The text sat on his phone like a warm coin. He did not show it to anyone. He did not need to.
On a Thursday in the sixth week, Grant stopped at Infinity Liquid's passerelle while Keon was polishing stainless. Valerie was with him, in the sunhat again.
"You're Blake," Grant said. "Bow hand."
"Yes, sir."
Grant looked as if sir hurt him a little, which was not Keon's problem. "I spoke badly to Miss Jackson on this pier before the season opened. You were there. I won't pretend you weren't. I am trying not to be that person on these docks. If I am, you can tell your captain. Or her."
Keon kept the cloth moving. The stainless threw a warped version of Grant's face back at both of them. "Yes, sir."
Valerie's voice was quieter. "He means it as much as he knows how. That may not be enough. You don't owe him a comfortable answer."
Keon glanced at her, surprised. Adults rarely said the second sentence out loud where other adults could hear it.
"I have work," Keon said, not unkindly.
Grant nodded and they moved on. Yara, who had been listening from the galley doorway without appearing to, waited until they were gone and then said, "You handled that."
"I polished a rail," Keon said.
"Same thing, some days," Yara said. She handed him a bottle of water from the cooler. "Drink. Heat makes everything feel like a test."