I’m watching the mist, hypnotized, when a sound breaks the night’s silence.
A door creaking open, followed by footsteps on wood.
They’re coming from my right, which means the Mitchell place.
After a few more seconds, Boone Conrad appears—a slim silhouette making its way toward the end of the Mitchells’ dock.
The binoculars still sit on the table next to my chair. I lift them to my eyes and get a closer view of Boone. He’s reached the edge of the dock and stands there in nothing but a towel, confirming my first impression of him.
Boone Conrad is fit as hell.
Even though Eli suggested I keep clear of Boone, which I completely understand, he said nothing about not being allowed to look at him. Which I do, feeling only a twinge of guilt as I keep watching him through the binoculars.
That twinge becomes a pang—and something more—when Boone loosens the towel and lets it fall to the dock, revealing that he’s not wearing anything underneath.
I lower the binoculars.
I raise them again.
I consider the morality of watching someone without his knowledge or consent. Especially someone naked.
This is wrong, I think as I continue to stare. So very wrong.
Boone remains on the dock, basking in the moonlight, which makes his pale body look like it’s glowing. He then glances over his shoulder, almost as if he’s checking to see if I’m watching. I still am, but he can’t know that. He’s too far away and all the lights are off here, leaving me hidden in darkness. Yet a smirk crosses Boone’s lips anyway, one that’s arousing and shame inducing in equal measure.
Then, satisfied that whoever might be watching got a good show, he dives into the water. Although freezing, the lake probably feels like bathwater compared with the cold night air. Even if it doesn’t, Boone pays it no mind. His head pops out of the water about ten feet from the dock. He shakes it, flinging water from his shaggy hair, and begins to swim. Not with purpose, like I imagine Katherine was doing when she ran out of steam in the middle of the lake. Boone swims the way I used to do when I was a kid. Playful. Moving willy-nilly through the water. He ducks under again and emerges floating on his back, eyes on the starlit sky.
He looks, if not happy, then at least at peace.
Lucky him, I think as I lift the beer bottle to my lips and take a big swallow.
In the water, something catches Boone’s attention. His head snaps to the opposite shore, where a light has flicked on in the Royce house.
First floor.
The kitchen.
I swing the binoculars away from Boone in time to see Katherine dressed in satin pajamas and staggering into the kitchen like she has no idea where she is.
I know the feeling well.
Hands running along walls, floors spinning, reaching for chairs that are only two feet away but feel like twenty.
Watching Katherine throw open kitchen cupboards, searching for something, I’m overwhelmed by a sense of familiarity. This is me on many, many nights. Different person. Different kitchen. Same drunken reeling.
Katherine finds what she’s looking for—a glass tumbler—and drifts to the sink. I nod, pleased to see she also knows the importance of hydration after a night of drinking.
She fills the glass, barely taking a sip before her attention drifts to the window at the sink. Katherine stares straight ahead, and for a sliver of a second, I think she’s looking right at me, even though that’s impossible. Like Boone, she can’t see me. Not from the other side of the lake.
Yet Katherine keeps her gaze fixed in my direction. It’s not until she touches her face, sliding her fingers from cheek to chin, that I understand.
She’s not looking at me.
She’s examining her reflection in the window.
Katherine stays that way a moment, drunkenly fascinated by what she sees, before returning to the glass of water. Tipping it back, she empties the glass and refills it. After a few more thirsty gulps, she sets the glass down and leaves the kitchen, her gait noticeably more assured.
The kitchen light goes out.
I turn once more to the Mitchells’ dock, hoping for another glimpse of Boone. To my disappointment, he’s no longer there. While I was busy watching Katherine, he got out of the water, grabbed his towel, and went back inside.
Bummer.
Now it’s just me and the darkness and the bad thoughts rolling like the mist off the lake.
I tighten the blanket around my shoulders, finish my beer, and get up to fetch another one.
The worst part about drinking too much—other than, you know, drinking too much—is the morning after, when everything you gulped down the night before comes back to haunt you.