When I get there, the deck is packed full and there’s a line that goes around the corner of the bright yellow building. The Fuel Dock is an obligatory tourist spot, but also a favorite of locals and fishermen, mainly because they serve up the best burgers, fries, and shakes in town. Everyone has their favorite flavor, and mine is the Double Dark Chocolate Chip because it’s perfectly chocolaty and has tiny chips that fit right up through the straw.
I get in the line—it moves surprisingly fast, and within a few minutes, we’ve rounded the corner to the front. I see Sam behind the window, and he’s hustling. Calling out order numbers, checking on food, and handing it to waitresses. It looks hectic, and I get a little nervous. I look at the line that disappears around the corner behind me. I don’t know if I’m quite ready for this. When I look back at the crew behind the window, Sam sees me.
“Liv! Hey! Come here!” He grabs four grease-dotted bags and motions for me to go to the pickup window.
I meet him there, and he hands me the bags.
“Thanks, but I was gonna get a shake too.”
He shakes his head. “Nice try. It’s not for you. We’re slammed, and I need you to take this out to . . .” He looks down at the receipt attached to the bags. “B Dock, slip eighty-seven. The Wagners’ boat.”
“Um . . . okay.” I don’t know who the Wagners are, but I know how to find my way there.
“Thanks,” he says, “Oh. And you know who the Wagners are, or you should, so act like it.” With that, he disappears into the kitchen again.
“Thanks for the heads-up,” I say, looking down at the bags in my hand, then out at the rows of lettered docks. I guess I start work today.
B Dock is all the way at the end of the first row, so I get going. When I reach the gate and try the handle with my free hand, it’s locked just like the other one was this morning. I close my eyes and try to remember the numbers I typed in at M Dock. When I put my hand to the buttons, the code comes back to me and I punch it in, but it doesn’t work. I look around, but this dock looks empty too. I don’t want to fail on my first delivery. I stare at the buttons again, trying to pull the right combination out of my brain. I try one, and then another, and another. I jiggle the handle. I set the bags down and jiggle the handle again, feeling more and more panicked by the second.
“Hello!” I call. “Anyone here? It’s the Fuel Dock! I have your lunch! Customer number eighty-seven?”
I wait. There’s no answer. And then a water balloon comes sailing past me and splats on the cement, splashing my legs.
A little girl, maybe ten years old, comes running down the dock in her bikini, long blond hair trailing behind her. “Jackson, don’t throw water balloons at Liv. She was in an accident, you know. You could seriously injure her.”
There’s a goofy laugh, and then a splash, and a boy on a paddleboard emerges from behind a boat, grinning at me. “Sorry, Liv,” he says. “I wasn’t aiming for you.”
“Yes you were,” the girl says, as she gets to the gate. “Don’t lie. You’re so dumb.”
“Your FACE is dumb,” the boy shoots back. He hits the water with his paddle and sends a splash of water in his sister’s direction. I have a flashback of me and Sam, and almost this exact exchange. That was his favorite joke when we were kids.
The girl ignores him and opens the gate, and gives me a hug that squeezes a little too hard. “We saw you on the news. That was so scary. You almost died.” Her blue eyes are wide as they look up at me.
I’m not sure how to answer, or who these kids are. They must be regular summer vacationers. One of the families who dock their boats here for a few weeks at a time. Clearly, they know me. And we’re on hugging and water-balloon-throwing terms.
“Well, I didn’t,” I say.
“I’m glad,” the girl says, holding out two neatly folded bills.
“Me too.”
I take the money and hand her the bags. “How long are you here?” It seems like an appropriate, I-know-what-I’m-talking-about question to ask.
“A whole month!” Jackson shouts from the water. “And guess what? We’re gonna take sailing lessons from that guy who rescued you.”
My stomach does a wild flip, and goose bumps ripple over my arms. “What?”
“Yeah. He works down at the sailboats. It’s gonna be awesome! He even said he’d teach me CPR, like he did on you!”
I flash on the shaky footage from the video, of Walker’s arms pumping on my chest, my body jumping and falling beneath them, and I can’t believe these kids have seen it. Or that they’re so casual about it.
The girl looks up at me. “Are you guys friends now? Because he saved your life?”
Her question snaps me back to the conversation.
“No,” I say. “We’re, um, not friends.”
She frowns.
“I mean, I don’t know him.”
“Well, you should come sailing with us one day. Then maybe you could become friends.”
She’s smiling, and I can see how that would make sense in her mind as a happy ending to a scary story. I smile. “That would be fun, but I have to work, so I don’t know.”
“Oh,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “That stinks.”
“Your FACE stinks!” Jackson yells from the water. “Dylan’s, not yours, Liv.” He dips his paddle into the water to turn himself around, wobbles, then falls in with a splash.
The girl, Dylan, bursts out laughing, and I can’t help but join her. The boy comes up laughing too, and she rolls her eyes, then levels them at me. “I wish you never taught him that joke. He’s been saying it since last summer.”
“Sorry about that,” I say, still laughing. I look at Jackson as he climbs back onto his board. “I should’ve known. My brother did the same thing.”
“Kiddos!” a male voice yells. “You plannin’ on bringing lunch back?”
“I’m coming!” Dylan yells over her shoulder. She looks at me. “See you later, Liv.”
“Bye, Liv!” Jackson waves from the water.
“Bye, guys,” I say, and we all part ways.
I walk back in the direction I came from, replaying the whole conversation in my head, especially her assumption that Walker and I would now be friends because of what happened. I like the way kids sometimes see things so simply, though I’m not really sure how that would actually happen.
But still. He did save my life, and it gives me a nervous, good feeling knowing that I’ll probably see him around. I stop and lean on the railing for a moment, taking in the postcard image of the bay. The sun sparkles on the glassy water, setting off the tall masts of the sailboats against a cloudless blue sky.
In the far distance, the graceful arch of the Carson Bridge frames it all. It looks pretty in the daytime. So different than in the dark. I force my eyes to stay there a moment. Try to imagine night instead of the bright sunshine all around me. I picture headlights, crisscrossing the bridge, one set after another, until something goes wrong, sending one of them off course. I see the lights arc out and away from the others, their beams cutting through the empty darkness between the bridge and the water in slow motion before disappearing beneath the surface.
And then, in my mind’s eye, I see a boat. Walker’s fishing boat.
I blink, and it’s daylight again.
My phone is buzzing. Paige.
“Hey,” she says as soon as I answer. “Where are you? I’m at your house to help you get ready.”
“Get ready?” I ask.
“For your date? With Matt?”
FOURTEEN