Tom taught me a bit about sailing and I pretended to help, but real y he did almost everything. Late in the afternoon he sailed us into a little sheltered bay and dropped the anchor. Tom wanted to swim and I wasn’t so sure so he gave me this big grin, pul ed off his shirt, and dived into the water. I stripped down to my bikini and fol owed. Oh my God . . . it was so cold I swear I couldn’t breathe for a second. And it was kind of scary, swimming in such deep water. I climbed out pretty quickly and sat on the boat in the sunshine to dry off, trying to hide the fact that I’d chickened out. Tom sat beside me, close enough that I could feel the warmth from his skin. He handed me a towel. When I took the towel I noticed that he had a thick, silvery scar that ran right across the palm of his left hand. I asked him about it and he held his hand out flat and we both looked at it.
“I’m not actual y sure what happened. I think I was five. My mother says I fel and put my hand through a window. My aunt thinks I cut it on a broken bottle.”
“Wouldn’t your mother know?”
“She was away at the time. Traveling. And the nanny we had then left soon afterward. The story just seems to have gotten confused over the years.”
I figured they’d probably fired the nanny, and I told him so.
He looked surprised. “You’re probably right. I never thought of that. Just that it was strange to have a mark like that and not real y know how you got it.”
I reached out and ran my finger down the scar. His skin was softer than I expected. Warm. He closed his hand around mine. He looked straight into my eyes and kissed me. I guess maybe some part of me knew it was coming but there was stil that moment when I wasn’t sure and then he did and . . .
and . . .
anything I say about it is going to sound so cheesy, or over the top, but the truth is, it was so, so different. He kissed me real y gently to begin with, and then he kind of leaned back and looked at me, like he was checking I was okay. And then he kissed me again, except deeper, and everything about it was perfect. His skin was warm and he smel ed so good, of the sea and himself and everything was perfect. His body is so beautiful. Oh man, I know, I know this is so over the top and I’m blushing like crazy as I write this but I’ve never wanted anything so much as I wanted him. The funny thing is, there’s a little cabin on the boat and we could have gone there, but I never thought of it and he didn’t suggest it. We just sat on the deck and made out until my chin was raw from his stubble and the sun started to set. He said we should sail home. I stood with him at the til er and we kept trying and failing to have a conversation. Al I could think about was how happy I was, and . . . at the same time how scared I was that this was going to screw everything up. But we touched al the time—his hand on my shoulder, mine on his back. I think we both knew that we were going straight to his bedroom the moment we docked. But then . . . we turned into the quiet little bay and sailed toward the jetty and there were two people there, waiting.
Both men, one of them standing stil and the other pacing. We were too far away to make out their faces. I looked at Tom but he shook his head. He had no clue who they were either. We had to sail a lot closer before we could see that it was Mike, and someone else. An older man. Heavyset, dark haired, with a beard.
I thought it might be Mike’s dad, but Tom shook his head again, said he didn’t recognize the guy. He got on with taking down sails and bringing the boat in to dock, so I stayed on deck and watched Mike and the stranger and their vibe was real y off. I can’t put my finger on what it was. Maybe it was the way they were standing—stiff and stil —or the way they never spoke to each other the whole time we were docking. Mike caught the rope Tom threw him and tied it up, and when he final y spoke there was an edge to his voice.
“You took the boat out. You never said anything. I came looking for it and found it was missing.”
Tom gave him a look and said something like, “I wasn’t aware I had to ask permission to use my own boat.” Which sounds snarky now, when I write it down, but he didn’t say it in a snarky way. Tom was more cold than anything, and something about the way he said it made him seem older, suddenly. Mike saw it too. He gave one of his fake laughs, acting like he thought Tom was kidding around, but I could see he was nervous. He was sweating, even though the sun had nearly set and the evening had cooled.
“Who’s this?” Tom said, nodding toward the stranger.
“Sorry, sorry, this is my friend Dom. He’s thinking of buying a yacht, same model as yours, so I offered to show him around. Is that okay?” Mike’s tone was so exaggeratedly apologetic that it bordered on sarcasm. Maybe he thought he’d embarrass Tom, but he was wrong. Tom said it would be fine, but in a disinterested kind of way, and then he started gathering up our things. He took his time, not hurrying. I helped. Dom just stood there watching, saying nothing, with a tight smile on his face. He was wearing jeans, white sneakers, and a T-shirt that was a size too smal . The clothes were real y young for him. He should have looked ridiculous, but actual y, he was just scary. Intimidating. He had this look on his face al the time, like he was holding himself back from saying what he real y wanted to, but only by the thinnest of threads. And he was completely silent the whole time we were getting ready. I kept thinking that there was something familiar about him and it was only later that I realized what it was. He had the same vibe as a debt col ector for a loan shark. There was violence shimmering just under the surface.