by Sarina Bowen
I’m going to text him back. He deserves that, and so much more. I’m still a wreck. And we’re still complicated. But at least I can reply to a fucking message.
He said I was stingy with love, and he was right. I am really not sure that will ever change. But if there’s anyone in the world I could change for, it’s certainly him.
Dear Lobstershorts, I saw your dad today. He asked me if I’d heard from you. I hope you don’t mind that I showed him the photo you sent me. He was really happy to see it, and honestly a little mopey that you haven’t been in contact.
He also told me that you like Lenny’s sandwiches. I’m definitely a fan.
TL;DR: My pics aren’t half as cool as yours, but I want you to know that I’m pulling myself together. Mostly. Well, I’m probably still the same disaster you always knew. I know you deserve better than what I gave you. I don’t know if I’ll ever be boyfriend material. But I’m working on my outlook.
I’m going to eat this sandwich now and then compile a report on interest rates of senior debt across the yield curve. Which is fun, I promise.
You take care. Keep the photos coming. Even if I’m hopeless at relationships I still look forward to every one of them.
I hit Send, and then eat my sandwich.
An hour later I’m composing a beast of a spreadsheet when my phone buzzes with a new message. My greedy heart immediately thinks: Keaton!
Hi there, tortured psyche. It’s me again.
It’s not him, though. But it’s almost as good. Mr. Grant, my lawyer, has sent me an email exactly one line long. Charges officially dismissed today. It’s over. Take care!
He doesn’t say whether Joe was convicted or not. Before leaving Darby, I was interviewed by a detective, who took notes about my brother’s visit to the frat and about my stolen ID. And Jako had to do the same.
I don’t know if my brother is behind bars or not right now, because I blocked both his and my mom’s phone number. That feels...shitty, honestly. But I have to stay strong. If I let them into my life, they’ll bleed me dry—emotionally and financially.
And if I don’t cut them out completely, I’ll spend the next twenty-one years waiting for some kind of epiphany that never comes. We’re sorry. We love you.
It’s embarrassing how much I want to hear that. And never will.
But I have interest rates to console me. I make a few more entries on my spreadsheet, and then I get stuck and have to pop into Bo’s colleague’s cubicle and ask a question. “Hey, Jim? Do I put the double-A and the double-A-minus on the same column?”
“Yup,” he says. “Sure.”
“Thanks.”
“Hey, Bailey?” the younger man calls as I am about to leave.
“Yeah?”
“You’re gonna apply to come back after graduation, right?”
“I really don’t know.” I’d need a job opening, for starters.
“You’re gonna get a lot of offers,” Jim says, tugging on his necktie. “Just don’t forget our number, okay?”
“Don’t worry, I won’t.” A lot of offers. That’s such a foreign concept to me. “How does the recruitment program work, anyway?”
“I’ll check,” he says. “I think there’s some kind of signing bonus for guys who lock us in before New Year’s.”
“Really,” I say slowly. I could have a job five months before graduation? And a signing bonus? “That could knock some serious hours off my work schedule second semester.”
“What do you do during the school year?” he asks.
Oh, shit. “I work in a club.”
“Bartender? Bouncer?”
He’s just making conversation, and I should never have mentioned a job at school. But it’s not a good idea to lie to my future employer. Jim might even be my boss if I show up here next year. “I’m a male entertainer,” I tell him with a smile that’s more confident than I feel. “You might call it a stripper.”
“Ha!” He slaps the desk. “Good one, kid. Now how long until you finish that report?”
“Half hour?” I squeak.
“Cool. I’ll be waiting.”
Relieved, I walk away.
A lot of offers. That sentence sort of echoes through my head as I go back to my desk. And as I sit down in my ergonomic chair, something unfamiliar unfurls in my chest.
I think it might be optimism.
Beef Jerky
Keaton
“Ahoy matey! Beef jerky?”
I glance up from my book as Mateo bounds into the miniscule cabin we’ve been sharing for the past five weeks. He thrusts out his hand, offering me a stick of dried jerky.
I almost gag. “Seriously? Do you want me to keep you up all night as I’m hurling my guts out into poor Lucy?” I nod ruefully toward the bright red bucket underneath the small desk that’s bolted to the cabin floor.
Nothing in this room is unsecured. The way the Esmeralda rocks and pitches and lurches and dips, no item is safe. Even Lucy, my puke bucket, is secured with a bungee cord to one desk leg.
I’m not going to lie—the sea and I aren’t the best of friends. I’m not a novice to sailboats, and normally I love being out on the open water, but this stretch of ocean near Cape Horn is brutal. The waves are choppy and the wind is constantly gusting. After five weeks, my stomach has settled for the most part, but when it’s storming outside like it is tonight, I try not to eat.
My roommate, on the other hand, is addicted to eating. You’ll never see Mateo without food in his hands. Beef jerky, fruit, granola bars, those sunflower seeds he munches on and spits over the deck every morning. It’s a wonder he’s as thin as he is, considering how much stuff he shovels into his mouth.
“Dios mio!” he says, blanching. “No, please don’t bring out Lucy. I can’t suffer through that again.”
I grin at him. Honestly, I lucked out having such a cool roomie. Mateo is a grad student at the University of Miami, and this is his third summer on an expedition like this. He’s also fluent in four languages, and he’s been teaching me the dirtiest phrases. Luke would love him.
Ugh. I was hoping not to think about Luke today. But who I am kidding, I think of him every day. I’ve messaged him non-stop since I left Darby, but aside from that one message about deli sandwiches and my dad, he’s been disappointingly quiet.
“Doc VanBoerk is setting up a poker game in the galley,” Mateo says as he munches on his beef jerky. He chews loudly before speaking again. “I told him we’d be there soon.”
I groan, my gaze darting toward the tiny porthole. It’s way past sunset, so I can’t actually see anything, but the incessant rocking of the boat tells me the waves are probably pretty huge. The last time we tried playing poker during a storm, the chips kept rolling off the galley table and bouncing onto the ground.
“C’mon, what else are you gonna do?” Mateo coaxes. “Read? You read too much, Keaton! Come experience life!”
I hide a smile. I guess “experiencing life” means playing cards with a bunch of science geeks, including our Dutch captain whose best friend is a dolphin named Pippy. Dr. VanBoerk runs a marine-life sanctuary in Florida, where he and his staff rescue animals affected by oil spills and rehabilitate them. He’s a pretty awesome dude.
So I haul myself off the bottom bunk and join Mateo and the others in the galley. We play poker as the Esmeralda bobs in the angry waves like a cork in a wine bottle. Afterward, Mateo and I head back to our bunk. He passes out almost instantly. Me, I make use of the very shitty Wi-Fi signal to send a quick message.
LobsterShorts: Stormy again tonight. I swear, I’m popping anti-nausea tablets like candy!
To my shock, Luke replies within seconds.
SinnerThree: Still seasick??
LobsterShorts: Only when the water’s rough. Which here, apparently, is all the time.
SinnerThree: What are you doing up so late?
It’s past midnight in Chile, so just after eleven in Connecticut.
LobsterShorts: Playing poker with the cre
w. I lost 50 bucks.
SinnerThree: Of course you did. You suck at poker.
I smile at the screen. Fuck, I’ve missed him. Missed the easy flow of conversation between us. Which is why it kills me to have to sign off.
LobsterShorts: I should go. I need to be up at six tomorrow. Just wanted to say a quick good night.
SinnerThree: Big day planned?
LobsterShorts: I hope so! We dropped anchor four days ago and still no Big Willy sighting. Tomorrow will be the day!
SinnerThree: God. You are such a dork. Good luck!
I power off my phone and tuck it inside the desk drawer, then burrow my body under the thin covers and fall asleep with a smile on my face.
The next morning, everyone is back in expedition mode. According to reports, the mysterious orca species we’re hunting was spotted at these coordinates less than a week ago. Several accounts describe seeing a small pod of killer whales. One actually swam close to the fishing vessels, and two fishermen reported that the whale looked smaller than usual, with a narrow, pointy dorsal fin not normally seen on your typical orca.
I’ve been calling our elusive friend Big Willy. But once again, Willy and his crew are determined to remain hidden.
I can’t complain, though. I’m standing on the bow of a 155-foot research vessel, with the sun shining down on my face. Sure, it’s windy out, but today it’s more of a warm breeze as opposed to a cool gust. Next to me, Mateo is using a sharp switchblade to peel off pieces of a mango.
“Are you excited to go home and see your friend?” he asks as he pops a piece of fruit into his mouth.
He always refers to Luke as my “friend.” I don’t think he’s homophobic, nor does he seem uncomfortable with the idea that I was dating a man before we embarked on this voyage. So I always let it slide.
“I don’t know if I will,” I admit. “It’s the summer, and usually I stay at our house in Easthampton. Luke is somewhere in Hoboken.”
“Then you should go to Hoboken and shack up.” The breeze snakes under Mateo’s shoulder-length brown hair, rustling the long strands.
I snort. “My dad will kill me if I miss the annual Hayworth barbecue.”
“Then go after that. You want to see him, don’t you?”
“Of course.” So much that my heart hurts. But since I left, Luke hasn’t once mentioned us seeing each other again.
“Then go.” Mateo gobbles down another piece of mango. “Make the first move.”
I mull over the advice for the rest of the morning, but reach no conclusions. If I’m being honest, I don’t want to make the first move. I already made it before I left. I tried talking to him, connecting with him, reaching out to him. He pushed me away.
And since I’ve been gone, I’ve messaged him every single day. I’ve made it more than clear that I’m thinking about him and that I miss him. That I want us to be a couple, a real committed couple, when I return.
And he’s distant.
So why should I be the one to fight for us? And is there even a point in fighting for someone who doesn’t want to love you?
The following morning is more of the same. No Big Willy sightings, so Doc VanBoerk organizes a dive to observe a school of Patagonian toothfish. Which is so fucking fascinating that I’m grinning from ear to ear by the time I’m hauling off my SCUBA gear.
I can’t believe I almost got pressured into a finance internship at Hayworth Harper Pharmaceuticals. To think, I would have missed seeing the Patagonian toothfish!
I’m so pumped that I message Luke via Kink the second I’m back in my bunk. Although it’s the middle of a workday, he responds swiftly. In fact, the last few days his replies have been quick and reliable. It’s almost enough to get my hopes up. Almost.
SinnerThree: I have so many geek jokes I could make right now. But…I’m just going to say, congratulations on catching a toothfish?
I’m aghast as I type, Catching?? Are you insane, Bailey? We were just observing. No fish were harmed in the making of this expedition.
SinnerThree: LOLOL I guess it’s probably not a good idea to catch a toothfish. They have teeth, I assume?
LobsterShorts: Pointy ones.
SinnerThree: Christ. Yeah. Stay away from that nightmare. I would never, ever eat something called a toothfish.
LobsterShorts: I hate to break it to you, but… You already have.
SinnerThree: What! Explain yourself!
I’m shaking with laughter as I compose a response. Fuck, I’ve missed this so much.
LobsterShorts: The Patagonian toothfish has an alias. Also goes by the name Chilean seabass. Which is what I believe you ordered at the restaurant in Stonington?
I immediately regret bringing up our weekend at the hotel. That’s when Luke got arrested and everything fell apart for us. Shit. He’s definitely going to bail now.
To my surprise, he doesn’t.
SinnerThree: Seriously? That was the best fish I ever had! Why does it have two names?
LobsterShorts: Because some fisherman back in the day decided the toothfish needed a name that sounded more enticing to the American fish market. He went with Chilean seabass.
SinnerThree: Good call.
LobsterShorts: But enough about me. How’s work going?
SinnerThree: It’s awesome.
I wait for more details, but they don’t come. I stifle a sigh.
LobsterShorts: Glad to hear it.
SinnerThree: Speaking of work, I should get back to it. Keep me posted on the Big Willy hunt.
He signs off, and I’m left feeling equal parts encouraged and discouraged. Once again, he pulled back. But he did request I keep him posted. So…that’s progress.
Right?
LobsterShorts: GUESS WHO I SAW TODAY!!!
SinnerThree: Do I dare? Could it be…?
LobsterShorts: Big Willy! And not just him. There were about twenty of ‘em in the pod. And holy shit, babe, they were spectacular. I can’t even describe the experience. It was…beautiful. Like, witnessing these creatures that nobody knew existed just swim up to the boat. They circled us for hours, almost like they were as curious about us as we were about them. It left me breathless.
I wait for Luke to come back with something witty. Maybe tease me, or, if he’s feeling edgy, mock me about my sheer joy over seeing some whales.
He does none of those things.
SinnerThree: I’ve missed you.
My breath catches. Did I misread that? I blink a few times, but those three words remain the same. He’s missed me.
I’m shaking as I sit up on my bed. As much as I want to babble on and on about the whales, this is way more monumental.
LobsterShorts: I’ve missed you too.
No answer.
LobsterShorts: Can I see you when I get back?
SinnerThree: We’re in the same frat. You’ll see me all the time.
LobsterShorts: That’s not what I mean and you know it.
No answer.
LobsterShorts: Bailey?
No answer.
Frustration tightens my throat. Damn it. It’s always one step forward, two steps back with this man.
LobsterShorts: I know you’re still there. I know you’re reading this, and I know you’ll just run away again if I try to push the issue. So this is what’s going to happen, Luke Bailey. I get home in two weeks. I’ll be landing at JFK and heading straight for my folks’ place in Easthampton.
I draw a deep breath and ask myself if I’m an idiot. Is there a point to this, or am I chasing after someone who just isn’t into me? I desperately want to believe Luke feels the same way, but he refuses to communicate with me, so I can’t be certain about his feelings. I can’t be certain about anything.
LobsterShorts: Our annual Hayworth barbecue is the day after I return. July 22. This is your official invitation.
Still no answer, but I wasn’t expecting one. I can almost picture Luke at this moment, sitting at his desk at work, or maybe having lunch alone somewhere. His gorgeou
s features creased with anxiety, his teeth digging hard into his bottom lip as he contemplates every word I’m saying.
LobsterShorts: I miss you and I want to be with you. I want a relationship with you. And I’m no longer interested in hearing excuses. My family doesn’t care. The frat will get over themselves. Your hesitation has nothing to do with any of the excuses you gave me last month. It has everything to do with you being afraid. Of me, of trusting someone. Of loving someone. And I’m telling you, here and now, you don’t have to be afraid. But what you do need to do is decide. Decide if we’re worth the risk.
Although it kills me to type my next message, it needs to be said.
LobsterShorts: I’m going to give it until midnight. If you show, then that means you’re ready to give our relationship a chance. If you don’t, then…I’ll have no choice but to move on. I can’t pine over you forever.
I’m breathing hard as I finish my epic speech.
LobsterShorts: Come to Easthampton, Luke. Take the risk.
Our Superpower
Keaton
Like I’ve said before, the Hayworths know how to throw a party. It’s our super power. There’s a giant smoker on the beach. Caterers in paper hats hand out brisket sandwiches and spicy chicken legs. There’s rum punch and beer and music for our two hundred guests.
The annual barbecue is my favorite Hayworth party. Was my favorite one. I’ve ruined it for myself this year. I’ve spent the last hour standing here looking down the beach like an idiot, wondering if a certain dark-haired hottie is going to step off the tram my father hired to ferry people from the train station to our fete.
Luke isn’t here, though. I watch the tram drive away again, empty. It’s after eight o’clock already.
“Keaton,” Annika chides. “Stop it.”
I turn back to her with a sigh. “Sorry.”
“Eat one of these.” She thrusts a plate in my face filled with finger sandwiches. “They’re cucumber and crab salad.”
