“I’m not trying to be impressed. I’m trying to get to know you.”
The corner of my mouth lifts. Can’t say that doesn’t feel good, that she wants to know me, more than she has before. It’s just a little terrifying at the same time, because I know all the dark parts I try and keep hidden. She’s seen my poetry, but that only scratches the surface of who I really am. That’s my ugly soul rearranged into pretty words.
We get to the marina, park, and get out of the car. It’s busy today, a lot of boats heading out. I grab Shay’s hand and we walk over to the dock, heading toward the boat at the end of it.
To my surprise, Epsen is on board, a bucket and a scrubbing brush in hand. I know that he cleans it between trips, I just didn’t think he’d be here today.
“Anders,” he says, just as surprised to see me. Then he looks at Shay and his brows go even higher. “And hello there.”
Of course he’s saying this all in Norwegian, but Shay has already picked up quite a bit.
“Hello,” she says in Norwegian, her accent ridiculously cute. “I’m Shay. Anders’…friend.”
Espen laughs, clapping his hands together. “Friend, huh?” He gives me a salacious wink, then switches to English. “I’m Espen. I’m Anders’ first mate and sometimes friend. Just not in that way.”
“First mate?” she says. “He talks highly of you.”
I swear Espen is turning a shade of pink beneath his beard. “That can’t be right. All Anders does is insult my mother.”
“Hey,” I say. “Your mother deserves it,” I add as a joke.
He gives me a mock glare before turning his attention back to Shay. “Well, are you going to come aboard?” Espen asks. “I’d like to say I knew you were coming and I was just cleaning up for you.”
Shay looks to me in question and I nod. “Go on.”
She walks to the steps and then Epsen reaches out, taking her hands and pulling her up on deck. I follow, right behind her.
“Wow,” Shay says, running her hands along the cabin and peering inside.
I chuckle. “You don’t have to say wow, unless you’re talking about what a heap of junk she is.”
“No, I mean it,” she says to me, looking earnest. “She has so much character, like she’s sentient or something.”
“I believe it,” Espen says. “A stubborn old mule is what she is. Always trying to drown us.”
Then he grows quiet, remembering what happened to my father.
I clear my throat, trying to gloss over it. “A lot of boats are heading out,” I say, nodding at the harbor.
“Yeah,” he says, obviously grateful for the change of subject. “The fishing right now is bonkers, an area just outside the upper bank.”
Part of my gut twists. What I really should be doing is not taking Shay on a trip around Norway, but heading back out to sea to take advantage of the bounty. Cod stocks have been depleted over the years thanks to overfishing, so it’s rare to have a good batch. The bank that Epsen is talking about is in a really rough section of water, further out to sea than we like to go, but it’s doable for our boat.
“Fuck,” I say under my breath.
“What?” Shay asks, and I know if I tell her, she’ll take the first opportunity to insist we cut our trip short. As close as we are now, I still feel like she has one foot out the door.
“Nothing,” I tell her.
“Hey, you know Dag is here on the docks,” Espen says. “He says he’s heading out but he’s having engine problems.”
“Who is Dag?” Shay asks.
“He used to be my father’s first mate,” I tell her. “He taught me everything I know.”
Espen clears his throat and gives me an expectant smile.
“Yes, Espen, and you taught me the rest,” I go on. “Remind me again who is in charge here?”
“Only because it’s your ship.” He winks at Shay. “He’d be nowhere without me.”
“Well, why don’t you and Dag take the boat?” I say to him. “Today.”
“Without you?” Espen asks. That’s certainly never happened before. But I trust both of them, and why should they miss out on this opportunity? I know I’m not going at any rate.
“Yeah, without me. I’ll go the next round.”
Espen gets that gleam in his eyes, the kind he gets when he thinks about money. “I’ll have to ask Dag.”
“Ask me what?” Dag says from behind me, his accent thick. “And why are we all speaking English?”
“Dag,” I say to him. “Come aboard. I have a proposition for you.”
Dag puffs on his cigarette for a moment, then climbs aboard with ease. He’s about seventy, but you wouldn’t know it from the way he moves, and even though he smokes like a chimney, he seems in better health than most people. To add to his constant smoking, he wears a jaunty Greek fisherman cap, striped shirts, and has dark leathery tanned skin, even in the middle of winter. He’s what you picture when you think about stereotypical rough fisherman, although Dag is far more intelligent than he seems. I think he has several degrees, and might have even been a lawyer in a past life.