The Washashore

They made their way farther out, and their angle back toward town widened. A look over his left shoulder revealed a view of the town Silas had never seen. A long necklace of buildings—mostly white clapboard or weathered silver shingles—nestled against the water, with the steeples of several landmarks easily recognizable. The harbor and marinas were less crowded now, but a few pleasure boats were still rocking in the chop at their moorings. Up ahead and to his right, he could make out Wood End Light, and out to his left, the light and sandy tip of Long Point.

The inert mass of the giant stones was reassuring to Silas, whose slight discomfort was growing slowly as they walked farther out into the bay on the tiny strip of rock. He could swim if he had to but just barely—and he sure wouldn’t want Wren seeing him thrash like a raccoon in a feed sack.

The uneven footing forced him to watch his step, just enough to keep the busy part of his brain occupied. That left the quiet part free to take stock of a bone-deep feeling of contentment he’d felt rising in him.

He hadn’t set out to fall for Provincetown. He’d never really experienced a place like this. A tourist town, a vacation spot, a place where frivolous, flamboyant fun was had, just for fun’s sake. In his mind, towns and settlements were primarily places to gather for work, trade, and survival. He was raised to believe the only legitimate way to earn attention and prove your worth was with your rope- and horse-handling skills, letting your competence speak for itself. And yet somehow, he’d been won over by folks just glad to be alive, happy to celebrate being somewhere they could breathe easy and be themselves.

Stepping across the deep gaps between stones, Silas had a realization. Even as an outlier—a big, uncommonly tall, funny-sounding cowboy far from home—he’d been met with acceptance at every turn. No one here had asked him to explain himself. Nobody here had questioned or judged him. Compared to the tight-laced social order back in Salt Lake, this place felt like breathing room. And he liked it. Sure, Wren was part of it. But what he felt for her wasn’t contentment. More like the opposite. It was a steady ache of curiosity, fascination—and a hunger to know her better, be near her, hold her tight.