above my head, with only a moment’s hesitation before I throw it into the water. And then I start to cry because I really love my wine cork. Fuck that. I pull off my shoes and straighten my topknot. There’s no point to straightening it, but it feels like I should, like a boxer cracking his neck before he dances into the ring. I’m about to dive in when someone grabs me from behind.

“Helena! Don’t be crazy.” Kit drags me back from the edge of the dock. I struggle to get away from him.

“I want my wine cork,” I say. I realize how crazy that sounds. I do. But I can barely see it anymore, just a tiny smudge on the surface of all that ink. Kit doesn’t look at me like I’m crazy. He ducks his head and narrows his eyes, pointing to the wine cork, which is drifting farther and farther away.

“That?”

“Yes,” I say.

He pulls off his jacket and shoes, never taking his eyes from the spot in the water.

“Oh my God! Kit, no! It’s just a wine cork.” I wait until he’s already lowering himself into the water to say it, though. I don’t want him to change his mind. When he pulls himself back onto the dock, water is running into his eyes, and he’s shivering. If he gets pneumonia and dies, it’s going to be my fault. And then I’ll hate my wine cork. But I’ll still have it.

“We need to get you dry,” I tell him. I look back toward the cannery. Greer will be home. I’m thinking of Greer. Seeing her. Her seeing him. Him seeing her. Us all together. So bizarre. Also, I don’t want to share Kit.

“Let’s get out of here,” he says. “Come on.” He helps me pull on my coat. I stick my cork in my pocket, but it just feels like a thing now. The action overpowered the thing. What Kit did…

We walk the few blocks to his condo. I’m surprised when he stops in front of one of my favorite buildings and takes out a key. It’s the sky blue building with ornate cream trim. So close to the cannery I’m surprised Greer’s never mentioned it. We take an elevator that smells like fresh paint. Kit is dripping all over the floor, leaving puddles. I glance at him sympathetically, and he laughs.

“I’m fine. I’d do it again just to show you I’d do it.”

Mother of all holy fucks.

I get the hazy eye lightheadedness that comes with a really good kiss.

I follow him out of the elevator to his unit and wait anxiously as he opens the door. I’m fretting. I care about what Greer will think, and Della too. And my mother. And Kit’s mother. I’m about to make an excuse not to follow him in when he turns around and grins at me. I don’t even remember what I was thinking a second ago. Kit’s condo is bare, except for a leather sofa and some boxes stacked in a corner, the tape still sealing their mouths shut. Everything is new and freshly painted; the wood floors gleam, newly polished. There is heavy wainscoting on the walls—squares within squares. Kit disappears into the bedroom to change his clothes, and I wander over to the window to look down at Port Townsend. The rain is really coming now. I like the way it makes everything shine. I’d been on a vacation with my parents to Arizona once—the typical family pilgrimage to the Grand Canyon. The towns on the drive through all looked the same to me, dusty and matted. I wanted to raise a giant bowl of water over the whole state and rinse it off.