Chapter 9: Fin-Fin

Dalton shut the truck door softly, so he would not wake her.

Then he turned around, and I hit him.

I had never hit anyone in my adult life.

I swung from the shoulder, and my fist caught him on the cheekbone.

He didn't raise his hands.

"Again," he said.

"Don't."

"I mean it. Do it again."

I hit him again, in the ribs this time. He grunted and went down on one knee on the planks.

The fishermen had stopped working.

"Get up," I said.

"I'm not going to fight you."

"Get up, Dalton."

He stood. He had a red mark under his eye and blood at the corner of his mouth.

"Thirteen years," I said.

"I know."

"You stood at my engagement party and told a room of people I was the best man you ever met."

"You are."

"Don't."

I swung again, and this time he caught my wrist.

He couldn't help it. He was a foreman, and he had caught wrists his whole life.

We went into the rail together.

His elbow came up and caught my mouth. Pain flashed, and I tasted blood.

"Stop it!" Brooke shouted behind us. "Stop it, both of you!"

"Fin-Fin."

It was small, and it came from the truck.

We both froze.

The back door of the truck was open an inch.

Poppy was awake in her car seat, with her curls flattened on one side and her whale in her fist.

"Fin-Fin," she said again, and held up both arms.

Dalton let go of my wrist.

I stood there, breathing hard, with blood on my lip.

I walked to the truck. I did not decide to. My legs just did it.

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