She clung to him, fighting a surprising urge to cry. He smelled of wood smoke and varnish and salt air.
“Of direction I'd come,” she said shakily, drawing back. Although both of them knew it was a half-truth, a wished-for belief. She hadn't even called him, and the cognizance of her own selfishness tasted black and bitter.
He touched her cheek. His rough, callused pores and skin reminded her of hours spent sanding boat decks at the marina, a female and her dad, huddled collectively in the death red sunlight, pronouncing nothing that mattered. “I ignored you,” he said.
“I missed you, too.” It used to be true. She had ignored him, each day and all the time. Now, standing here, seeing in his eyes how lots he cherished her, she wished she'd been extra forgiving when he remarried, more accep
