It had taken me a while to get used to this kind of outdoor space, to the freedom, and it still made me twitchy sometimes. I was glad for the hustle and bustle of the marina. In prison, you’re used to constant noise around you all the time, and even in the halfway house you heard people talking, eating, working, the staff doing counts, my roommate breathing or rolling over in her sleep. My first night on the boat I thought I might go insane from the quiet. At least the smallness of the boat helped me feel safe. I was used to living in tight quarters.
I decided to take Captain for a walk on the beach—I walked miles every day now, sometimes I felt I could just keep walking—then head into town. I needed some new clothes, though I hated shopping. I got confused by all the options, so I lived in jeans, hiking boots, and white T-shirts, flannel shirts, or hoodies if it was cold. I still didn’t like drawing attention to myself.
When I got back to the boat, it was dusk. I parked my beater truck—a good deal I found online for eight hundred bucks, using a lot of my savings and the mechanic skills I’d picked up in the joint. I also bought a secondhand laptop when I was at the halfway house, and I had Wi-Fi at the marina. I was walking down to the wharf when Captain stopped, his body alert as he stared at one of the other vehicles, a low growl starting up in his throat. I paused, my own body tense.
A man got out of a truck, leaned against the side.
“Hey, Toni.” He smiled, the left side of his mouth lifting up as he took off his baseball cap.
It was Ryan.
I sucked in my breath. Was it really him? I stared at his face, his eyes, trying to take it all in, but my heart was beating so fast I couldn’t think straight. I looked around. Was anyone watching? The parking lot was quiet. I looked back at Ryan, who was staring at me, his head tilted to the side, the smile gone and his face now serious. Why was he here? I gripped Captain’s leash, pulling him closer. I’d figured Ryan would stick around Vancouver, not be stupid like me and move back to Campbell River. I felt his gaze lingering on different parts of my face. The last time I’d seen him was at court as I was dragged away by the sheriff, and now we were facing each other in a parking lot with twenty feet and fifteen years between us.
He was thirty-five now, and still good-looking but in a harder way, a dangerous way. His hair was still dark brown, no gray, but his face was lined, one cheek scarred. He was wearing faded jeans and a form-fitting white long-sleeved shirt, pulled up to his elbows. He was bigger and looked like he worked out a lot, with broad shoulders and bulging biceps. His forearms were covered in tattoos.
“You look good,” he said. “Little different, but you haven’t changed much. I like your hair.”
I used to be able to read his face so easily, but now I had no idea what he was feeling, if he was also trying to adjust to seeing me as an adult. I looked better than when I was first released. I’d gained a little weight now that I was eating healthier, just enough to give me a few curves. Assholes still seemed to think I was cute, but one look from me and they got the idea. I had no idea what Ryan had been expecting, though. The last time he’d seen me I was twenty years old.
“What are you doing here?” I said.
“We need to talk.” His face was still serious, remote. The look prisoners get after years in the joint, where survival depends on hiding your thoughts.
“You know we can’t talk to each other.”
He met my eyes, his sad for a moment, finally revealing a hint of what might be going on inside. “You stopped writing.”
He said it casually, but I noticed how he shifted into a tough-guy stance, his legs spread, his thumbs hooked into his belt loops, exactly how he’d stand in school when he was trying to hide that he was upset or hurt about something.
I struggled to think of a way to explain myself, still shocked that he was standing in front of me.
“It was the only way I could survive. I had to move on and try to forget everything—and everyone. It was just … easier.”
Now his face showed his old anger, the expression he’d get when someone would say “I know your father, kid,” and turn him down for something.
“It wasn’t easier for me,” he said.
I tried to find some anger in myself, some sort of defense, but I just felt sad, remembering how hard it had been to ignore his letters, feeling like I was abandoning him. “After we were convicted, I lost my mind. I shut down, shut everyone out. I went kind of crazy in there for a few years.”
He looked away, out at the water. “Yeah, I get that. I did too.”
I wondered what he’d gone through, but I didn’t ask, didn’t know if I could bear to hear about his pain, not without breaking down over everything we’d lost.
“There’s nothing we can do about it now,” I said.
“What if there is?”
There was something in his voice, a resolute sound, like he was about to make some sort of declaration that I wasn’t ready to hear. I glanced around. The parking lot was still empty. “What are you talking about?”
Now he looked excited, hopeful. It made me even more nervous. Hope was a dangerous thing.