Dirty Game

My cousin sat on the bow with a goofy grin and a beer in hand. “Let’s go, man. Where in the hell have you been? I’ve been sitting out here thinkin’ you weren’t going to show.”

“You know I’m not going to bail on you.” I smiled and popped the top of my first beer. “I had a lot of shit to get done today. I’m ready now.”

I loaded the cooler, a box of tackle, and a bag of sandwiches I had picked up from the Seaside Café into the toolbox at the stern of the boat.

She still didn’t have a name. I knew it was bad luck not to name my boat, but I wasn’t superstitious. For now, she was nameless, but I trusted her. I had handpicked every limb of her frame and driven every nail into her seams. My father had tried to help, but I’d refused the free pair of hands when I had them.

I felt the back of my throat clutch at the thought.

“Can you believ

e it’s already the Fourth? Man, this summer is flying by.” I positioned myself behind the steering wheel. “I have to report to fucking camp soon.”

I rubbed the back of my neck. I loved this place, as much as I loved football. And right now, I didn’t know which one I needed more.

“Hey, did you know Sierra Emory was on the island?” I asked.

Cole shook his head. “No. Hadn’t heard that.”

I didn’t want to make a fucking big deal about it. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Yeah, we better steer clear of the cape today. It’ll be full of those damn ski boats, scaring off the fish,” Cole agreed.

Cole loosened the sailor’s knots and tossed the ropes up on the dock. With one hard shove, we started drifting in the creek, and I cranked the engine. The creek was alive with jumping mullets. I steered us under the bridge and headed east.

2

Sierra

From the small peak at the top of the bridge, the island didn’t look like much. In fact, it really wasn’t much at all. It never had been. No coffee shops. No yoga classes. There wasn’t even a gym. I didn’t know how I was going to manage the rest of the summer here.

It always felt like time travel when I came home. Home. It was a weird word to associate with this place.

I might as well have jumped in a time machine. I gripped the bridge’s railing. Damn, this island was hot. I shielded my eyes from the reflection and tried to focus on the two fading figures laughing and sipping from koozies.

The island wasn’t more than two miles wide and five miles long. When I was a kid I’d known every square inch of it. That seemed like a million years ago now. Exploring this place was the last thing I wanted to do anymore. That girl no longer existed.

I shouldn’t be here. Leave it to Aunt Lindy to pass her estate to me in the heat of the summer.

The boat was on the horizon now. I probably had known those guys in my past life. There’d been a time when I’d known all the island guys. They wore T-shirts, deck shoes and most of them walked around with a cigarette.

Sweat trickled down my neck, and I piled my hair on my head, hoping a breeze would find me. I had wandered a little farther than I’d planned. My mission had been to jog to the store and pick up some ice for the cooler, but once I’d reached the market, I’d kept running. Maybe I was trying to outrun the heat or just outrun this feeling that I was going crazy.

I didn’t know if I could handle opening one more drawer only to find it was stuffed to the top with moth balls.

I turned from the bridge and wondered why I had ventured this far without a car. I still had to stop by the store and walk home with a bag of ice. The ice maker was broken and nowhere among the piles of Tupperware and casserole dishes had I found any ice trays.

A gust of cold air hit me as I pushed open the door to the market. Immediately, the smell of turpentine, fishing tackle, and candy bars hit my nose. It was such an odd combination to my senses. The hardwood floors had been worn from years of fishermen and islanders waiting in line at the counter for their handwritten receipts. As far as I knew, this was the last place in the world that didn’t electronically print receipts.

I smiled at the old timers huddled in the corner near the magazine rack. They tipped their hats and refocused their attention on the smooth pieces of wood they were whittling. Their rocking chairs gently rolled on curly-cued pieces of new wood shavings.

I hauled the ice to the counter and paid. The clerk handed me the ice receipt, but before I could make my way out of the door, I bumped into a woman rushing through it. Bright nail polish flashed on her toes, on display in her fluorescent flip-flops. Her earrings, obviously shells, matched a print on her T-shirt. Her arm jangled with bracelets reaching almost up to her elbow. The woman let out a shrill cry that could be heard from the other side of the street.

“Sierra Emory! Little Sierra Emory.”

I nodded meekly and smiled. Who in the hell was this woman?

“Well, shoot! I’ve been meaning to come down and say hi. I was so sorry to hear about your aunt. But tickled you’re going to be moving in.”