Rounding the islands takes up a good chunk of my afternoon. Before I know it, the sun is beginning to tilt toward the westward horizon. As tempting as it is to stay out another few hours, Cupid isn’t equipped for overnight trips or rough seas.
There will be more sailing days, I console myself, steering begrudgingly northward. As many as I can manage before I leave this place again.
As I navigate past the tip of Little Misery, my eyes linger for a moment on a mustard yellow lobster boat puttering around the rocky shallows. The men aboard are too far away to see clearly — just two distant figures in orange rubber coveralls, one slightly hunched with age at the wheel, the other strong and broad-shouldered as he checks traps at the stern.
It’s been ages since I had a lobster.
My stomach rumbles loudly at the thought. A full day of sunshine and salt air has left me borderline ravenous. Pulling the tiller toward my chest, I duck low as the boat executes a sharp gybe, the metal boom swinging from port to starboard over my head. With the bow knifing northward, I fix my eyes toward home, allowing the fair afternoon winds to sweep me along the coast. My mind is consumed by mouth-watering visions of a steaming lobster, fresh coleslaw, and a bucketload of melted butter on the side.
Focused as I am, I don’t see the moment the young lobsterman turns from his task and catches sight of Cupid’s poppy red hull cutting through the gentle swells. I don’t see the way his face goes pale with recognition, or how his fingers fumble with the bait-bag he’s holding. I don’t hear the whoosh of air that leaves his lungs, or realize I’ve just set in motion a sequence of events that will change both our destines forever.
I’m far too focused on dinner.
FOUR
archer
She’s back.
The words replay on a constant loop, driving everything else from my head. Since I saw Jo out sailing last week, I’ve thought of nothing else. I can’t eat, I barely sleep. Even whiskey can’t drown her out. It’s enough to drive a man mad.
The minute I saw the small red sailboat, I knew. Even before I read the name Cupid in golden letters on the hull. Even before my eyes moved up to take in the blond hair whipping in the wind, the slim shoulders wrapped in a thin cotton sweater, the small hand so confidently steering the tiller. Even before I felt my stomach hit the deck like a lump of lead.
She’s finally back.
For a ludicrous moment, I wanted to go to her. To rip the wheel from Tommy’s arthritic grip, blast the throttle into full gear, and chase her across the ocean before she vanished from my line of sight. But the cold reality of my situation soon slammed into me like a sucker punch.
If I went to her, what the fuck would I say?
There’s no way to make up for what I did last summer. The things I wrote in that note… the way I twisted the truth into an ugly lie designed to tear her apart…
I shudder at the memory.
With a few reckless words, I made her believe she meant nothing to me. That we meant nothing to me. A misguided hookup, better forgotten.
She must think I’m a monster.
Hell, I am a monster.
I shattered us worse than the bones in my wrist. No amount of time or space can heal that kind of damage. And if there’s one thing I know about Josephine Valentine… the girl holds a grudge. She’ll never forgive me. Even if I try to explain, to rationalize my thought process that fateful day when my world fell apart. Even if I tell her how Blair and Vincent backed me into a corner with their threats of jail time and family ruin.
Even if…
Even if…
Even if…
Evens and ifs are nothing but a fool’s mirage, offering optimism where there is none. I find a shred of consolation in the knowledge that my parents are safe and financially secure thanks to the choices I made… but that does little to temper the agony of my own reality.
No scholarship.
No baseball.
No college.
No prospects.
Can you really picture Josephine in that future with you? Jo’s mother Blair asked with such perfect bluntness, staring at me across a fluorescent-lit hospital room. Do you really think she’d want you like this?
You have nothing to offer, her father told me, staring at the cold metal handcuffs on my wrists. You can’t elevate her to the heights she deserves. You will only bring her down, into a life of misery and despair. And, eventually… she will hate you for it.
Looking at myself now — the depths to which I have fallen — I can’t help thinking they were right. The old Archer is dead and buried, his dreams with him.
Rest in Peace, you useless fuck.
I was once dumb enough to hope that if I simply worked hard enough, got good enough, pushed far enough… I’d finally be worthy of standing by Josephine Valentine’s side. Not only as her friend, but as her equal. As a man she’d be proud to call her husband, one day.
That foolish hope evaporated the minute my truck flipped in that intersection.
There is no longer any possible outcome in which our orbits intersect. She is destined for a career as CEO at one of the world’s largest global health organizations… and I’ll spend the rest of my days hauling lobster traps, until my bones wear out.
She’s back.
But she might as well still be halfway across the world, for all I can close the distance between us.
FIVE
josephine
The wind whips strands of my hair into my eyes as I race down the deserted road that cuts across the marshes. I press the gas pedal harder and shift into a higher gear, grinning as the convertible picks up speed. Though I’m a relatively cautious person by nature, there’s no denying the thrill of fast driving — especially when I’m behind the wheel of my father’s vintage 1965 Porsche Cabriolet.
The speedometer is inching past ninety when I hear the sound of sirens behind me. My eyes flicker up to the rearview mirror, widening as I see a police cruiser roll out of a camouflaging thicket of foxtails.
Shit.
I slam on the breaks and pull over, dust kicking up in a cloud behind me. The flashing blue and red lights never cease, even as the siren cuts off sharply and the officer steps out of his squad car. I flinch at the loud crunch of his approaching footsteps on the gravelly earth.
Come on, Jo.
Compose yourself.
Hands in the ten-and-two position.
Eyes downcast.
Deep breath.
And wipe that guilty look off your face.
The officer comes to a stop beside my door. “Young lady, do you have any idea how fast you were going?”
“Uhh…” I keep my gaze averted; I can’t quite bring myself to look at him directly. “Too fast?”
“Damn straight.” There’s a long pause. “You privileged rich girls think you can rip down these roads in your fancy imported cars without any repercussions, huh? Putting community lives at risk for the sake of a cheap thrill?”
“No, officer! I promise that’s not—“
“Save it.” He cuts me off sternly. “License and registration.”
“Of course,” I murmur, fumbling for the proper documents in the convertible’s tiny glove compartment. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have been going so fast. There’s no excuse, I just—”