There's No Place Like Home

by Jasinda Wilder

  He sets his glass down, kneeling in front of me, twisting me so I’m sitting sideways on the chair. I’m wearing a red skirt, knee-length, and a white shirt. This is one of his favorite skirts of mine; I wore it specifically because I know how much he loves it, and I knew he’d appreciate me wearing it. He’d returned just this afternoon from a three-day trip to New York to meet with his agent and editor, which is always exhilarating but stressful for him. Thus, the meal, and the skirt, and the wine.

  He kneels, cupping my ankles and slides his palms up my calves. “I love this skirt on you,” he says.

  “I know. That’s why I wore it,” I murmur, biting my lower lip as his touch slides upward.

  “I hate New York.”

  “I thought you loved it.”

  “I love it, and I hate it.” He reaches my thighs, his fingers traipsing and traveling over my quads to my hipbones, underneath my skirt.

  “How’d your meeting with Mark and Lucy go?” I ask.

  He hooks his fingers into the lace of my underwear, a pair of black, lacy little things that cover pretty much nothing, and are meant for immediate removal. “Eh. It was fine. We discussed my ideas for the next book, nailed down what they would like to see in it, and a delivery time frame. We went over basic contract details. The usual. The bigwigs and muckety-mucks from the publisher took me to a fancy dinner, where I got overpriced steak and overpriced wine, and pretended I knew or cared which fork to use first.”

  “Sounds…boring, actually.”

  “It was. I wished, the whole time I was there, that either I was here at home, or you were with me.” He tugs my underwear down, and I lift up so he can slide them past my buttocks. “New York just isn’t as fun without you.”

  “I’m behind schedule on my book, or I would’ve gone with you.”

  “I know.” He slides the underwear to my knees, and then pulls them off, tossing them onto the dining room table. “Did you get your chapter finished today?”

  “I did.” I let him nudge my thighs further apart. “Four thousand words on my book, and another thousand on the blog. It was a good day.”

  “Good girl.” He leans in, kissing the inside of my thigh. “You should get a reward for being so productive today.”

  “Oh?” I breathe. “What kind of reward?”

  He pushes my skirt up and I lean backward, holding on to the table with one hand and the chair back with the other, as his mouth travels up my thigh. “The kind where you scream my name.”

  “I approve of this reward.”

  “I thought you might.” His lips find my core, wet and waiting, and I gasp as he feathers his tongue over me. “I have a proposal.”

  I throw my head back and whimper as he lavishes his attention on my sensitive flesh. “Oh? What…what’s that?” I ask, and then laugh. “Quid pro quo? You go down on me, I go down on you?”

  He mumbles a laugh. “That’s a great idea, but that’s not what I was thinking.”

  “Then do tell.”

  He slides a finger inside me, and I feel myself beginning to come apart. “We stay here for Thanksgiving, and spend Christmas Eve with your folks. Then we come back here that same night so we can have Christmas Day together in our own home.”

  “God, oh god. Are we really—ohhh, oh god—are we really having this discussion while you’re going down on me?”

  He doesn’t answer right away; he’s too busy bringing me to the cusp of climax. “Yes we are.”

  I grip his hair and scream as he sends me over the edge.

  When I come back down, still shuddering, Christian is kneeling in front of me, watching, a pleased grin on his face. “So. How does my proposition sound?”

  I laugh shakily. “You’re so strange.”

  He smirks. “I like to challenge your focus while you orgasm.”

  “I see.” I slide off the chair, my legs trembling, and then pull him to his feet and lead him to his favorite spot, the corner of the couch, where he sits. “Well, then, quid pro quo. You challenge me, I’ll challenge you.”

  He knows exactly what’s happening, now, and when I undo his jeans, he’s already hard. “I think you’ll find my focus razor sharp.”

  I grip his length and caress him, taking my time, until his chest is heaving and he’s grinding into my hand. “So. Christmas Eve at my parents, hmmm?”

  “Yes. We head down either early that day or probably the day before. Spend a day or so with them, and come back late Christmas Eve.”

  “Why Christmas, though? Why not Thanksgiving? What’s the difference?”

  He groans as I wrap my lips around him, swirling my tongue, tasting him. “Shit, shit—Ava, god! Thanksgiving is just a lot of sitting around, eating, and watching TV. Christmas, at least, there are presents to exchange. Things to occupy us besides making conversation. If you and your parents are left to yourselves, you’ll start arguing about something, usually the past, and that never goes well for anyone.”

  I have him at the edge now. “What’s the real reason, Chris?”

  He’s groaning, grunting, short of breath, thrusting into my hand. “Thanksgiving with your parents reminds me of Thanksgivings growing up. My parents would argue, Dad’s parents would be in town, and Mom’s parents as well—oh shit, ohhhh god—plus Mom’s sister and her bratty kids who I was expected to play with. No one got along with anyone else. It was horrible, and I just…I hated it. Sitting around in a hot, stuffy sweater, stuck at the kid’s table with Aunt Marjorie’s shitty kids, eating Mom’s shitty turkey, and her shitty stuffing, and her shitty mashed potatoes, listening to the adults bicker. I hate Thanksgiving. Always have. I don’t want to spend it with your parents, doing the…the stupid usual traditions.”

  His focus is beginning to slip as I use my hands to tease him close to the edge, and then back him away from it.

  “Jesus, Ava,” he growls, hips bucking. “You’re making me crazy, babe.”

  “Good. I like it when you’re crazy.” I have him there, right on the verge of letting go, nearly unable to hold back any longer. “So, we stay at home and start our own tradition.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Which, according to you—” I pause, here, to tease him with my mouth again, until he’s groaning and cursing, “—which according to you entails naked cooking and sex?”

  “Can you—ohhhhh shit, I’m so close, Ava—can you think of a better way of spending Thanksgiving?”

  I laugh. “No, not really, now that you put it that way.”

  “Ava, please.” His voice is ragged.

  With hands and mouth, then, slowly, deliberately taking my time, I bring him over the edge, bring him to a gasping, cursing, shuddering finish, taking every drop he has to give me and swallowing it like the finest wine.

  I refasten his pants and perch on his knee as he gasps, recovering. I take a sip of my wine. “I’m noticing a pattern, with us and holidays.”

  He gazes at me blearily, his eyes dull and spacey. “Unh. Pattern? What pattern?”

  “Birthdays, we usually have dinner out somewhere, but we never make it as far as a movie. We always end up back here, fucking. We give each other presents naked, in bed. Valentine’s Day we also spend largely naked and horizontal, and wasted. Fourth of July we spend on the beach, and usually end up naked under a blanket on the beach, fucking as the fireworks go off.” I dab at the corners of my mouth with my thumb. “And now Thanksgiving, instead of going to my parents’ house like usual, we’re going to stay home, stay naked, and probably spend most of the day eating, getting drunk, and fucking.”

  Christian is slouched in the chair, his head resting against the back, his eyes recovering their sharpness and heat. “Again I ask you, can you think of a better way to spend a holiday other than getting naked and making each other feel good?”

  I curl up on his lap, resting my head on his chest, and his arms go around me, cling to me, tugging me tight against him, and I hear his heart beating under my ear.

  “No,” I whisper. “I really
can’t.”

  * * *

  A knock on the door jars me out of my thoughts.

  “Ava, you gotta give up the shower.” Dominic, his deep voice gruff.

  “All right, sorry. Be right out!” I shout back.

  I shut off the water and make quick work of dressing. Normally, I’d spend twenty or thirty minutes on my hair and makeup, even if I’m not leaving the house—a long-ingrained habit learned from Mom; one week spent living on a ship has taught me the value of time, specifically that spent in the bathroom on one’s appearance. There’s only one man on this earth whose opinion about my appearance matters, and that is Christian, my husband. Who, for all I know, may very well be dead. So, I’ve quit bothering with hair and makeup. I towel-dry my hair, brush it out with quick, economical jerks of the brush, and then tie it back, and that’s it. No makeup, not even lip-gloss or concealer or anything, despite the flaws in my complexion from the poor water quality and lack of time and effort spent on proper self-care.

  It just doesn’t matter.

  The men on this ship are barely acquaintances, seen only briefly during the day and during meals. Dominic is the only one I would consider a friend.

  I exit the bathroom—which Dominic refers to as the “head,” a term I can’t seem to remember to use myself.

  Shawn and Tom are both sitting in the galley, side by side at the table, cupping mugs of coffee. Shawn is just staring into space, thinking who knows what, and Tom is idly flipping through an old, well-worn men’s magazine. I pour a cup of coffee and sit at the table opposite Shawn and Tom.

  Shawn is broad-shouldered, head shaved completely, with a short, grizzled beard, his dark skin weathered to leather and brown eyes that give away nothing of his thoughts; he could be thirty, or he could be fifty, it’s nearly impossible to guess. Tom is sixteen, and an orphan. Blond haired and blue-eyed, sweet, energetic, and a little prone to staring at me when he thinks I’m not looking, which is understandable considering I’m the only woman he’s spent any real time around…like ever. Tom’s parents died when he was young, and the only kin he had who could, or would, take him in was his great-uncle, Mack, who is a lifelong sea dog, which means he brought Tom with him aboard The Glory.

  I’m sitting, sipping, and thinking.

  Tom clears his throat, sets the magazine aside, and I feel his eyes on me. “So, Ava.”

  I glance at him. “So, Tom.”

  “Captain Dom was pretty vague about why you’re on board. You’re not crew, and we don’t take passengers, and Dom was always pretty clear about not being willing to waste space or money on a dedicated cook. Not to mention, he’d never hire a woman. He runs a male crew, he says, since it keeps things simple.”

  I consider the best way to answer. Eventually, the truth is the only thing that makes any sense. “My husband went missing at sea, and I’m trying to find him. I need transportation across the Atlantic, and I also need Dominic’s connections and knowledge of the sea and the various ports.”

  “And, in return for having you aboard, we get food we haven’t had to cook, plus, you know…it’s nice having a lady around.”

  I snort a laugh. “Everyone benefits.”

  Tom leaves the table, fetches the carafe of coffee, brings it back to the table, and refills our mugs; Shawn accepts the refill with a silent nod. With a fresh cup of coffee, Tom eyes me speculatively.

  “How did your husband go missing?”

  I shift uncomfortably. This is deeply personal territory for me, and it’s hard to talk about to anyone, let alone a sixteen-year-old kid. “I…it’s complicated.”

  Tom opens his mouth to say something else, but Shawn taps him on the shoulder with a thick, blunt forefinger, and then shakes his head at Tom.

  Tom’s mouth snaps shut, and he lets out a breath. “Sorry. I ask too many questions.”

  “It’s a difficult situation,” I say, “and it’s hard for me to talk about it.”

  Tom only nods; he tosses back the last of his coffee and leaves, depositing his mug in the sink on the way. Shawn remains, and his unwavering, unreadable brown gaze meets mine. He nods, once, slowly.

  I smile at him, a wobbly grin. “Thanks.”

  Another nod.

  I’m tempted to ask him why he never speaks, but I don’t. It’s his business, not mine. I know I don’t care to be pushed into subjects I don’t want to talk about, and I’m not going to do that to Shawn, despite being intensely curious about him.

  After a few minutes, Shawn finishes his coffee and I’m left alone in the galley. I finish my own coffee and get to work prepping lunch and dinner. This occupies me for most of my day, leaving only the occasional handful of spare minutes throughout the day.

  Once dinner is finished and the galley is clean, I retreat to my room. I brought very little with me when I stepped aboard this boat a week ago: a single duffel bag stuffed full of clothes; a wallet with an ID, my passport, a credit card, a debit card, and cash; a new cell phone, which I was told would work globally. I also brought several leather-bound journals, and a box of gel-tip, fine-point pens, so I would have some kind of outlet for my thoughts and feelings…

  And Henry’s blanket.

  For the first time since coming aboard, I sit down on my bunk with a journal and a pen, and try to put my thoughts into some kind of order:

  * * *

  [From Ava’s handwritten journal; November 2, 2016]

  I have no idea where to even begin. It’s not that I have writer’s block; it’s the opposite, whatever that might be called. There’s too much in my head, too much in my heart to even know how to start putting it on paper.

  First things first: I hate the ocean. I hate living on a boat. It’s never quiet—there’s always, ALWAYS someone awake, someone talking, someone clomping down the halls in thick boots, the engine is always on, grumbling away in the background of every waking and sleeping moment. It sounds as if there is a giant trapped in the hull, grumbling, humming, and snoring.

  Why am I here? Why did I come aboard this god-awful, godforsaken boat? Why?

  Christian. That’s the short answer, the easy answer. I’m out here to find Christian.

  But just yesterday morning Captain Dominic showed me our position on the GPS, up in the wheelhouse. The coast of the US was a mammoth squiggly line on the left, extending from the top of the screen to the bottom, and our position was marked a few scant inches away from the coast. A week of constant travel, and we’re only barely off the coast of the United States! I stood on the deck late yesterday evening, just as the sun was setting. I watched as the last of the orange-red ball descended below the horizon. It hit me, then, as it hits me now, writing this—the world is huge. It’s SO big. It’s easy to think the world is small, in this age of instant messaging and emails and the Internet. You can get a DM on Twitter from someone across the globe, speak to them in real time, FaceTime them, Skype them. Instant communication. You can hop on a plane, and in a few hours be across the country, a few hours more and be across the ocean, on a different continent.

  I’ve done that, sat with my face to the airplane window, watching the landscape, writ miniature, pass underneath. It doesn’t feel real, does it? You’re in a capsule, locked away from reality, and it feels like magical transportation, time suspended in that dim, quiet tube, maybe a movie to occupy the time, or a book, or sleeping. And then the tube opens, and POOF, you’re somewhere else. Even looking out the window at evidence of travel doesn’t make it any more real. Lakes are just silver-blue stains, mountains are ripples and bumps, and cities are messy clusters of yellow lights. It’s not the real world—there are no lives down there. It’s just…an illusion. Part of the mystery of air travel.

  But not this.

  Not on board this boat. I’m aware of each moment. Each mile passes slowly, deliberately. Even asleep, I’m aware that we are moving. The engines rumble underneath me, around me, and there’s the movement of the waves, our ascent and descent, the bobbing, the swaying—hard, physical proof o
f travel. It’s not smooth, it’s not magical, it’s not mysterious. I’m aware of the physics of it, whereas on a plane, it’s just…magic. Even if you understand how several tons of metal can fly thirty thousand feet in the air, it still feels…magical. This? On a boat? Not so. You are at the mercy of the ocean…of the Sea, deserving the capital letter. She rules all, out here. Those old tropes from Grecian poetry—the caprice of the wine-dark sea, all that—it’s all so much more real to me, now. The Sea carries you on her back, and the waves can dwarf you. She is all, she is endless.

  Her moods can kill you.

  We have traveled nonstop, night and day, for a week, and there is nothing around us but water, nothing but the Sea, endless, just a rippling azure field as far as the eye can see, curving away into nothing. A week of travel, and it feels as if we’ve gotten nowhere.

  How am I supposed to find Christian?

  I have no way of contacting him, obviously—no answer to my calls, texts, or emails. I’ve tried, and it all goes unanswered—even assuming he’s alive, his laptop and cell phone would be on the bottom of the ocean.

  What if he’s dead? But no, he’s not. He can’t be. I feel him, still. Maybe it’s hope, maybe it’s wishful thinking, but I FEEL Christian. More than a gut feeling, more than an instinct or a hope or anything, it’s just this bone-deep, unshakeable KNOWLEDGE that my husband is alive.

  Somewhere.

  Somewhere in this wide, wide world.

  The Sea took him from me. She stole him, the bitch.

  Memory, and the Sea—they’re both bitches.

  The Sea stole my Christian from me. How do I find him? Where is he? Africa?

  Dominic showed me something the other day: a map of the US, drawn to scale, and a map of Africa, drawn to scale, without the Mercator projection: the entirety of the United States of America can fit easily into Africa with room to spare for all of China and most of Europe; Africa dwarfs the US by several orders of magnitude.

  To say Christian is somewhere in Africa is nearly meaningless. Trying to conceive of the size of that continent is mind-boggling. And that’s IF I can reach Africa. IF the Sea lets me get there. IF, after days and weeks of travel, I manage to reach Africa. And then, god, and then? I have to find him, on that massive continent. But how? How do I do that? I don’t speak any language but English. I don’t know where to even start looking. Christian’s shipmate, Jonny, only had a basic idea where they were when the storm hit, and he says they got blown way off course during the storm, so there’s no way to know exactly where they were when Chris was swept overboard. How did he survive? Where did he end up? He could have been taken aboard a freighter and ended up in China, or Jakarta, or England, or anywhere on the globe. He’s been gone for months—what if he’s been traveling this whole time? He could be anywhere.