“You want to win more of my money at the pool table?”
“Hell no. Let’s race the boats to the north side.”
It’s a bad idea under any circumstance. The north point of Bishop’s Landing is rocky as hell and takes concentration to navigate when it’s broad daylight. It’s the middle of the goddamn night.
But my mind latches on to the word race. It sounds like reckless speed and it feels like an adrenaline rush. It is an adrenaline rush. Clears my head.
“You’re too drunk to race.”
Zach shakes his head. “I’m not. I sobered up. And I need to work off some of this energy.”
The rest of the guys behind him lean in, buzzing with anticipation. They’re wearing drunk, wide grins. They want me to go with them.
I used to chase this feeling every night. It was the only way I could feel alive. It was the only way to flirt with death. That’s what I was doing, wasn’t I? Flirting with the idea of being dead. Giving it a kiss on the cheek, even if I couldn’t go quite yet. A final thrill. A last hurrah. Then darkness.
It sounds so good.
“Why the hell not? I’ll even take my boat.”
Zach thrusts both fists in the air and cheers. Then they’re pushing through the party, getting off the yacht, sprinting down the docks. We end up with more people by the time we’re at the sailboats.
I corral four of them into a ragtag crew and climb onto the deck of my fifty-foot bluewater sailing yacht.
My feet land in the spot where I held Eva in my arms. She looked up at the stars. Beautiful.
I was looking at her. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Beautiful, I’d said. To hell with the stars. All I wanted was to drink her in. We can pretend, I suggested.
She could pretend to be mine.
I was fooling myself. I never wanted to pretend. I wanted it to be real, and it couldn’t be. My life is a sham that will end in more secrecy and shame.
But damn it, she was real.
The other guys are getting themselves together. Two of them are on the dock, yelling at Zach and throwing lines onto the boat.
“We’re not letting those bastards win.”
“Hell, no,” one of my guys shouts. At least one of them has sailed before. I lose myself in getting the boat ready to go. Getting it safely out of the docks so we can rush toward a rocky, dangerous turn. It’s easier than thinking of how I’ve disappointed Eva. It’s easier by far than thinking about becoming my father. The moments when he recognizes my mother again hurt the worst. All anyone wants is for those times to last, and they never do.
My mainsail swings into place and the wind catches it. Somebody lets out a whoop. We’re rushing through pitch-black water. Lights from the marina and the party yacht ripple on the surface and fall behind us.
“Faster. Shit.” One of the guys wraps his arm around my shoulder and points. “They’re getting away from us.”
They’re drunk, and they’re not being careful.
I’m done being careful, too.
“Not for long,” I tell him.
I’m going to die on the boat that I first kissed Eva Morelli on. I’ll die on the boat where I held her and asked her to pretend with me. Where I handed over my heart before I knew what I was doing.
What a way to go.
16
FINN
Surprise—I’m not dead.
What I am is cold and wet and miserable. Lockup at the Bishop’s Landing police station blows just as much as any other jail. Funny that they haven’t added any ritzy touches. It’s cinder blocks and a hard metal bench for me.
The boat race did not end in the pleasant darkness I was going for tonight. I didn’t even crash my boat. I’m a competent sailor.
Zach and the rest of the guys weren’t. They were drunk and high and useless, and they ran into the rocks halfway through the turn. The boat turned over. My sober, fully clothed ass jumped in to pull them out before they drowned.
A capsized sailboat and a bunch of guys shouting at each other in the middle of the night were enough commotion to summon the coast guard. They zoomed into the situation on their rescue boat and started arresting people.
Some of the men scattered. I could’ve run, but I stayed to make sure they were all alive. Nine of us went out and all nine came back. Zach inhaled so much water that they took him to the back of an ambulance to have paramedics look him over. Everybody else was fine. Just drunk. About half of us got arrested in the end, including me.
The wet clothes are making my skin crawl. There’s nothing in the holding cell to dry off with. I’ve created a puddle of ocean water around my shoes.
This is not one of my finer moments in life.
I’m in lockup, which is the perfect time to realize that I want to be a father. I want the baby. Is it selfish to want a baby who’s cursed? Or is it selfish to wish the baby had never come at all? It doesn’t matter, anyways. The morality of it. It doesn’t matter, because either way I want the baby.
It took getting thrown in jail to realize it.
Heavy footsteps come down the hall. Keys rattle in the lock. The bars screech.
“What were you thinking, Phineas?” Hemingway saunters into the cell, a stern expression on his face. He’s doing an impression of me. It would be funny if I weren’t so miserable. “It’s dangerous to sail at night. And illegal, if you’re under the influence.”
I rub my frozen hands over my face. It doesn’t help. “I wasn’t under the influence.”
He arches an eyebrow at me. “Is that what the breathalyzer will say?”
“Shut the hell up, Hem. And yes. That’s what it said.”
“You know we have to discuss this, Finn. This behavior is reckless. You could have been hurt.”
“Please. I wasn’t hurt. This is funny, but—”
“I’m worried about you.” The corner of his mouth twitches. He’s walking a fine line between humor and sincerity. My brother’s probably relishing the fact that I’m the one who fucked up this time. “Running afoul of the authorities isn’t like you. If you need to talk, I’m here.”
I can’t even muster a glare. “At least you came alone.”
At least our mother isn’t here with us.
“No, I didn’t. I’m seventeen. Nobody was going to let me bail you out.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, Hemingway, tell me you did not bring Mom.”
He gives me a slow shake of his head. “Nope.”
Quick footsteps echo down the hall, and Eva steps into view. Her head is turned. “Yes, thank you.” She’s talking to one of the cops, presumably. My breath catches. She’s beautiful. A queen, even at three in the morning. Sleek, dark clothes. Her purse in her hand.
She turns to look at me, and I want to slide down to the floor and disappear.
I’m a grown man, so I sit up straight and meet her eyes.
Eva lets out a breath, her mouth a soft curve. I’m sure Hemingway got her out of bed to come here. An irritated flush to her cheeks would be normal. I’d deserve it. I’d deserve a terse, thin-lipped greeting. I’d deserve for her to tell me off.
Eva Honorata Morelli is always going to be more than I deserve. She takes in my wet clothes and disheveled hair with an even gaze. Compassion, not pity.