“The sex is good.”
“Fuck you, Kris.” A tear rolls down her cheek, and she brushes it away.
“We’ve only been seeing each other for three months. No, I don’t love you. But in time—”
Sophia cackles like a witch and shakes her head. “We both know you’ll never love me. I don’t know if you can love anyone.”
I move to sit on the bed next to her and take her hand. “How about we get through this week, and you can announce to the world what a horrible bastard I am and dump me. You can say whatever you want, within reason, and I won’t deny or confirm a thing.”
“You’d do that?” Her mouth turns up on one side, a smile in the making.
“If you’ll stay.”
“Done.”
If nothing else, Sophia is a survivor.
“I’ll get the room next door, it connects to this one. No one will know.”
Sophia shakes her head. “Someone will know.”
“I know the owner, no one will know.”
Sophia nods, stands, and puts her suitcase on the bed. “I’ll unpack while you do that.”
I’ve always known Sophia was using me as a stepping-stone, but I had no idea she could be this cold. Standing, I make my way out of the room and head for the manager’s office. Hopefully, he’ll be willing to keep his mouth shut, so the whole world doesn’t discover this secret.
***
It’s amazing how well I slept, not sharing a bed with Sophia. For the past two months, I’ve survived on three or four hours of sleep, but last night, I got eight good hours, which tells me I need her out of my life. Sophia is a professional, so working with her on Powerful shouldn’t be a problem. It’s four thirty in the morning, and I’m dressed with my new gloves on heading to the docks. It’s only a short walk from the motel, so I decide to leave Sophia with the car.
Opening the door to the motel, the cool morning air mixed with the smell of the sea hits me, and I realize how much I’ve missed it. After our little discussion yesterday, I decided I needed to leave Sophia alone, so I went out and purchased a pair of overalls and a black t-shirt. Somehow, Armani on the docks doesn’t seem appropriate. Not that anyone down there would know a brand name if it hit them in the face, and they don’t need to. These are honest, hardworking folk who do a hard day’s work seven days a week if need be.
My father is already on the docks helping unload the catch from the night before. Joining him, I grab the rope he’s pulling on and help him lift the crate onto the docks. They have a full load. It should take the better part of two hours to get it ready for transport.
“Thought you weren’t getting here till six?”
Dad’s face twists into a grin. “I don’t feel old today. Besides, I knew you’d get here early, couldn’t have you beating me.”
“Hey, Kris,” yells out Petey from the deck.
“Petey.”
“Your dad said you might be joining us. Breakfast at Scrumpies?”
Scrumpies is a bar slash diner the fishermen of Boothbay have been eating at for as long as I can remember.
“What about Small Delights?”
“Nah, TB doesn’t like us coming in and stinking up his café. I reckon he thinks it’s too hard to get the smell out of his pretty seats.”
Smiling at Petey, I nod. “Sounds like TB. Scrumpies it is.”
Dad pats me on the back and points to the pulley. “Undo the rope so we can get the next one.”
“Yes, sir.”
I cast my old man a look, his cheeks are red from the early morning air, and there’s a sparkle to his eyes that wasn’t there yesterday. Dad loved the sea, loved the work. For me, it was a means to an end. I worked whenever I could to save money to leave.
For the next hour, we work in silence. Dad gives directions, and I do as I’m told. Not that I need guidance, it’s only been seven years, and I grew up on these docks. Occasionally, one of the guys will give me a hard time, and we exchange profanities, but the work has to be done so everyone buckles down and does it. The smell of fish has permeated my clothing. As a teenager, I hated it, but now I’m enjoying the hard work that the smell represents.
Dad grabs the latest haul, pulls, and I jog around the crate to help him. For an older man, he has the strength of someone much younger. Reaching for the rope, I pull hard. There’s a snapping sound, and the line breaks, sending the crate down on Dad’s foot. He yells and tries to push it off, but nothing is going to move it.
“Petey!” I yell as I look around for something to lift the weight off him.
From the tone of my voice, everyone on the dock knows something has gone wrong. Petey is next to my father, and I look at him helplessly.
“Forklift!” barks Petey.
I nod and run to the end of the dock to get it. The keys are in the ignition, and I drive it toward my dad at the fastest speed possible, which is pathetically slow. Once I reach Dad, I place the forks under the crate, and once I’m sure it’s entirely on them, I lift. I don’t want to do further damage to his leg by moving the crate forward instead of up. Petey helps my dad out of the way, and I lower the catch back onto the dock.
“Dad, are you okay?” I ask as I run toward him and Petey.
“I’m fine. Get my boot off.”
Kneeling in front of him, I shake my head. “No. We need to get you to the hospital to see how much damage is done.”
“I’m fine, Kris. Get my fucking boot off,” orders Dad with pain in his voice.
“For fuck’s sake, Lenny, do as you’re told for once. Kris is right, and you know it.”
“I do not need to be told what to do by you, Petey,” bellows Dad.
“Can you walk?” I ask, ignoring both of them.
With his arm slung around Petey, Dad tries to take a step and winces.
“I’ll call an ambulance,” I state.
“Like fuck you will! I’m fine.”
“Dad, you can’t even walk.”
With lips pressed together and his eyebrows drawn into a harsh line, Dad pins me with a glare. It reminds me of my youth, except I’m not a kid anymore, and Dad no longer scares me. I put his other arm over my shoulder, and with Petey’s help, we get to his old blue faded truck. Another dock worker opens the passenger door, and we get Dad into the passenger seat.
“Let me know,” says Petey as I jog around the truck.
“I’ll be fine,” reiterates Dad.
“I will,” I reply with a shake of my head.
Dad lets out a loud huff and glares at me. Starting the truck, I head for the hospital.
“Where are you going?”
“Lincoln.” It’s the nearest hospital.
“No. Take me to the medical center. I’m not going to that place. Your mother died there.” His voice is hard.
“Dad, you need treatment.”
“Please, son.”
There’s a tone to his voice I’ve never heard before—pain mixed with sorrow. Stopping the truck, I pull over and look him in the eyes.
“Please.”
I nod, turn the truck around and head for the medical center. Parking out front, I look at my dad. His eyes are shut, and he’s breathing hard.