Chasing Lucky

by Jenn Bennett

  “Lucky.”

  “—but here’s this beautiful, talented, glowing person who obviously likes me, because she smiles at me and laughs at my jokes, and she’s all I can think about, and sometimes I even dream about her, and I love the way her freckles scrunch together when she gets mad at me, which is sort of sexy, and I love how she blushes when I stare at her a little too long—”

  He swipes his thumb over my cheek, and I shiver.

  “—but most of all, I think … if this person likes me, this person … then I must not be too much of a monster. I must be okay. So to answer the question, yes. In my mind, you’re absolutely, unquestionably, categorically my girlfriend.”

  “Don’t change your answer,” I say, trapping his hand against my cheek with my fingers.

  He whispers, “Don’t break my heart. Don’t go to California.”

  I close my eyes and inhale sharply. Exhale shakily. Rain hits the roof above us.

  I don’t want to hear the time bomb ticking.

  But there it is in my head, tick, tick, tick …

  Before I open my eyes again, Lucky kisses me softly, until goose bumps spread over my skin, and deeply, until all my bones soften like rubber. Then his mouth is all over my neck, trailing kisses over my skin like tiny blessings, murmuring soft devotions in my ear.

  Tick, tick, tick …

  Beneath his damp shirt, my fingers trace the jagged shape of his spine, and I marvel at the surrounding muscle. A thousand warm chills rush across my skin until my knees get wobbly, and I don’t want to stand. He pulls me down with him to the dry floor.

  Tick, tick …

  I kiss the scars around his face until he shivers beneath me. He molds the ditch of my back, urging my hips toward his, and I’m achingly aware of the hard outline pressing against the place in my jeans where my seams converge. I think we should take more clothes off.

  Tick …

  “Josie,” he says to me, “what you told me that night in the police station?”

  I already have skin exposed. I don’t want to talk about any of that. I don’t want to change my mind. “I want this.”

  “Good. Me too.” He holds my face in both hands. “Just so you know, none of the rumors about me are true. We’re the same, Josie.”

  My heart races. What is he saying? All the blood from my brain has shifted southward.

  Oh.

  Wait.

  Lucky is a virgin?

  LUCKY IS A VIRGIN TOO.

  I listen for the ticking inside my head:

  Silence.

  “Do you have a condom?” I ask, a little shaky and awash in emotion.

  He nods slowly, eyes hooded and lazy as he stares at me.

  I’m not blushing now.…

  As lightning flashes, we peel off the rest of our clothes as if we’re trying to race the storm, hungry and afraid we’ll lose each other. But we don’t, and it doesn’t take us long to figure out that losing your virginity isn’t a thing that happens all at once. It’s not part A inserted into part B equals done. It’s more of a multipart triathlon than a continuous sprint, and there’s no camera to hide behind, no program to digitally edit out the details I don’t like.

  Everything’s there, for better or worse. Lucky can see all of me.

  But it’s okay, because I can see all of him, too. Lucky 2.0 and every Lucky I’ve known.

  I can see the scars on his forehead, and the way his hands tremble because he doesn’t want to hurt me. In his eyes, I can see the years of solitude, the resentment and bitterness, the scars from the fire, every rumor around town. I see it all. The good, the bad, and the lonely.

  But the thing that surprises me most is the commentary.

  The conversation.

  All the honest communication that happens when there isn’t even a chance at an invisible wall …

  The heated whispers—“Here.” Explicit directions, “Not like that—Jesus! Don’t ever do that.” Quick apologies, “Sorry-sorry-sorry.” And simple assurances: “You’re perfect. This is perfect. We’re perfect.”

  And for one beautiful, gasping moment, we truly are.

  The scent of beach roses drifts through the dock house on a warm breeze. Flush with pleasure, I listen to the rain on the roof and the strong, otherworldly thudding of his heart against mine, our limbs intertwined, feeling weightless and filled with bliss and hope.

  I don’t feel cursed at all.

  For the first time in years, I don’t feel alone.

  I want to stay here. I want it to last forever.

  I know it can’t.

  But when the doorway of the dock house lights up, and an apocalyptic crash thunders beneath our bodies, I’m genuinely surprised that we don’t even get five stinking minutes.

  FOR EMERGENCIES, SEE LIGHTHOUSE KEEPER: Sign posted inside small dock house at northern end of Rapture Island in Narragansett Bay. The rugged building doesn’t appear to have been in use for many years. (Personal photo/Josephine Saint-Martin)

  Chapter 19

  A howling gust of wind roars through the door, driving rain into the dock house. Our cooler shifts across the floor, and the door slams shut, leaving us in darkness.

  “What … was that?” I shout over the driving rain. It sounds like a war hitting the metal roof. I’m scrambling to get up in a panic, but my legs don’t work. Knees jelly.

  Naked Lucky is already on his feet, taking all his warmth away, and yanking the door open to peer outside.

  Can’t see much of anything—it’s raining too hard—but I think the dock house got struck by lightning. The gods are smiting us for our wickedness.

  “Did we get hit?” I shout, holding a hand up to my face as rain comes through the crack in the door that Lucky peers through. “The lightning rod worked?”

  It must have, because we’re still standing. “Can’t see anything,” Lucky says, coming back to hurriedly slip his clothes on, and I do the same, a little panicked. After a minute or so, when the rain slows enough for us to open the door all the way and prop it back with the cooler, we both stick our heads outside to assess the damage. I notice that a utility light is now shining down on the sign. It’s probably automatic, one that has a sensor that detects when it’s dark and triggers it to turn on. I’m so busy thinking about this that I don’t notice that Lucky is frozen.

  He’s staring agog at the pier.

  What’s that funny smell?

  Oh God.

  He’s not staring at the pier, because there is no pier. There’s only a single wooden pole where it was once attached to the land, and it’s scorched black and smoking. Pieces of wood drift on the surface of the dark water in every direction as if they were hit by a bomb. And the Narwhal …

  Our boat is currently unmoored, afloat on the horizon, a good quarter mile away from the island, dragging half the pier behind it.

  The dock house wasn’t struck by lightning.

  The pier was.

  We’re both too dumbfounded to react for several moments. Then thunder rumbles again in the distance, and Lucky shakes himself roughly, scattering rain droplets over both of us.

  We’re stranded on an island.

  Nobody knows we’re here.

  And I just had sex for the first time.

  With my best friend.

  Oh my dear lord … I think I’m going to pass out. I snap my seasickness wristbands over and over, as if that will magically help the situation somehow.

  “Okay,” Lucky says, voice strained. “Let’s just be rational here.”

  “Rational,” I agree.

  “I could swim out and get it … ?” he says, voice going up an octave, as if he can’t believe he’s suggesting it himself, but he can’t think of anything else to do.

  Panic fires through my limbs. “Out there? Out there?”

  “Well? It looks like the pier was hit, not the boat.”

  I point emphatically. “Who cares? It’s already God-only-knows-how-far out in the ocean. You can’t swim that! You could drown. D
ie. There are sharks in the bay!”

  “Only dogfish and sandbars.”

  “At the rate we’re going, your mythical kraken is probably down there!”

  “Josie—”

  “No, Lucky—absolutely not. You aren’t Saint Boo. You don’t have extra cat lives to risk on stupid feats of machismo—so forget it. We’ll just call your dad, and he’ll come get us. He’s got a tugboat thing-y, right? So even if the Narwhal is dead in the water, he can tow it. That’s what he does.”

  “No signal.”

  “There must be.”

  Lucky pushes wet hair out of his eyes. “Already checked, back in the stone circle when you were taking photos. There’s no signal out here. Usually isn’t, once you clear a certain point in the harbor. That’s why you need Wi-Fi onboard.”

  I quickly dig out my phone and shield the screen with one hand. Have I really not checked it the entire time I’ve been out here? That must be some kind of record. But he’s right. No signal. Shit! I swing around wildly, trying to figure out what we can do. Surely there’s an emergency call box out here? A rowboat?

  “What about the lighthouse? These lights weren’t on before?”

  “Automatic, probably.”

  That’s what I thought too, but probably isn’t good enough. What if the lighthouse keeper has returned? We run off toward the lighthouse to double-check, but it’s still locked up as tight as it was before. No side door, either. No call box, no nothing.

  “Oh, fuck me,” Lucky moans over my shoulder as we slosh our way back to the dock house. “How is this happening? Why does everything I do turn to shit?”

  I blow out a hard breath and try to think. Can’t use our phones. No landline. Lighthouse locked up. Lighthouse keeper nowhere to be found. Narwhal too far out to swim to.

  Lucky’s thinking the same. I can see it in his long face. “Bound to be another boat that comes by here when the storm passes. Barring that, my parents will notice when we don’t show up for Sunday dinner. They know we’re on the boat.

  “They’ll notify the Harbormaster,” he assures me. “My dad knows the harbor like the back of his hand. He’ll find us. And the Narwhal can’t float away that far. I think?” He shakes his head as if he’s not sure but trying to convince himself. “People around here aren’t going to steal a boat.”

  “We pretty much did! What if your parents decide to press charges against us?”

  He rolls his eyes. “They aren’t going to press charges.”

  “Sorry, I’m just … freaking out.”

  “Someone will find it floating at sea. It’s registered to us, and everyone knows my family. They’ll return it.”

  I try not to let him know how panicked I feel as we enter the dock house. “You’re right. It’s going to be fine. The Narwhal will be fine, you’ll get it back, and our parents can’t be too mad about lightning. That wasn’t our fault.”

  “Lots of things aren’t my fault, but it’s funny how I’m always stumbling my way into them,” he says, miserable. “Maybe you’re not the one who’s cursed. Maybe it’s me.”

  “Hey,” I say after a quiet moment. “I’d rather be cursed with you than with anyone else right now. In case you care.”

  He looks up from the floor and gives me a weary smile. “I care.”

  “We’ll get through this. We’re outlaws, remember? A couple of desperados.”

  Lucky snorts. “Oh, that’s us, all right. Hardened criminals.”

  “I can’t even drink milk past the expiration date,” I admit.

  “I take the blame for crimes that aren’t even my fault.”

  I whimper and check my phone again, just to be sure there isn’t a signal. There’s really not. Technology: great until it’s useless. I pocket my phone and try not to cry.

  “Josie?” he says in a low, unguarded voice.

  “Yes?”

  “Whatever happens, I regret nothing.”

  I reach for his face and gently run my hand over his scars, pushing back his hair. Awash in emotion. “Whatever happens, I wouldn’t change a thing.”

  DANGER FROM ROUGH SEAS DURING STRONG WINDS: Broken sign posted on a South Harbor public pier near Nick’s Boatyard. (Personal photo/Josephine Saint-Martin)

  Chapter 20

  By eight o’clock, the hellish rain is only a drizzle, and the island is swarming with five boats: the lighthouse keeper’s fishing boat, two harbor patrols, one coast guard, and Lucky’s parents, who brought my mom along in their tugboat.

  We are rescued.

  There’s no place for anyone to dock except for the returned lighthouse keeper—who was actually “gone fishin’,” spotted our boat adrift, and radioed the harbormaster. He’s tied up his small fishing vessel somewhere on the other side of the lighthouse, so all the responder boats are bobbing in the water, shining blinding lights onto the shore, talking to us on megaphones and rowing in on smaller rescue boats.

  It’s a complete shitshow, to be honest.

  After we’ve explained what’s happened with the lightning strike and the pier and the Narwhal to the lighthouse keeper, harbor patrol, and coast guard—can this get any worse?—and when we finally, finally make it onboard the Karrases’ tugboat, Lucky’s father is shouting instructions to Lucky about circling the island to go get the Narwhal, and Mom hugs me.

  She hugs me way too hard for way too long, telling me that we scared her half to death, and joking that I’m never leaving the house again. She holds me by the shoulders and looks at me a little strangely. Then she reaches for my hair, trying to fuss it back into place.

  “Stop,” I complain, pushing her hand away.

  Her eyes go wide, and she inhales sharply. And that’s when I realize: She knows.

  She knows what Lucky and I have done.

  “Oh, good God,” she says. “You’ve got to be joking. Your best friend?”

  “Mom, please,” I hiss, using my body as a shield to block her as I lean over the railing and look into the dark water below.

  She snorts and mumbles near my ear, “Hope it was worth it.”

  I don’t respond. Of all the times for her to want to communicate openly with me, she chooses this moment? Invisible wall button … where are you? Pressing button now. Press-press.

  But she doesn’t get the hint and instead uses it as an excuse to scoot up closer to me on the tugboat’s railing, shoulder to shoulder, before tossing a glance behind us to ensure no one’s listening. “I hope you were safe. Please, Josie. Tell me you were safe.”

  Ugh. “We were.”

  Her shoulders relax. “Okay, but I also hope it was worth throwing your life away.”

  “I didn’t throw my life away. Please don’t be dramatic.”

  “Sex can ruin your life, you know.”

  “That’s … super healthy, Mom.” Especially for someone who does it on the regular. I mean, come on. Is she trying to ruin her own life with sex? That makes no sense.

  “I’m just saying, it’s not something you should just do with the first warm body that comes along. It’s a big step. I hope it was worth it,” she repeats.

  Seriously? Now she wants to mother me? Oh, the irony. Oh, the snarky comebacks I want to hurl back at her. But all I say is, “It was.”

  “Always seems that way in the moment,” she murmurs, glancing toward the other side of the tugboat. “Trust me. Been there.”

  “What do you want from me?” I say. “I mean, do you think we should have waited until we were married or something?”

  She doesn’t answer, but the lines of her body are rigid. She’s upset. And I don’t understand. Lucky isn’t a “warm body.” He’s my friend. Why is she trying to spoil this for me? It’s almost like she’s jealous that I had a moment of joy with him.

  But that can’t be right.

  Maybe it’s what I’ve suspected before about her sex life: that it’s a casino machine that she feeds money into but it never pays out. Something that she does to try to make herself happy, or to distract her from the fac
t that her life isn’t everything she planned. I’m not sure if her plans went wrong when she got pregnant with me in college or when she had the fight with Grandma five years ago.

  Or maybe the fight with Grandma was when she had another realization that everything in her life was messed up.

  Whatever it is, I don’t want to argue with her. Because I look at her now, with her arms crossed tightly across her chest, and I’m just sad.

  I’m sad that she’s been so unhappy, she’s spent the last few years resenting her own mother, dragging her burden of a daughter with her, moving up and down the coast from cars to motels to cheap apartments. And I’m sad that she can’t commit to a job or a person, or even a stupid pet.

  Maybe it’s best that I just shut her out completely going forward, because whatever happens next year with my grandmother and Nepal, I’ve got to get away from her.

  If I’m the reason her life didn’t go as planned—

  The reason she keeps playing casino games and losing.

  The reason she has big blow-out fights with Grandma.

  If I’m the reason she’s not happy …

  I’ve got to leave.

  For both our sakes.

  Before long, the Narwhal comes into view. We chug up alongside it, and I pull myself together while Lucky jumps over to check if it’s taking on water (it’s not) and if the engine starts (it does). And Mr. Karras is shouting out commands about cutting away the mooring lines attached to the scorched pier. Then Lucky’s piloting the Narwhal back to the harbor with his mother, and I’m stuck following behind them on the tugboat with Mr. Karras and my mother, Medusa: bitter woman-turned-monster.

  Night falls as we motor into the harbor, its twinkling lights reflected on the dark water. And when we reach the Karrases’ boatyard, mooring the tugboat on one side of their small pier, and I’m finally able to step foot on civilized ground again, I’m hurting from the things Mom and I didn’t say to each other, and I’m anxious because Lucky and I went from being as close as we could possibly be to completely separated without any closure.