I wasn’t ready yet to break the news, and we wouldn’t be leaving until after Thanksgiving anyway. A couple days after my dad got out of the hospital, I dropped Nic off at the train station. He sat in the car with one leg out of the door and one leg in, kissing my hand. “You sure you can’t come to New York?” People were heading onto the platform in droves, and for some reason, I didn’t want anyone to see us. “I should spend a little more time with my parents before I head out,” I told him. He was wearing his new leather and brass jewelry from Greece and a pair of suede pants. He kissed my fingertips, which were peeking out of the gauze bandage I’d just changed. We’d spent the day before grinding winches on the new boat, getting splashed by the Connecticut River. I’d been trimming the jib when the wind ripped the sheet through my hand, taking some skin with it. As I wrapped it up, it reminded me of Ryder the night I hit my head on the crash cart. “One week,” Nic said now, “and we get our life back.
