by Lena Maye
But I am so very, very still. I don’t know how to stand up. I don’t know how to get home.
“I’ve got you.”
I blink up at his jaw—only inches from my face. Why is he so close?
My feet detach from the dock, and I’m floating. Softly rocking like the boats in their slips.
“N-n-no. I need to get h-home.” But it’s too late for that.
8
Dean
Think.
I stand on the dock, clasping her to my chest and listening for her breath. It’s faint. Hard to hear over my own ragged breathing as I try to keep her tucked against me. The water was too cold—I knew that even as I threw myself into it. My arms are made of cold, sloppy mud. I don’t know how long I can hold her.
Think. Think.
We’re alone—empty slips all around us. The Harborwalk far above. She’s trembling, soft clicks as her teeth hit together. A few feet away, Matty struggles up. He weaves to the side and limps toward me.
I need to get warm too. And soon.
Even if I managed to get up to the Harborwalk without dropping her, where would we go? Portage doesn’t have a hospital. I’ve got no clue where a doctor might live.
The bakery. I take a step forward, but my feet are so numb I can’t feel the dock. The walkway rises sharply. It’s at least half a mile to the bakery. And I’d have to leave Matty here.
I pivot toward the Heroine—twenty yards away. There’s a heater in my room. Warm clothes. A blanket for Matty.
I focus on the stripe of red that runs across the hull. A finish line. It crawls closer, but her body gains ten pounds with every step.
The ramp moves. Blurry on the edges and wafting toward the left. Even though it’s stationary—attached to the dock and not the ship. But still it moves.
Matty stumbles up ahead of me.
One step at a time. I set my foot on the ramp, then focus on shifting my body over the top of it. Another step. Another. I struggle across the deck to the one-person-wide hatch that leads down to the cabins. I shift her into a reverse piggyback so her cheek rests on my shoulder. Her breath is against my neck, and I focus on it. Each breath forces another step forward. Down the ladder to the end of the passageway. I fall through the door, trying to stop her from hitting the bed too hard.
Heater. I crank it up to full blast. The heat makes my skin itch and burn. I grab my comforter and start to pull it over her.
But she’s soaking wet. She needs to be warm and dry. Or else she’s just going to get the bedding wet. And then she’ll be colder.
I start with her shoes. My hands tremble so hard I can’t untie the laces. I finally give up and pull them off. Wet socks peel off next. I struggle with the button on her jeans. The zipper. I yank the jeans over her hips and down her legs. I can hardly see anything I’m shivering so hard. It takes all the strength I have left to pick her up so I can pull her sweater over her head. Then her white shirt.
She falls back on the bed. She’s only in her bra and panties, and I know that if I were in any other state, I’d have a hell of a hard time not looking at her. But right now I’ve got only one focus: get her warm. I wrap my comforter around her, and push a pillow under her head. She’s swaddled in gray, softly breathing. Her shivering starts to lessen.
She’s safe.
I’m long past feeling my fingers. But there are puddles of water on the floor, so I bundle up her clothes and carry them into the bathroom, dropping them on the bottom of the shower. A towel for Matty, who stands in the doorway. I dry him off. Then myself—clothes ripped off, dropped in the shower on top of hers. I pull towels out of the closet and wrap them around myself.
What if she stops breathing? I struggle up, pulling myself into the other room and slide to a seat next to the bed. My ears ache for the soft rhythm of her breath. When I finally hear it, I close my eyes and hold on to the sound.
9
Ella
I wake up under a comforter that isn’t light pink and doesn’t smell like the lavender sachets I buy at the farmer’s market. This comforter is pale green. It smells like lemons and dry cedar, and it’s not something I own. Neither is the bookshelf headboard stacked with worn paperbacks or the blue reading light clipped to the side.
I grip the comforter, pulling it up to my chin. My fingers feel as thin as dried twigs—like if I ball up my hands, they might snap off. I’m cold. Not just my fingers and toes, but deep in my stomach and lungs. Why am I so cold? And where…
The water. The dog.
Oh no, he rescued us. It comes back in a flash that makes my heart pound awake.
I sit up. Half my hair is damp between my cheek and the pillow. The other half is frizz. When I snake my arm out of the comforter to smooth it down, I realize something else.
I’m practically naked. Bra and underwear. That’s it.
Suddenly my wild hair doesn’t seem so important.
“So it seems like maybe you did need a hero after all.” A male voice.
Hide, Elly.
I gasp and yank the comforter up to just under my eyes, as if that’s going to keep him from noticing me.
“Are you okay?” Dean sits in a folding chair at the end of the bed, so close in this tiny room. Light streams through the solitary window behind me and falls on his knees and a book tented there. He’s no longer dressed in a light-blue shirt. Now it’s chinos and a dark blue University of Maine t-shirt two shades darker than his eyes. Not that I can see the color of his eyes with the shadows across his face.
I remember them.
No. N-n-not good.
Wait… did I just stutter in my thoughts? He’s got me so out of sorts that I literally can’t think straight. And that kind, concerned look of his isn’t helping. Why is he looking at me like that?
He wouldn’t be if he knew what I did to his father. The handcuffs my mother used to keep him on that mattress. The thousand things I should have done besides buckling down in that closet and trying to hide away from all of it. He brings it all back—memories so present and crisp they leave a bitter, salty taste on my tongue.
I expect his hatred for me to bubble out—leaching down his legs and across the green comforter. I deserve it. Instead he rumples wet hair and tilts his head, closing the book and tossing it on the edge of the bed. Shogun. I blink at it—something about historical Japan? And boats? My mind tries to sort through the things I know instead of all the things I don’t. I want to know so much about him—everything.
My hero. I thought I didn’t need one.
“Yes, I’m fine.” I clench the comforter. I’m too conflicted, and I need to focus on getting out of here. I look around the small room. “Where’s the letter?”
He leans forward, and light cuts across his face, and it’s like he’s spotlighted. He’s cleanly shaven—perhaps just—and I can see the slight cleft in his chin. That thin black leather necklace still winds his neck. And, yes, those eyes are the exact same sharp blue as before. I wish they could change somehow. That they would fade, bleached colorless by the sun maybe, and then I wouldn’t be staring at them.
“I didn’t see a letter.” He shakes his head slightly.
“It can’t be gone.” But it’s useless. It went in the water with me. Even if I were to find it, I doubt it would be legible anymore. Which means I can’t copy it for Carly. It really did float out to sea.
His feet drop from the bed. The sound of them hitting the floor is strange—hollow.
“The rope,” he says. “Why didn’t you grab it?”
“I was busy drowning?” It’s the best thing I can come up with. Especially given the lack of clothing and the riot in my thoughts. I just wanted to make sure that he was okay. That was all I wanted—and now I’m here. I shouldn’t have gotten so close to him.
Does he remember me?
I swallow back the question and find another. “Where’s the dog?”
“Matty,” he says. “He’s cold and tired, but fine. Thank you for going in after him.” He nods toward the side of
the small, wood-paneled room where the black lab’s swaddled in a second pale-green comforter. He must have a fondness for green. I clutch on to that little bit of knowledge like it means something.
The dog—Matty—looks up at me with watery brown eyes from his spot on the floor. When I smile at him, he struggles up. He must be exhausted. I reach out toward him, but cold air flicks my shoulders. I clamp the comforter over me.
“You undressed me,” I whisper. Which is obvious, but I still feel the need to say it.
“It was a medical necessity.” He tilts his head and bounces one knee, and for a second, I wonder if I can feel it—rocking across the floor to where I sit on the bed. That has to be my imagination. But that dangerous slip of a smile he gives me is 100% real. “Although if you wanted me to undress you that desperately, you didn’t have to throw yourself into freezing water to do it. You could have just asked.”
“Maybe I had a different goal in mind,” I blurt before thinking.
Oh, no. I shouldn’t have said that. I drop my gaze from those startling eyes to stare at his fingers—the same ones that grabbed that olive bread earlier. As if he’s conscious of me looking, his hand lifts and his knuckles do that thing where they smooth from ear to chin cleft and then make the return arc. Smoothing over that little white scar on his jaw. They finally stop a few inches from the thin black leather that hangs around his neck. It’s knotted, the small fist of string resting at the lip of his t-shirt.
I could tug the black leather until it cuts an impression into his skin. Or slip it around his wrist. Tether him to that folding chair. His forearm tied to the rough canvas of the chair.
I blink myself back into the room. Where the hell did that thought come from?
No, no. I can’t think like that. I’ve managed not to think like that for… I can’t remember the last time. It’s why I don’t really date. Why I can’t be trapped in a small room with a man who looks like him. Both of us should come with a warning label. But his warning label is just “an overly attractive man with a teasing sense of humor.”
My thoughts are so desperately wrong.
I need off of this boat. Now.
His smile fades. “You should rest.” The chair creaks as he shifts. “I stayed because I was worried about you. But you seem to be alive.”
“I need to go.” I tuck my legs under me and glance around the haphazard room. A few piles of books. One window and a scrap of wood with Neverland painted on it. But no clothes—anywhere.
“Where are my clothes?” I inch to the edge of the bed, leaving behind a damp spot of ocean water from my underwear. Could this get any worse?
“I don’t think you want to wear your clothes. Not unless you enjoy being cold and wet.” He stands and is next to me in half a stride.
I scramble back, and my head hits the bookshelf. A stack of paperbacks tumbles onto the bed next to me. The comforter slips down, and I clap my hands over my bra—which is white and practically see-through.
His hands whip up, his palms out. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I—” His gaze falls on my chest for a second before flicking to the wall behind me. His face flushes.
He’s actually blushing. He ducks his head and rubs his hand over his neck like he’s trying to hide it. But I saw it. It makes my breath expel—halfway. The other half of me chomps down on my bottom lip.
“There’s a closet.” He nods toward wall beside the bed. “I was going to get you some clothes.” He takes another step toward the bed, and the scent of lemon-cedar tickles my nose. The muscles in his forearm roll as he yanks open a door and reaches into a narrow space.
My breathing shallows. Before I can stop myself, I picture him kneeling in front of me. What the expanse of skin across his chest must look like under his shirt.
No. I’m wrong. And I hate how the thoughts make me more aware of my wet bra straps cutting against my skin. Is this how she thought? Did doing things to those men… did they turn her on?
My feet find the floor. But before I can stand, the world shifts. Not my world, exactly. The real world. Wait—“We’re on the boat.”
“Yep.” As he digs into the closet, his shirt rises and pulls away from his stomach. What I imagined is true—taut skin over a fit stomach.
He tosses a pile of gray and blue fabric on the corner of the bed. “I’ll be on deck. There’s a bathroom in there.” He points to a mirrored door beyond Matty. “You can shower if you want. Come up when you’re done.”
“Thank you,” I say, reaching for the clothes. “For the rescue too. I guess... I did need a hero.”
A smile ticks up the edge of his mouth. “Everyone does.” But then it falls, and just as quickly, his jaw hardens. I want so desperately to ask what his thoughts are. What his life is like. Where his brother is. But I can’t do any of that. Not without giving away who I am. And I have a feeling the answers would just tempt more questions.
He nods sharply, then ducks into the hallway and clicks the door closed behind him. I wait until his footsteps walk away, and then with deep breaths of relief, I slide off the bed toward the dog.
“I’m so sorry.” I kneel in front of him and scratch his ears. His tail thumps against the wall.
The crumpled stack of clothes on the edge of the bed is a t-shirt and track pants. The t-shirt comes to my thighs, and I have to roll up the pants, but the slick material unrolls, and I end up shuffling into the bathroom with the fabric under my heels.
Clothes hang on every possible hook and ledge in the tiny bathroom. Both mine and the rolled-up chinos and light-blue t-shirt. They drip cold water onto the floor, wetting the hem of my pants.
The mirror shows me that my hair is even more of a frizzed mess than I thought. I try to calm it while I sneak a look under the sink, hoping for something that will help carry my wet clothes. I luck out and find a white trash bag. I stuff my wet clothes inside and take a last glance in the mirror. I need everything finished. Get back to my apartment and take a blazing shower. Call Carly and see what my mother’s letter was all about. Forget I was here.
My shoes sit in the bathtub. I try to squeeze water out of them, but they are still soaking when I force my feet into them. My sweater hangs on the door, and I dig into the pockets.
No phone.
I turn all my pockets out. Empty.
I slide down to the floor, cold water soaking into the track pants.
He’s throwing everything off. Half-drowned dogs and errantly gifted olive bread. So many memories blend together—bruised wrists, a man crumpled on a mattress, a little wooden box. That thin necklace. They keep echoing—just like they did for my mother.
I close my eyes and push away the thoughts, but her voice curls around me.
If you don’t like the world, then make it different, Elly.
Too bad my mother’s version of “different” landed her in a twenty-year prison sentence because she didn’t have the strength to ignore the echo.
But I need to ignore it. And that’s exactly what I’m going to do. Walk out of here, thank him for the rescue, and get off this boat before anything else happens.
10
Dean
I coil a line that doesn’t need coiling. Everything is polished and perfect—just waiting for the first run out for the season. But still I coil. And I wait, my attention flicking to the hatch every few minutes. I wonder if there’s enough hot water for her. If she found the towels I forgot to mention. Why she seems so ridiculously familiar. Like she belongs in my bed.
Is that a weird thought? It might be a creepy thought.
But I’m going to think it anyway.
The sun hangs just a few inches above the hills, drawing shadows across the boat. A few seagulls call and then drop into silence. I kick off my shoes and hop up on the gunwale, my eyes traveling up the mast and double-checking the lines. I’d ordered the gooseneck, and it’ll be here about the time Dev gets back from exams. We’ll get it fixed, and everything else looks… perfect.
So then why do I feel
so uneasy?
I’ve always sailed with heart instead of head. Learned a long time ago that instinct can be just as compelling as fact. More so, sometimes.
But, fuck, where was my instinct with Matty? I rub a hand over my face. I can’t believe I let that happen. He’d been asleep on deck after spending most of the night up with his hip aching. I didn’t want to wake him. Figured he couldn’t get over that gunwale—he never had before. Dev’s gonna be pissed. And rightfully so.
It was my fault she had to go in the water. What if I hadn’t glanced up just then? Hadn’t made it in time? What would have happened to them?
I roll my shoulders, trying to shake out the tension that makes it feel like there’s a metal rod stuck between them. The same tension I’d felt every day since moving back to Portage. A few months ago I was living on the Neverland, going from one port to another with the wind and saving up money to take her down to Panama. Sometimes I’d stay awhile and pick up some renovation work, but never for more than a few months. I’m not exactly sure how I was the one who ended up here while my brother is off climbing in Colorado.
But the only thing that seems to relieve that band of tension are the glimpses I get of her, even though I’m not fully sure why. I mean, she’s stunning. And seeing her in my bed? Well, it would be a lie to pretend I didn’t have a few thoughts about that.
But I still don’t even know her name. Millie? Lilly?
I could have asked, but maybe I like the mystery.
The hatch inches open, and she steps out onto the deck. She clutches a white trash bag that must be filled with her wet clothes—I should have thought of that and set one out for her.
She scans the dock first, holding that bag. She finally turns starboard, and stills when she sees me. “I don’t think you’re supposed to stand on the ledge. The edge. Whatever it’s called.”
I grin and look down at the polished wood. “The gunwale?” I crouch, feeling the way the Heroine shifts in response to my movement. “You don’t like boats.”
