The Tenderness of Thieves

by Donna Freitas

  Bridget twisted and turned, coy, her blond hair swishing and swaying. “Only when we make her. Don’t worry. She’s very discreet.” When we didn’t move, she added, “Come on, join us,” and plopped back down on her towel.

  Handel raised his eyebrows. “You know, I’m not really prepared for the beach. I don’t have a towel.”

  “They’ll have extras,” I said. “We’ll just stay for a little while.”

  Michaela and Tammy were smiling at us now, but I couldn’t tell what sort of smiles they were: forced, genuine, halfhearted?

  “Hi, Handel,” Tammy said. “Nice to see you again.”

  “I remember you,” he said. “The ice cream.”

  “Tammy,” she reminded him. Her tone was . . . confusing. Neither friendly like Bridget nor unfriendly. Neutral, maybe.

  Michaela didn’t get up. Didn’t say anything. I nudged her foot with my own.

  “I’m Michaela,” she said, unmoving, her body propped by extended arms, her knees bent and pointed toward the sun. Our casual look at me pose, the four of us had decided two summers ago, back when we were all trying to crack the code of whatever unlocked the boy mind and his accompanying boy attention.

  “Nice to meet you,” Handel said.

  “Hmm,” was Michaela’s response.

  I glared. Made a show of moving the towels that Bridget had set out for us away from Michaela so we didn’t have to be near her. Sometimes she made me so angry with her judging and her patronizing attitude. Like I couldn’t fend for myself and needed her to do it for me.

  Handel shrugged. Smiled sheepishly at me. “I don’t have a bathing suit on. I was just imagining a walk.”

  Bridget laughed. “What, you don’t live in one like Jane?”

  “You’re the same way,” I shot back playfully. Then I began removing my T-shirt and jean shorts a little self-consciously.

  Even though I had my bathing suit on underneath my clothes and even though I’d done this a million times in front of a million people, including Miles and his friends in this same spot on the beach, undressing in front of Handel made me nervous. It felt intimate and public in a way that was both thrilling and strange. I wanted to know what he was thinking as he watched me raise my arms to pull my shirt over my head, then undo the buttons on my shorts one by one, slipping them from my hips and letting them slide along my legs to my feet, if Handel was thinking about the other night on his boat when we’d kissed or if he was imagining doing this very thing himself sometime later on when we were in private. That’s certainly what I was imagining him doing as I performed this beach striptease, and why my cheeks were burning by the time I kicked my shorts to the side and sat down, nearly naked, next to him. It wasn’t embarrassment that was turning my skin a deep red, though. It was desire. Intense and hot as the sun above us. It made my heart flutter like the wings of a hummingbird. I wanted Handel to see it on me, the way his gaze made me flush with it. I wanted to make him as hungry for me as I was for him. I liked feeling this way.

  “Are you okay?” Bridget asked, bringing me back to reality. Reminding me that I was in the middle of a summer crowd. “I think you might be getting some color in the sun. Take some of my lotion.” She handed it over.

  “Thanks.” I opened the tube and began rubbing some into my cheeks and over my nose, unable to look at Handel as he made himself comfortable on the towel next to me, yet aware that his eyes were on me the entire time. When I finally turned to him, the way he stared was exactly the way I’d hoped he would. The smile he gave me so small it was almost imperceptible, except that I could see it and he knew that I could. A secret passed between us. Or more like it was exposed. I suddenly felt free of something, though I’m not sure what it was, exactly, that had been tossed aside like all of my clothing. Maybe it was some of the good I carried on my body like a heavy backpack. Maybe it was some of that.

  “So, Handel,” Tammy said, surprising me by starting up a conversation. Shaking me out of my daydream. “You’ve got the day off?”

  Handel turned to her. Squinted in the sun. “I do. It’s rare, but occasionally it happens.”

  “Summer job?” Miles inquired.

  My heart sank once again. Miles was so obviously an outsider sometimes.

  Handel just shrugged. “More like a job for life. I come from a family of fishermen. Generations of fishermen, really.”

  “Oh,” was all Miles said. He probably had no idea how else to respond, since he was more accustomed to someone discussing their Ivy League future after a question like that, or at least some kind of university future.

  “I’m putting off college for a year,” Handel added.

  “You are?” I asked, surprised. “I mean, you’re planning to go?”

  “I’m thinking about it. Lately, a lot.”

  I smiled. “That’s great.”

  “You’re a good influence,” he said, smiling back.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Michaela take a deep breath to make some snide remark, I was sure, but Bridget got there first with an elbow and Tammy, too, squeezing her other arm tight. Michaela closed her mouth.

  “What about you . . . Miles?” Handel asked, pronouncing the name carefully, giving it two distinct syllables. “What’s your future plan?”

  “Relax this summer. Finish high school next year and then college directly after.” He eyed me. “I’m hoping for Harvard, but it’s tough to get in, of course. If not Harvard, then maybe Dartmouth.”

  “Of course,” Handel said with a laugh.

  My heart was perpetually sinking for Miles. I wanted to help him sound more down-to-earth. More like us, I guess. “But you’ve got a summer job, too.”

  He gave me a confused look. “No, I don’t.”

  “Yes, you do! I saw you, remember? You’re a parking valet over at Christie’s.”

  Miles laughed. “That night you saw me, I was driving my mother’s car.”

  The pretty, ritzy woman all in white with the clutch. “That was your mother?”

  “The one and only.”

  “So you don’t have a job,” I confirmed.

  He shook his head. “Is that a problem? I mean, it’s not like you do, either.”

  Bridget bit her lip but didn’t say anything. Tammy and Michaela glanced at each other.

  “I used to,” I said, determined to reply. “But I’m taking some time off.”

  “Michaela,” Handel said suddenly, cutting through the awkwardness that had settled over everyone. “Your last name is Connolly, right?”

  She looked startled. “It is.”

  “I knew it,” he said. “Your older brother is Jason Connolly. You guys have the same eyes.”

  She smiled at this, a genuine one. Michaela loves her older brother, and without realizing it, Handel said about the only thing that might cool off some of Michaela’s attitude. “You know Jason?”

  Handel nodded. “From hockey. He, uh, took me under his wing, I guess you could say, back when I was a freshman.”

  Michaela’s smile grew. “Jason’s like that, isn’t he? I didn’t realize you would have played together, but I guess that makes sense,” she added offhandedly.

  Much to my surprise, Handel and Michaela fell into a conversation, bonded by their mutual admiration for her brother.

  Bridget leaned close. “This is good.”

  I nodded. “I know. Though unexpected.”

  We switched places on our towels, so Handel and Michaela could better talk and Tammy was closer.

  “He’s not so bad,” Tammy whispered to me.

  I rolled my eyes. “Gee, thanks.”

  Now Tammy rolled hers. “No, I mean, I might even like him.”

  “Good. Because I like him a lot.”

  “I know, J,” Tammy said, growing serious. “I can tell. That much I can definitely tell.”

 
“Well, I think it’s great,” Bridget pronounced.

  “We already knew that,” Tammy said with a laugh.

  An hour passed, then another, and as the time ticked by, I began to realize that, without planning to and nearly without any effort, Handel had not only met my friends but was getting to know them, too, and best of all, they were taking him in as though he might even be one of us. Between their acceptance and the looks Handel kept giving me, looks that were full of laughter and ease but also longing, I felt as though I was soaring. Like I was both in my body and out of it at the same time, watching this scene from above, a scene I had dreamed about before, the one that involved a boy who’d taken an interest in me, who’d decided he’d wanted me and only me, a boy who made my head swim and my mind full of daydreams. We’d be at the beach together, hanging out in the summer with my friends, as though this was somehow normal, as though it was meant to be, just as it had seemed with the older girls we used to watch enjoy the very same thing, who owned such attention, basking in the adoration of boys even as they basked in the sun and the sand.

  The only person who didn’t seem to be enjoying himself was Miles. The only person who left early that afternoon was him.

  And I admit, it made me a little sad to see Miles go. But only a little.

  TWENTY-ONE

  I WAS THINKING WE could go to this place near the docks to eat,” Handel said after we left the beach. It was evening. We headed toward the wharf. “It’s kind of hidden—I bet you don’t know it. You hungry?”

  “I could eat,” I said, reveling in the wonder of spending an entire day with Handel, a day that had been wonderful from the start. He had his arm around me again, and our pace was slow, leisurely, like we had all the time in the world. My flip-flops slid across the concrete of the sidewalk. “Though it’s tough to imagine there’s a place in this town I don’t know about.”

  Handel grinned at the ground. “You wait. I’ve got secrets for you.”

  My heart was pounding. “Yeah?”

  “This way,” he said, and led me toward an area near the docks that I’d always thought was deserted. “Under here,” Handel directed when we reached a part of the beach where the dock rose up over it on thick wooden pilings.

  “There’s nothing—” I started, about to protest there wasn’t anything but beach on the other side followed by a long jetty of rocks that stuck out into the ocean, dividing one town from the next.

  But Handel had disappeared. After I passed the last piling, I looked right toward the water and left toward the seawall towering above. Then I noticed the buoys stacked like a welcome sign in front of a wooden shack almost hidden from view. I saw Handel pass by the doorway, stop, backtrack, and beckon, so I went to join him. I ducked inside after him, and the remaining sunlight of the day was cut away by the thick boards that made up the roof of the little house.

  A pile of sand on the floor marked the entrance. Whoever maintained this place didn’t care if it got everywhere, just like at home. Two lightbulbs hung naked from the ceiling, and a makeshift bar divided the room in half, with a few stools in front of it. Behind the bar was the bare bones of a kitchen—a silver sink and counter where some dishes had been piled to dry and a short fridge at the back, a wide chopping block for cutting with a set of knives standing at its corner to the left, and what looked to be a small oven and gas stove to the right. A round outdoor grill was shoved into a corner, the kind you had to light the old-fashioned way and took forever to catch but was always worth the work because it made the food taste so good.

  I slid onto one of the stools in front of the bar. “What is this place?”

  Handel was opening a cooler packed to the brim with ice. He dug into the middle and pulled out a giant codfish and laid it on the chopping block. “It’s a place for us.”

  “Us?”

  He glanced at me before pulling out the biggest knife I’d ever seen, like a cleaver, but with a fat, curved blade. He put on a pair of thick gloves and began to expertly gut and clean the fish, removing its head and tail, which he dropped into a bag and shoved in the fridge. “The guys who work on the boats. We can come here whenever we want to cook up the day’s catch. Make some dinner. Drink some beers. Hang out. You know.”

  I watched as Handel carefully pulled out the skeleton of the fish, then went to work on the smaller spines. “Am I allowed to be here?”

  Handel turned for a sec, grabbed a pan blackened with use, and threw it on the stove, turning the flame to high. “You are if you’re with me. There’s some beer in the fridge. Help yourself, and if you wouldn’t mind, I’d love one, too.”

  “Sure,” I said, coming around the bar, still watching Handel deal with the fish, picking out the tiniest of the bones. I was used to watching this—we lived in a fishing town. But there was something fascinating about seeing Handel Davies doing it, and for the purpose of what appeared to be our dinner. A dinner he was going to cook for me. A dinner cooked by a boy who’d never spoken to me before only a few weeks ago—no, that hadn’t even known I was alive before then. The fridge was packed with beer, the bag with the fish head and tail shoved into the only remaining space. I grabbed two and opened them, leaving one at the edge of the chopping block for Handel. Then I returned to my perch at the bar. “Are you bringing the leftovers to your mother for later?” I asked, referring to the head and tail, which people around here used to make stock.

  He grinned. “Yeah. I keep her in good supply.” He slipped the glove from his left hand and took a swig of beer. “She’s a fine cook.”

  “From the looks of it, so are you.”

  “Nah,” he said, his eyes on me now. “It’s just knowing how to clean the fish right, then some high heat and salt. There’s no skill in that.”

  I took a sip of my beer, breaking our stare. “Maybe. We’ll see, I guess.”

  “We will.” Handel threw two long, thin pieces of fish into the pan, where they made a satisfying sizzle. He began opening and shutting cabinets, pulling out plastic spice bottles and a couple of plates. While Handel cooked, I got up and stood in the doorway, staring out at the ocean, watching as the last of the day’s light seeped away. I couldn’t stop smiling; I couldn’t stop glowing, really; and I couldn’t stop loving the fact that Handel felt like he was wholly mine. Unlike before, when I was unsure what to call us, I suddenly knew that I had him—had him like I’d never had a boy. And he had me, too. There was no doubt about this, either. All my worries, the despair of that night in February, the danger everyone feared would rear up in front of me like a killer wave, it all seemed so distant now, like I might have imagined it, and I loved that Handel did this to me, too, that he gave me this.

  Eventually, the delicious smell of fish pulled me from these thoughts, from the sounds of the ocean and the breeze rolling across the evening. I was just in time for Handel to place a perfectly charred fish in front of me at the bar, a couple of lemon wedges on the side. A big bowl of potato chips followed.

  Handel pulled up a chair next to mine and began squeezing some lemon over his own dish. “I hope you like it,” he said.

  I detected a trace of nervousness in Handel’s tone. That I made Handel nervous meant that he really liked me, that he really cared about what I thought. “I’m sure it will be great,” I told him, but that was before the first bite of dinner melted in my mouth. “I meant amazing,” I corrected. Suddenly I was ravenous.

  The two of us ate in silence, the only sound the clink and clatter of cutlery. After a while I spoke again. “I really like this place.” My fish was nearly gone.

  So was Handel’s. He speared the last of it with his fork. “Good. Me too.”

  I set my empty plate to the side. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

  Handel took a sip of his beer. “I thought about bringing you the first night we went out, but I decided maybe it was too soon.”

  “Really?”

&nbs
p; He nodded.

  I grabbed the two dirty plates from the bar and brought them to the sink. I was about to turn on the water when Handel stopped me.

  “I’ll do that later,” he said. He placed a hand on my back. “Let’s you and I go sit on the beach. It’s a nice night.”

  I could barely breathe with him touching me.

  I followed Handel out of the shack. He’d grabbed a blanket from a small wooden chest against the wall and carried it between his left arm and body. When we reached a spot that was tucked away from the prying eyes of our town, we set it out on the sand. Then we sat down and started to talk, watching as the moon showed its crescent self. It wasn’t long before Handel leaned forward, kissing me softly at first, then less so, his fingers brushing the tender indent at the base of my neck, hovering over the top button of my shirt, hesitant.

  All day, ever since our time at the beach, I’d been replaying in my mind the thought of Handel’s hands doing this very same thing, this act of undressing, even a little bit, that before now only I was permitted to do. So I gave this power over to him with only the slightest of nods, and the softest of yeses, and that was all he needed to take the next step, to twist his fingers so that the first button slid from its loop and my shirt fell open just a little at the neck. I might have stopped breathing then. With his eyes on mine, full of just the sort of desire I felt, one by one he opened the rest until there weren’t any more left to undo.

  My heart pounded. I was lit up like a star.

  Handel smiled that nearly imperceptible smile again.

  And then I dared to do the same to him, to start at the button at his neck and work my way down until I could slide his shirt open and run my finger from his chest to his navel, something I had never done before to a boy, had never dreamed of doing before this boy. We stayed like this for a long while, hands exploring, softly, slowly along tanned skin, like we had all the time in the world, lids lowered, smiling with pleasure, a smile I’d read about in novels but never understood until now, the most wonderful ache building all through my body. Eventually, finally, Handel’s fingers danced along the ends of my bathing suit ties, tugging, teasing, loosening. By the time the strings fell away down my back, I was the one reaching behind my neck and lifting it the rest of the way over my head, setting it aside.