“Do you want to try?” he asks, pointing to the till.
“Try what? Sinking us?”
He chuckles but reaches out and tugs on my hand. “Come on, I’ll help you.”
I crawl on my knees toward him, terrified that if I stand, I’ll rock the boat and lose my balance. “Where do I—”
“Right here.” He directs me so that I sit between his spread legs, leaning my back against his chest. He moves us out of the parade of boats before spending the next few minutes directing me on what to do. He does this by covering my hands with his to show me when to steer the tiller or swing the jib. After a bit, he lets go so I can do it on my own, but he remains where he is.
“There you go,” he encourages as I take control of the jib for the first time by myself and the boat turns in the water. He rests his chin on my shoulder. “You’ll be a pro in no time. Then again, it seems you’re good at everything you do so there’s no surprise there.”
“Whatever.” I roll my eyes.
“I’m serious. You are, and it’s not a bad thing.”
“Who taught you to sail?” I ask, changing the subject off me as I contemplate if I’m turning too sharp. “You seem pretty comfortable on the water.”
“My father. It was a requirement for the Sharpe boys to be schooled in all things,” he says with a hint of sarcasm in his voice. Or was that melancholy? I can’t quite tell.
“Tell me about him,” I say.
His sigh is a clear indication that he’s uncomfortable with my request, so I don’t push. I just let him rest his chin on my shoulder and settle into the silence.
“He was a good man. Fair but strict. A man who started from nothing and made a whole helluva lot of something. But Dad being Maxton Sharpe the mogul is all I really remember, with each year elevating his status even higher than the last.”
“I meant, tell me about him as your father,” I say, not caring in the least about the businessman because clearly, he was good at what he did. “Did he attend little league games or barbecue in the backyard? Tell me about him.”
I can feel Ford’s body tense, almost as if the question surprises him. “He was there as much as he could be. Being a single father with three teenage boys isn’t exactly easy.”
“I can’t imagine.”
“But yeah, he made it to everything he could when he wasn’t off conquering the world. At the same time, he tried to make up for us not having a mother by being over the top at everything.” He chuckles as if he’s remembering something, and I can only assume what over the top means when it comes to a billionaire.
“Tell me,” I prod as I turn the boat a little more. But since the breeze has died off some, it just kind of stops.
“On the outside, birthday parties were ridiculous. A box suite at Yankee Stadium. Skydiving for our eighteenth. Christmas was spent skiing or overseas. Anywhere but in our house where we could be reminded of the mom we missed.”
“I’m sorry.”
“She was the love of his life. He had girlfriends after her, but even up until the day he died, we still knew she was it for him. There was never a doubt in our minds that we were the result of that love.”
“That’s beautiful,” I say, my throat thick with tears because I understand that love. I saw something similar with my own eyes. “Doesn’t that scare you though?”
“How so?”
“That he had that love and then lost it? That it’s so easy to lose?”
Ford wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me back more to relax against him. I can virtually feel the weight of my question weighing on him. “My brothers have both taken the plunge toward marriage over the last few years, and they seem abnormally, sickeningly happy.” His sigh says everything he’s not saying—how much he loves them despite whatever arguments they may have. “I mean, having wives didn’t stop them from being the assholes they are, but loving their wives, creating their own worlds with them, seems to have made them better men. So yeah, I believe that some risks are worth taking.”
“Hmm,” I say in response as I try to drown out the memories. The loss. The loneliness that comes with losing your parents.
Sure, I had Garland, Joshua, and Gregory as my family, but it was nowhere near the same. Just like my mother said that day—her marriage to Garland was different from my dad. So was the patchwork-quilt family they created.
Harsh words weren’t spoken, but I never felt that all-encompassing love from Garland like I did when I was wrapped in my mother’s arms. He was a father figure to me, but never a father. He provided for me, but never thought beyond the monetary needs to my emotional ones.
It wasn’t a cold house by any means. We managed. We lived side by side and shared experiences, but it was nowhere near the environment I remembered growing up with my dad.
And then after she died, I became an add-on. A secondary thought. And while it was never explicitly stated, I was kept part of the family out of duty. Because of a promise made to my mother on their wedding day and the six years I lived under their roof.
Sadly for me, it was all I had and so I accepted it. I needed it. The hand-me-down scraps of family I was offered were taken because I had nothing else to accept.
And the shares of a company I never thought I’d be a part of became my lifeline to a woman I missed so fiercely, and the only way I figured I’d be able to hold tight to her was to be a part of the only other thing she’d created besides me—Haywood Redesigns.
I kept friends at an arm’s length for fear of being hurt or left behind. I still do.
I had boyfriends who I let in only to shut them out when they got too close.
It became so much easier to think of relationships as transactions—something that is mutually beneficial until it’s not—in lieu of being devastated again.
In lieu of finding out if the epilogue of life could really be all that happy because from my experience, that notion is a crock of shit.
Hence my situation with Chandler and my acceptance of a marriage based on mutual interest instead of love. If things went awry, it’s easier to walk away from an emotionless contract than to be devastated by one where your heart is invested.
But then the storm happened.
Then Ford happened.
And I’m just not sure how it and he make me feel when I’ve been so resistant to feeling at all.
“Hmm?” His lips vibrate against my scalp, interrupting my thoughts I shouldn’t be having right now. “What’s that sound supposed to mean? You don’t think love or the possibility of love is worth the risk?” he asks, pressing a kiss to the side of my head. I’m not used to casual affection. To random kisses pressed to reassure. To a head leaned against mine in comfort.
And every time he does it, it stops me in my tracks. It makes me realize how very different, how very genuine—in the best kind of way—Ford is.
“I don’t know. I’d think watching your parent experience that kind of loss would make you fear getting close to someone.”
He nods, his chin bumping my shoulder as he does. “Or it could give you hope. What about you—”
“And your mom? Do you remember much about her?”
He gives a soft laugh. “She was larger than life, and that’s saying something in comparison to my father. I remember vague things about her. Her smile. Her laugh. The way she’d ‘try’ to watch action movies with us only to point out every unrealistic thing about it. And I remember how she loved. It was as if she knew she was going to die young. She was hugs and words and actions. We all knew we were loved.”