Emilia’s car sat by an empty spot. Morgan pulled in, hardly daring to breathe, and stared at the water. No sailboat. She was out there then, enjoying the perfect—why hadn’t she appreciated how perfect it was?—evening. Waiting in the truck felt stifling. She walked down to the dock and debated whether or not to take her own boat out to look for her. Only the chances of missing her entirely stopped her from rowing to her mooring. Instead, she paced the dock until she felt stupid, and then sat with her feet in the cold water until a familiar sail turned into the cove. Abruptly, she realized she had no idea what to say to Emilia. Panic tightened its grip. As the sailboat grew larger, however, and the setting sun glinted off a pair of sunglasses she recognized, the panic vanished. It didn’t matter. Emilia was here.

Emilia raised a hand to her eyes as she tacked across the cove. Morgan wondered if she’d recognized her yet, or if she’d turn back out to sea once she did. The boat kept coming. Emilia turned it into the wind and caught the mooring in a practiced maneuver she’d clearly perfected over the summer. Morgan thought about diving in and swimming straight out to the boat, but that felt too much like cornering her. She’d walked out, and now she had to let Emilia come to her.

Not, of course, that she was going to do anything so chivalrous as leave the dock. If Emilia wanted to escape her that badly she would have to find a different port.

She watched Emilia coil the lines and furl the sails with excruciating slowness. Was she avoiding her, or did it always take this long and Morgan had just never noticed? She chafed at the distance. After a geological era, Emilia at last got into her skiff and began to row. Morgan counted the strokes. One, two, seven, thirty-seven. Emilia’s back was to her, concealing her expression completely.

Morgan caught the bow as Emilia pulled hard on the right oar and slid into the dock. Her tongue had glued itself to the roof of her mouth, making it difficult to swallow and impossible to talk. Emilia stowed her oars without meeting Morgan’s eye, and the moment stretched, time turning to taffy as Morgan’s hopes—and organs—twisted. When Emilia at last looked up, her sunglasses shielded her eyes and the rest of her face gave nothing away.

I’ve lost her, Morgan thought, but she held out her hand anyway, and forced her tongue to remember its duty.

“I’m an idiot.”

“Yes,” said Emilia as she took her hand and allowed Morgan to pull her onto the dock. “You are.”