Sometimes it was lonely. Sometimes it was ridiculous. Once Evan drove to Baltimore to catch a flight for a 3-day visit, only to discover Clare's schedule had moved 2 hours north. She rented a car and met him halfway. They spent most of the weekend in a town neither had intended to visit.
Clare photographed an old pier. Evan repaired the loose handle on the motel bathroom door because apparently he could not help himself. You know, they have maintenance staff. I was already holding the screwdriver. Why did you bring a screwdriver?
He looked at her. Clare sighed. Never mind. By the time the project ended, neither of them had made a grand sacrifice. Clare had taken the work.
Evan had kept his. Nothing had been abandoned to prove the relationship mattered. That mattered more than either expected. Clare flew back to Annapolis on a gray Thursday afternoon. Evan met her at baggage claim.
No flowers. He had brought coffee. She took one sip. Correct order. I had 5 months to study.
That's commitment. Don't make this strange. She kissed him anyway. 2 days later they went to blue heron. Clare stepped aboard and ran one hand over the rail.
Evan watched her. So she said, "What happens now?" 5 months earlier. The question would have made him want an answer immediately. Where would she live?
Would she travel again? What were they calling this? What came next? Instead, he looked out across the marina. I don't know.
Clare smiled. That's becoming your line. I'm getting comfortable with uncertainty. That sounds medically significant. It's unpleasant.
She sat beside him. For once, Clare did not reach for a calendar. Evan did not reach for a solution. Blue Heron shifted gently against the dock. Clare rested her head against his shoulder.
They stayed there without deciding anything. For both of them, that was new. Nearly a year after the first auction, the marina held its annual auction again. Evan had no intention of attending. Clare had no intention of believing him.
"We need dockline," she said Saturday morning. "We have dockline. We need better dock line. That is not why you want to go. Clare put on her sunglasses.
I enjoy watching you become tense around numbered paddles. Evan followed her anyway. The auction looked almost exactly as it had the year before, folding chairs, boats lined along the slips with handwritten lot numbers. The auctioneer recognized them immediately. Well, he said into the microphone.
Should I expect another dispute over $50? Clare smiled. Evan kept walking. A small white dinghy came up three lots later. Clare nudged him.
Want to try winning this time? No. You didn't even look. I learned from experience. That losing is painful. That losing can be unexpectedly efficient.
Clare turned toward him. Evan looked straight ahead. The auctioneer called for another bid. Clare raised her paddle. Evan caught her wrist.
What are you doing? Testing your growth. We do not need a dinghy. That sounds like fear. That sounds like storage.
She lowered the paddle. You've become boring. I own waterproof labels now. It was inevitable. After the auction, they walked back toward Blue Heron carrying new dock line and a bag of pastries Evan insisted were not lunch.