The Sea Is Better at Flirting Than You

How it begins

Malik Saye could bring a fishing boat through a winter squall, but he could not enter the church hall while Elena Keane was looking at him.

Salt dried on his jacket cuffs, leaving pale lines that matched the ones across the harbor steps.

He stood in the doorway with a folded chair under one arm.

"I brought this back," he said.

"You borrowed it in March."

"Yes."

It was September.

Elena took the chair. Behind her, the harbor choir was arguing about whether enthusiasm counted as a musical key. She had been hoping for another low voice. What she'd acquired so far was a retired accountant who sang every note as though disputing a bill.

"You could stay," she said.

Malik glanced at the room. "I don't sing."

"You sing on the boat."

"That's different."

"Because the fish are less critical?"

His smile arrived briefly and changed everything about his face. Elena had known him for six years. She was beginning to resent how much of that time she'd spent being sensible.

A gust rattled the open door. Beyond it, masts leaned against the evening sky, and someone was calling for a missing dog with more conviction than the choir had managed all week.

Elena stepped away from the entrance.

"One rehearsal. You can stand near the door. You don't have to sing alone."

"And if I'm terrible?"

"Then you'll fit in beautifully."

He looked at the chair in her hand, as though regretting its successful return. Then he came inside.

Twenty minutes later, Elena heard a warm, steady note beneath the others. She turned without meaning to. Malik stopped immediately.

She faced forward again and kept conducting.

The note returned.

For the rest of the rehearsal, she watched the window, where the sea was turning silver, and tried to remember the last time she'd wanted so much to stay quiet.