Dolly All the Time(35)

“Okay,” I say. He releases me and steps to the next rock and extends a hand. We do this twice more, and we’re at the entrance to a cave. The opening is about ten feet wide, and I’m relieved that we’re walking on sand again. The air cools as we make our way into the cave, and after a few minutes, all the light is behind us.

When it’s completely dark, Stewart stops and turns to me. “If this is the right cave, which I think it is, we are going to walk for a bit, and then it’s going to be light again.”

“Okay,” I say again, and grab his arm.

“The dark part is really fast,” he says. He takes my hand and entwines our fingers, slowly, like he did in the limo. “How’s this? Any oxytocin?”

“Overload,” I say, trying to sound sarcastic. In truth, the scrape of the insides of his fingers down mine sends a current through me. We take a few steps in the dark. “Keep talking,” I say.

“Okay. This part used to spook us when we were kids, and we loved it. But I’m having this feeling right now that I should have told you it would be dark, like I should have asked you if it was okay, but now we’re probably halfway through, so we might as well keep going.” His voice echoes in the darkness.

“Keep talking,” I say again.

“Okay, so now we’re even farther along, and if you aren’t blown away by what’s back here, I am going to give you a million dollars.”

My laugh bounces off the cave walls.

“I hope I hate it, then,” I say, just as the cave brightens ahead of us. My eyes adjust to the light as we step into an open-air grotto with a waterfall trickling into a clear blue pool. The opening to the sky is a narrow oval, and the light plays on the pink cave walls as it reflects off the moving water.

“You do not owe me a dime,” I say, and pull my dress over my head. I’m holding it in one hand and am about to drop it on the rocks before I fully realize what I’ve done. I’m standing there in my turquoise bikini, freckles on my chest, cesarean scar tucked just under my panty line. I am awash with imperfection, but I feel good. I turn to Stewart, who is watching me. His eyes sweep across my body and land on mine, and I feel it again, a jolt like I’ve been plugged in.

“This is actually better than I remembered,” he says, pulling his shirt over his head. People should talk more about the fitness benefits of swimming.

We step into the pool and the water comes up to my shoulders and his chest. I float on my back with my eyes closed. I can feel his eyes on me, but I might be imagining it.

“So you’ve never sailed the big boat? Your grandfather’s.”

“No. It was the scene of my first panic attack, actually.” He looks away. “I’m not sure why I told you that.”

“You never forget your first,” I say, though I’m surprised Stewart has ever had a panic attack. I’m realizing that Stewart Whitfield is not the impenetrable man Naomi and I thought we knew. The way my body reacts to him against all my better judgment is dangerous enough. But Stewart’s willingness to share a bit of his own vulnerability is terrifying, just the fact that there might be a way further in.

He stands and walks across the pool to place his hand under the trickle of water. I watch his back, broad and tightly muscled.

“Do you have an ex-husband who helps out?” he asks with his back to me.

“No,” I say.

“So no husband ever?”

“No. He was a boyfriend, but I misunderstood his interest in me.”

“Oh.” He turns around.

I shrug and let myself sink under the water. When I come up for air he’s right there. I reach for the ends of my hair to wring out the excess water, forgetting that it’s been cut.

“So what’s Gus’s relationship with him now?” he asks.

“Are we filing a memo on this or something?” He’s looking down at me, waiting for a straight answer. What I really want to do is touch his shoulder and run my hand down the length of his arm. I’m focused on his collarbone because it’s above his shoulder and below his mouth, theoretically a neutral spot, but also not.

Stewart doesn’t say anything, letting it get awkward enough between us that I’ll spill my guts. But it’s not the silence that makes me want to tell him. It’s the fact that he’s opened up. It’s the fact that we’re barely dressed, in a secret place where my freckles are sparkling like the night sky. We’re in an in-between world, Stewart Whitfield and me. “He gave me three hundred dollars and told me to take care of it,” I say. His mouth is a straight line, zippered against an angry thought. “And that’s what I’m doing, taking care of it.” I smile at him to let him know it’s okay. “I bought a crib with the money.”

His eyes soften and his lips stay tight. I look down and smooth the water between us.

“So he doesn’t even know?” he asks.

“No,” I say. “And we’ve been absolutely fine on our own.”

He’s looking down at me, and I’m not an expert on Stewart Whitfield, but I swear he’s about to reach out to me. A pity hug with his skin against mine would completely derail any effort I’ve been making to not run my fingertips along his abs.

“We should get back,” I say. “I’m starving.”