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Twenty-One

Huck

We stop in Beaufort, South Carolina, for the night, which is a freaking godsend honestly because those decent-sized swells that Stella mentioned proved to be too much for that off-brand motion sickness patch I stuck behind my ear as soon as she left the galley.

Ted and Stella have a favorite restaurant in Beaufort, one of those hole-in-the-wall places that locals guard with their lives like a state secret.

It’s supposed to be an easy walk from the marina, though, easy is a relative term given that I’m struggling to adjust to dry land after a full day of movement of the boat.

“It’s not far, Sully,” Ted assures me as I sway on the pier.

“Am I supposed to feel like the ground is moving?”

“It happens sometimes.”

“It will go away though, right?”

Ted thinks for a moment. “Yeah, definitely. It’s rarely permanent.”

“ Rarely permanent? That’s not very reassuring, buddy.” I try to picture how I’d finish writing my next book after the trip is over if the screen were rocking back and forth, and almost lose my lunch.

“I told you not to try to be a badass and just put the scopolamine patch on before we got on the boat. You made your own bed. Just don’t get sick in it,” Ted says, nodding at me and then toward Stella. “She’ll never forgive you if you puke. Very anti-puke, that one.”

I make a mental note to find the emergency bottle of Dramamine I’d packed just in case, and also to ensure that I don’t appear nauseated in sight of Stella again, not that it would make a difference; I am nearly certain that never forgiving me is already a checked box when it comes to her.

Especially after she told me about her parents, both of them leaving, and her really having no one.

I’d known there was some painful truth beneath the surface, even back in Iceland, but I had no idea that it was that bad.

Which means that me bailing was part of a long pattern of complete shit that she’s had to deal with her whole life. I feel like the worst person alive.

It’s no consolation that I didn’t know about her parents when I made that fucking awful choice.

In light of her history, I could be part of her villain origin story.

Then again, if there’s a villain in this tale, it’s me.

I could explain it all to her, but why would I?

Understanding why I made the decision to leave wouldn’t change the fact that I’d left.

My explanation would be meaningless in the context of what she’s endured.

Worse than meaningless…it would hurt her, like pouring salt water in a wound healed and opened again just so I can ease my conscience.

I might not be a great guy, or one who made my father proud…but I would never intentionally harm someone I care about. And I care about Stella, even if I never have the chance to show her.

We stroll along, somewhat unsteadily in my case, down a dusty avenue lined with massive, moss-adorned ancient oaks.

Ted walks beside me and Stella is several paces ahead of us.

It’s a relief that she can’t see me struggling to walk in a straight line, but the space between us is palpable.

It’s heaven and it’s hell. She’s barely spoken to me since our time together in the galley.

I’ve seen her around the boat, torturing me in a worn-thin T-shirt and frayed cutoff jeans, while she performs maintenance and billions of freckles appear on her skin like I wished them there. This trip just might break me.

Before we left the marina, she traded her uniform jean shorts and T-shirt for a basic chambray sundress and a pair of broken-in cowboy boots that give her a few extra inches in height.

She took out her braids and let her hair down.

It’s longer than it was last year. Now it falls in waves down to the middle of her back, just above the spot where I’d place my hand if we were walking together.

Where I’ve placed my hand before. The fit of my palm against the curve of her back is burned in my memory.

“You’re quiet,” Ted says.

“Just trying not to toss my fucking cookies.” A half-truth. I’m watching her walk in those boots; every few steps she throws in a skip for fun.

“A hundred bucks says you’ll be good as new once you have something to eat.

You’ve got to try the low-country boil. It’s incredible.

The freshest shellfish you’ll ever have, sweet corn, tender potatoes, and that heat…

Pair that with a cold beer and it’s paradise for the palate. Start with the oyster crackers.”

“How long have you guys been coming here?”

“At least twice a season for the past seven or so years, except for last year. We got to know the owners, Peg and Billy, a while back; they’re great.

They both grew up here and the recipes they use have been in their families forever.

” He reaches up and snags a piece of moss in his fingers.

“We found it on the way back during one of our early seasons. Lucky we did too. There was a nasty front coming in—we had a much smaller boat then—and we used Peg’s Place as a bailout.

We were all so naive then. Stella comes up from a dive with a handful of ancient gold coins.

The rest of us were so stoked. In our minds, it was the coolest thing that had ever happened to us, and we figured it was only a matter of time before we’d be hauling out giant rubies and emeralds and gold coins after that, but it was a one-off.

We didn’t find anything else. And we’d missed a front coming in.

Gus and Zoe and I were disappointed that we didn’t find more before we had to make a run north, but we were still thrilled about the coins, especially since we’d been searching for a few years by then and hadn’t found a thing—not Stella.

She was pissed . Those coins weren’t old enough to have come from the Sea People’s Stolen Treasure.

I asked her if she wanted to give up. Hunting treasure hadn’t worked out well for her family, maybe it was time to walk away for good.

She told me she’d never stop, not until she found it.

She was convinced that if we didn’t quit, eventually we’d find the thing that would make it all worthwhile. ”

“She never gives up. She’s tenacious,” I say.

“Exactly. She’s a real pain in the ass.”

“I heard that, Teddy,” Stella says without turning around.

“A tenacious pain in the ass,” he shoots back.

“Just for that, you’re buying dinner,” she says, slowing her pace before she veers off the road to the left onto a path that looks like a narrow driveway in between trees.

“When do I not buy dinner?” Ted says and casts a glance in my direction.

Ahead of us, there’s an unassuming squat building, older but freshly painted, situated in front of a long expanse of marsh grass, black against the peach glow of the setting sun. If we hadn’t turned, I wouldn’t have known it was here.

“Anyway, as I was saying, we were dealing with bad weather and Stella’s angry as hell. Only one thing got us through it.”

“Crabmeat,” Stella chimes in.

“I was going to say friendship,” Ted says.

“Bullshit. You love good crabmeat more than I do.”

I reach to pull the door open for her, but she beats me to it. Ted passes through first and she follows behind him.

“What can I say, seafood is my love language.” He pulls off his hat and is instantly in his element—hugging the staff, winking at the bartender, heading to a table tucked in a bay window with a perfect view of the sunset. It’s almost as if it’s been saved for us.

Stella and Ted sit together, leaving me with a side to myself, and Ted orders for everyone—the magic meal, biscuits, low-country boil, and a round of bottled beers.

I’m thankful for this, since it’s difficult to read the menu in my current condition.

It’s also a challenge not to compare this to the night that Stella and I went out for Icelandic pizza.

But soon, our meal is served and we’ve all had enough to drink that our sharp edges are softening.

I’d hoped that the food and drink would cure my problem that a quick Google search on my phone says is vestibular, but so far, no luck.

Thankfully, there’s no shortage of conversation thanks to Ted.

I don’t need my list of thought-provoking questions or even to be particularly witty.

He has enough to keep us going late into the evening, through dessert—a cobbler that I might dream about later, it was that good.

“Seems like your new book’s doing well,” Ted says.

Stella stabs a peach with her fork.

I wipe my mouth with a napkin and swallow. “Yeah, it’s been good.”

“Dude, they talked about you on Good Morning America . I’d say it’s been great.”

I lift my shoulders. “I’ll have to take your word for it.

I didn’t see it.” I have no desire to dwell on the show.

A similar TV appearance had set my father off in the weeks before he’d died.

He’s been gone for years, but I still remember the shade of purple he’d turned, how he threw the remote across the room, the vicious things he’d said.

They’d asked me how I came up with Clark Casablanca, and I’d told them about my boarding school days, how I’d loved it there and had all my best ideas up late on the dormitory roof spinning tales with my roommate at the time.

It was the wrong thing to say. A slap in my father’s face.

They’re all going to see through you , he’d said.

You wait. They’ll see what you really are, what I see so clearly, Henry.

Should I have dedicated my success to him, was I forged in the flames of his anger and resentment?

I’d been honest. I’d done well in spite of him, and if anything, most of my success was really owed to Ted. Without him, I’d have given up.

Stella flags down a waitress for another beer.