Page 36 of Rhodes

My phone buzzes against the cooler lid where I dropped it, a hard rattle over the wet plastic. I peel a glove off and thumb it open, salt drying tight on my knuckles.

Morning. Was wondering what you're up to this weekend. I'd love to take you to a proper dinner, if you'll have me. -Trey

It goes warm and light in me, and I don't fight it. A normal guy asking me to a normal dinner, nobody leading with are-you-okay.

"What," Jo says, catching my look. "You're grinning."

I turn the screen toward her, and she reads it out loud. Rhodes doesn't turn around to join in, but I can tell he's paying attention.

"Trey, yes sir. Get it, girl."

"Should I go with him?" I'm smiling now, and I know it.

"Um, yeah!" She bumps my arm. "Are you crazy? Have you seen that smile?"

"Stop." But I'm laughing.

Rhodes is three feet away, hauling the last empty crate out of the water. He doesn't say anything. He turns back toward the boat too fast, sets the crate down, and starts recoiling a line that's already perfectly coiled.

I put my glove back on, figuring I'm imagining it.

"You need those bow lines?" Jo asks him.

"Got it."

He doesn't have another joke for her. The bossy one, the easy needling from before, all of it gone like somebody flipped a switch. He just gets quieter, and I figure he's had his fill of manual labor and silly girls.

The tide's turning good now, water sliding back off the new sill in bright sheets. Jo stays with the boat, has to run it back to her uncle's landing, so it's me and Rhodes and my truck for the ride home.

We load the gear in the back. He gets in the passenger seat and pulls the door shut before I close the tailgate. The cab that felt roomy at four fifteen this morning is about half the size now.

I start it up, and neither of us says a word.

The radio's still on from the drive down, low, some song I don't know. I leave it. He doesn't reach for it either. The whole way out this morning we couldn't stop talking, and now the road noise fills the truck, and neither of us puts anything into the quiet.

"Sill looked good," I say.

"It did."

He turns his head toward the window, watching the marsh go by with his salt-dried arm on the door.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, sorry. I'm exhausted. Do you mind if I take a nap?”

"Be my guest."

He tips his head against the window and shuts his eyes, and it's just me now, the quiet, desolate road.

I keep waiting to be relieved that he's stopped asking me things, but the relief never comes. I hate that I care that the good morning is gone.

ELEVEN

Rhodes

Ghost Marks: When a wall comes out, the framing leaves a shadow on the plaster that no amount of paint will fully cover. The house keeps a record of what used to stand there whether the family wants one or not.

My gym bag hits the wall by the door, sliding an inch before resting on the floor. My shirt's soaked through and stuck to my back, and my legs are already telling me tomorrow's going to be worse.