Tack & Jibe

by Lilah Suzanne

  * * *

  Lunch today?

  She texts Lane during her first fifteen-minute break while sitting outside on the short dividing wall between the shop and the marina. Robin and Jenn agreed to let her apply for the manager position, and she’s so excited that she has to tell someone. It feels good. It feels right, as if she’s finally making a mature, adult decision and choosing her path forward. Just like Bodhi.

  I’m at a hot yoga class on Oak Island. Sweating out this hangover. Rain check?

  Willa worries a little at Lane’s text back—is she really at a class and can’t make it or is she blowing Willa off now that’s she’s come to her senses? She shakes off the thought and starts to dial her mom’s number instead.

  “Willa! Hey!”

  Willa glances up, shading her eyes to see across to the marina, where Mr. Kelley is waving at her. He motions her over, so Willa pockets her phone and jumps down from the wall.

  “Got your boat back, finally. You’d think the poor ol’ girl was involved in a multi-national money laundering scam instead of a little bump-up.” He claps Willa on the back and points out the boat she’d tried—and abysmally failed—to race.

  “It’s not my boat, Mr. Kelley,” she reminds him.

  “Well, it might as well be! Any time you want to use ‘er again just go right ahead.” How a man as nice and generous as Mr. Kelley wound up with such a terrible nephew, Willa does not know. Of course, she doesn’t know Max like, at all, really. Still, she’s certain he’s terrible.

  “I appreciate it but I think my sailing days are done.”

  Mr. Kelley rubs his leathery red face, considering Willa. A seagull skitters around their feet on the dock, no doubt scavenging for scraps of food or fish. Willa has half a mind to punt the thing right into the water.

  “I think your problem is that you were only sailing to prove something. You gotta try setting sail for the joy of it.” He spreads his arms out in front of him, palms up, as if setting them onto the line between the sea and the sky, holding up the horizon. “Joy is a good enough reason do to something, you hear?”

  Mr. Kelley hasn’t always owned this marina. For most of Willa’s life it belonged to the same older couple; it was a family business that they had every intention of passing on to their kids who were a few years ahead of Willa in school. But their kids left, like a lot of the people Willa grew up with. Off to bigger and better things, or so they always thought. Whenever anyone came back to island after a stint away, Willa always took it as a warning that there really isn’t anything better out there and that she was smart to stay, that she was right to keep her life so small. Really, she was afraid. That’s where it all came from: the lying, the fake persona, wanting desperately to be someone she wasn’t. It was fear, not bravery as Lane thinks, that always propelled her forward. But what if…

  What if, instead, she actually was.

  What if she was brave?

  For the first time, Willa looks out at the ocean and the horizon that she’s been looking out at for nearly all of her life and wonders what else is out there for her. For the first time she allows herself to feel the tug of longing for something different and the possibility that she can actually have it.

  “Yeah,” she tells Mr. Kelley. “Maybe so.”

  Ch. 38

  Bodhi and Hunter are in Wilmington looking for an apartment, so Willa is on her own getting the cottage spruced up. She puts on her rattiest T-shirt and shorts and tugs a ball cap over her curls, then goes down to the utility closet beneath the raised deck out back. She squeezes around a weed whacker and old window screens and avoids getting snared by a hose coiled on the ground. On a shelf behind bottles of weed killer and ant killer are partially used cans of paint; the colors inside are revealed by the drips caked almost artfully down the sides. After some thought, Willa chooses three: soft blue, pale yellow, vibrant green. She tucks pruning shears under her arm and gets to work.

  She doesn’t mind the labor required to get the house in shape: painting and cleaning and repairing any wear and tear inside, mowing the lawn, snipping the deadened ends of the pink-flowered azalea bushes, and cutting back the unkempt wax myrtle bushes outside. She likes making the place shine, highlighting its best attributes and hiding its flaws. In fact, she’s really good at it. In the backyard, she picks up sticks and gum pods and re-hangs the hammock that they’d put away when the temperature started to drop. She enjoys being productive, doing something that engages her body and mind and gets her outside in the sun. Maybe that was part of the appeal of sailing. Maybe that was what Mr. Kelley meant. She’s halfway through painting the living room in a shade that matches the sky when her phone rings, interrupting her painting playlist. She wipes her hands on her shorts and scoops her phone from the counter.

  “Hey, Mom.”

  “Hi, kiddo. You sound out of breath, everything okay?”

  “Oh, yeah.” She pushes a sweaty clump of hair back under her hat. “Just painting before summer vacation season starts.”

  Her mom tsks. “Why they don’t just pay someone to do that…”

  “I don’t mind,” Willa says. She rotates her shoulders in turn to work out the ache from so much repetitive movement. It makes her feel as if she’s earning her keep. It makes her feel connected to her mom, too, who always rolled up her sleeves and did what needed to be done.

  “So where’s the dynamic duo?” Willa asks. It’s quiet in the background way out in Kansas City, an unheard-of occurrence. Christina has been calling or texting often since her visit, and usually their phone calls are punctuated by Atticus and Amelia wanting to say hi, wanting to video chat so they can show off or use the goofy phone filters, or else whining and fussing.

  “Oh, I had Tim take them to the park. It’s finally getting nice here. I miss the island most when it goes from freezing rain to regular rain to tornadoes here.”

  Willa’s stomach twists with guilt. Her mom is sitting inside, calling her, instead of enjoying a rare nice day with her family. “You should be out there with them, then.”

  “Willa,” her mom says, in a warning tone. “It’s okay to need me too.” It’s something she’s been repeating a lot lately, that Willa is trying to take heed of.

  “I know. Okay. So…” Willa grabs a soda from the fridge and catches her mom up on the events of the last few days: how Bodhi is leaving soon, that Robin and Jenn are looking for a manager and she has decided to apply, about Lane’s parents being the worst.

  “And how are you and Lane?”

  Willa picks at the tab of her soda. “We’re not… Not really anything.”

  “Hmm,” her mom says. There’s the sound of door sliding open then closed, as if Christina has gone outside to enjoy the weather after all. “You know, she came by when you were out of it.”

  Willa smiles to herself. “I know. She brought me a coloring book and a plant.” The little succulent is still in her room, on the windowsill where it can greet the sun every morning.

  “Not only then. Every day. She’d sit by your bed and just quietly stay with you, for hours sometimes.”

  Willa warms at the thought, even as she dismisses it. “She was just worried.”

  “Well, some people aren’t great at saying how they feel,” her mom responds. “But they show you. So if you’re unsure of where you stand with Lane, next time pay attention to her actions, not her words. I think it’ll be pretty obvious then.”

  They chat about how things are going on her mom’s end: the funny things the kids have said, how Tim’s job is going, the recent commissions her mom has gotten for the jewelry boutique she started just before Atticus was born that’s finally starting to take off. And though she’s not sure if it’s true, her mom’s words about Lane’s actions revealing her true feelings linger throughout the rest of the phone call and while Willa finishes painting. It’s similar to something Bodhi said, back in the hospital when
Willa was concussed: that she knew Willa’s heart, despite the lies she’d told. Does Willa really know Lane’s heart? Has she tried to?

  Lane texts her that evening, when Willa is soaking in an Epsom-salt bath trying to ease the burn of her overworked muscles. Dinner, my place?

  The sun is low and lazy in the sky when Willa arrives at Lane’s with her skateboard tucked under one arm and most of the paint splatters scrubbed away. Willa scrapes at a blob of green paint on her thumbnail while she waits for Lane to answer the door.

  Out back, she texts. Willa looks around, as if trying to see around the row of high-rise condos, and walks backward off the porch. “Out back” is the beach and the ocean. What is Lane up to? Willa winds her way down the wooden path that cuts through long sea grass and down to the beach, where Lane is sitting on a blanket with a picnic basket set on one corner. Her mom’s words ring like a bell as Lane smiles and stands.

  “I think I owe you a nice dinner after ambushing you with my parents.”

  “Lane, you didn’t—” Her heart gallops in her chest. “You don’t have to do all this.”

  “Don’t be silly.” She sets out little containers of food; it’s clear she made everything herself except for the champagne. “Sit.”

  They eat without talking much. It used to make her uncomfortable, sure that Lane’s silence meant anger or judgement. But she’s come to understand that it’s just how Lane is: quiet, thoughtful, introspective. It’s nice actually, that she can just be with Lane, not needing to fill the quiet spaces with meaningless patter or some reckless activity that gives them something, anything, to do. Lane takes neat, even bites of a sandwich and watches the tide go out. Willa is glad to see her back to her normal self.

  “How are things with your parents?” Willa asks, once they’ve put the food away and stretched their legs out on the blanket.

  Lane shrugs. “Oh, we’re back to pretending nothing happened. That’s how we handle difficult things in my family.”

  Willa winces. “Sorry.”

  “Oh, it’s fine. Business as usual, really.” Lane turns to face her, eyes squinted against the glare of the setting sun. “Are you wearing a bathing suit, by any chance?”

  Willa plucks at her board shorts and pulls at the neck of her T-shirt to reveal the swimsuit top underneath. “In this weather? Always.”

  Lane bites her lip against a smile. “Want to go for a swim?”

  Ch. 39

  The waves are calm and tipped with gold, though still chilly enough to take Willa’s breath away when a wave rolls by and splashes up against her waist. Lane, in a black cut-out one piece, takes her time, stepping forward then waiting until her body adjusts to the chill. Willa, however, dives right in, slipping below the water for long enough that Lane is calling her name when she breaks through the surface.

  “What are you, part mermaid?” Lane paddles over, hair still dry.

  She and her mom used to have breath-holding contests, hands clasped and legs churning as close to the sandy ocean floor as they dared, then racing back up to gasp and laugh and bob on the waves. The ocean is as comfortable to her as her own bed, so, “Yeah, maybe I am.”

  Lane smiles, then dips below a passing wave, coming back up with her hair plastered back, sleek and shiny and black as night. Willa treads water nearby.

  “You’re so lucky that you grew up here,” Lane says. Her longer legs must touch the bottom; she’s stable while Willa flips back to front, kicks her legs wildly, and swims in circles to stay afloat.

  “Yeah, I am.” She is glad to be here, truly, even when she sometimes yearns to be anywhere else.

  A jogger passes by on the beach, sand flying behind them with each step. A group of teenagers tries and fails to ride boogie boards on the waves that peter out long before they hit the shore. Something slimy trails along Willa’s foot, seaweed probably.

  “You know, in some places the water is totally clear. Like you can see all the way down to the bottom,” Willa says, plunging a hand below the opaque gray-blue water.

  “Yes,” Lane says. “I do know.”

  “You’ve been there,” Willa guesses.

  “Some. Not all of them.”

  “Not yet.”

  Lane acknowledges it with a tilt of her head. Stacked against Lane’s experiences exploring the world, living in various places in between sailing jaunts, Willa is in a race she’ll never finish, not even if Lane stands perfectly still for years. She loves this island, it’s not just a place but a part of her, and yet…

  “Do you ever feel like you’re in a cage, and someone left the door open so you can leave any time you want, and then you just— don’t.”

  A wave crests behind them, and they both swim up to rise over it. When they come back down, Lane is closer, close enough that Willa’s feet and hands brush against her as she treads water. Lane’s face is thoughtful, searching. The teenagers nearby scream and laugh.

  “What if I leave,” Willa says, “and nothing else out there can compare? What I leave, and it’s awful?”

  Lane reaches out, letting Willa cling to her so she doesn’t have to keep fighting to stay afloat. She pushes water-logged curls from Willa’s face and smiles softly. “Well, if the door is open… Why can’t you just go back in if you need to?”

  Willa doesn’t answer. She’s never thought about it like that. Lane’s legs bracket Willa’s; her arms are solid around Willa’s waist. When Lane kisses her, it takes like the ocean. I love you, Willa thinks, to the rhythm of the waves cresting and falling and rushing to the shore. I love you, I love you, I love you.

  Lane pulls back to whisper against Willa’s lips, “Want to go inside?”

  They stumble to the beach, hastily gather the picnic and their dry clothes, and shake out the blanket. Lane’s apartment is freezing; the air-conditioning flicks goosebumps across their bare skin. Lane packed towels and hands one to Willa while Lane stands dripping on the floor mat in just her clinging suit. Despite the chill, Willa is already buzzing with anticipation; heat settles in her belly even as her teeth chatter. If Lane just wants to show Willa how she feels with sex, then Willa can be okay with that.

  Lane’s eyes slip low; her bottom lip is pinched between her teeth. She turns to Willa, slipping one bathing suit strap down and off her shoulder and then—

  “We never did stay in and watch a movie like you wanted.”

  Lane’s bare shoulder is so close she could put her mouth right on the smooth curve of it. Wait. Did she just say watch a movie?

  Willa blinks. “Huh?”

  Lane smiles in a way that suggests she knows exactly what she’s doing. “I’m gonna go change, did you want something else to wear?”

  “Um.” Still trying to catch up with what’s happening, Willa glances down at herself. The top and shorts are starting to dry. If she stands under the vent for a bit she should be good to go with just the towel folded beneath her. “I’m okay.”

  “Okay. The remote is on the table; you pick. I trust your judgement.”

  Willa stands there, blinking and cold, as Lane saunters off to get dressed. What is happening? And has anyone in her life ever said those words? “I trust your judgement.” Willa rubs the towel over her face and is reasonably sure that the only appropriate response is to propose marriage to Lane, right here, in the soggy, cold foyer of her condo.

  Or she could pick a movie.

  “Ooh, good choice.” Lane, now in a loose T-shirt and cotton shorts, plops onto the couch and tucks one leg beneath her. It’s new, this relaxed version of Lane, and Willa wonders how many people get to see her like this. It feels like a privilege.

  “You know this movie?” Willa drops the remote onto the coffee table and leans back. It’s a new cult hit, one she thought she could introduce Lane to. The opening credits blare from the TV.

  “Yes, Willa. I’m not totally hopeless with pop culture. Belie
ve it or not, I was young once upon a time.”

  “I didn’t mean like—” Willa frowns and watches the movie instead of protesting. She can’t focus, though, and soon twists around on the couch to look at Lane. “It bothers you. The age difference.” If only you were ten years older. Willa meant what she said, that she wouldn’t hold anything Lane did or said when she was drunk against her. That doesn’t mean she forgot.

  Eyes on the TV screen, Lane replies, “I wish it didn’t.”

  Willa allows the answer to hang there; both of them tune in to the movie and let the clock run out on the evening. But Willa soon loses focus on the plot. She doesn’t want just something physical with Lane. She’s not okay with going on the way they have, girlfriends in all but name because Lane is afraid of getting into a relationship and Willa is afraid to rock the boat. Hasn’t Willa learned, through all that happened, to be honest despite the consequences? To go for what she wants instead of settling for what other people want her to be?

  “It doesn’t bother me,” Willa says, loud over the music of a dramatic moment in the movie. “And it shouldn’t bother you either. In fact, I think it’s an excuse.”

  Lane’s eyes narrow, and her chin lifts. “An excuse?”

  “Yeah.” Willa’s mouth is getting ahead of her brain now, but for once she’s not afraid of what will come blurting out. “Because I think you know how I feel about you and I think you feel the same way. But it scares you. So you pretend like this is some casual fling with someone too young for you to be serious about. And that’s a lie. I can tell because I’m really good at lying.”

  The condo has grown dark and the TV flickers light and shadow on Lane’s tightly held features. She doesn’t give anything away, though Willa knows she’s gotten to her. In the movie, the main character hits their rock bottom moment, and Lane’s head drops.