Cross Currents (34 page)

“With us.”

He kissed her palm and rose to his feet. “Come here.”

“Come where?”

“I want to show you something.” He helped her up and started walking to the water. He headed to the end of the beach, which was dotted with boulders and free of people. “Stand still,” he said, lying down on the damp sand and rolling away from her.

“What are you doing?” she asked, laughing.

“Just wait. It's your Christmas present. I don't have any money to buy you one, so I need to make you one.”

“What is it?”

He shook his head, stood up, and started walking, dragging his feet across the sand. At first she thought he was making a giant circle around her, but soon the shape became curved and then tapered.

Finally he stopped and smiled. He'd created a heart around her, a vast heart with her at its center. “That's how I feel,” he said. “Now you know exactly how I feel.”

DAO WALKED UP THE PATH leading to the Hillside Bungalows, which had been built into the base of the limestone mountain on the southeast side of the island. The bamboo bungalows were perched several hundred feet above the water and provided guests with a breathtaking view of the Andaman Sea. Pleased that most of the bungalows appeared empty, Dao climbed higher, finally spying a pile of clothes outside the topmost dwelling. The sight of the clothes made her trek seem more real, more fateful, and she stopped, uncertain whether she should go up or down. In all likelihood going up would lead to fulfillment and pleasure, but ultimately disappointment. Dao had already once fallen for a tourist—a Swede who loved and left her. And clearly Ryan would leave the island. He would treat her well, smile at her jests, make love to her, and in a few days return to America. Some emails might be sent to her, some pictures perhaps, but at some point he would grow silent.

Her heartbeat quickening, Dao glanced at the clothes again. She wanted to be strong, to resist the temptation above. Certainly her parents would expect such resistance, and she wanted to please them, as well as to protect herself. But she also longed to laugh, to touch, to experience something unique and magical, and to visit a place, a height, that could not be reached alone.

After shaking her head at her indecision, Dao continued upward. She tried to stand tall as she stepped in front of the bungalow and knocked on the door. Inside, footsteps sounded, a lock was unlatched, and the door swung open. Ryan, dressed in shorts and a blue T-shirt, smiled and said hello. He asked if she'd like to come in, and she nodded, stepping forward. Inside, the bungalow was dominated by a double bed, a mosquito net, and the hum of a ceiling fan.

“Thanks for coming,” he said, motioning toward a table in the corner of the room. Plates and bowls contained fried rice, cubed watermelon, and two crepes. A pair of tall glasses held bubbling soda. Toward the center of the table was a lacquered vase containing a single bird-of-paradise. She smiled at the sight of the flower, then thanked him.

Ryan pulled out a chair for her. “My brother's the romantic. He'd have the room full of candles and flowers and God knows what else. Plus I'm sure he'd have music and incense and—”

“Stop,” she said, touching his arm. “This . . . it beautiful. It perfect for me.”

“It is? Really?”

“Why I need candles when I can see? Why I need music when I can hear birds outside? I am hungry. Food is what I want. And food you have.”

“I remembered the crepes. I went back to that same lady.”

Dao smiled. “King Kong has a good memory. To find her again.”

“And I have something else. Just one more thing.”

“What?”

“Just a little something.” He handed her a wooden box the width of a teacup. “A little Christmas present.”

Her smile came again, lingering as she took the gift. She opened the box, then removed a pair of earrings. Each rectangular earring was bordered and backed with silver, and featured a jade interior highlighted by a slice of a spiral white shell. Dao bit her bottom lip, stroking an earring, thinking that she'd never owned anything as pretty. “Thank you,” she said, looking up. She held the earrings against her chest, as if afraid of letting them go. “They so beautiful. So lovely. Too lovely for me, I think.”

“They're perfect for you.”

“I . . . I so happy that you find them for me.”

“I'm glad. Merry Christmas.”

“Thank you.”

“You're welcome.”

She pulled her old studs out and replaced them with Ryan's gift. Seeing him smile at the sight of her, she stood up, walked into the bathroom, and studied her reflection. The earrings seemed to sparkle, as did her eyes, which glistened with tears. She wiped them away and returned to the table, thanking him once again.

He motioned that she should eat. “The food's still hot. I had to run up and down those steps a few times, but I'm glad. I like it up here.”

“These my favorite bungalows on whole island. I can see so far.”

“It's a beautiful view. Just perfect, really.”

She tasted the fried rice, then ate a cube of watermelon. Her heartbeat still hadn't slowed, and she felt silly sitting at the table, eating, when she wanted to be touching him. “You hungry?”

“A little.”

“Come, I give you free massage. Then we eat.”

“No, you don't need to—”

“Lie down. On back.”

He pulled the mosquito net aside and moved to the bed. She followed him, helping him off with his shirt. Once he was settled on his back, she reached for the bowl of watermelon and returned to him. “Taste this,” she said, picking up a cube and raising it to his lips. His mouth opened and she held the fruit so that he could bite it in half. His movements were slow and careful, and despite the swirling fan, sweat began to glisten on his forehead. She wondered if he was as nervous as she was, but then pushed the thought aside. The remainder of the watermelon went into her mouth. It was as cool as shade and as delicious as anything she'd ever tasted. The juice filled her mouth, so sweet and strong. She put her knees on either side of his flat belly, straddling him. Another piece of watermelon was held near his lips. Only this time she squeezed the fruit and let its juices drip to his chin. The world began to speed up, to move with the rise and fall of her chest, and she leaned forward, kissing the wetness on his skin. He tried to embrace her, but she held him still, squeezing the watermelon again, then tasting the drops that had fallen to his neck and shoulder. His skin was firm, smooth, and warm. His breath came and went with increasing quickness. He whispered her name, which made her long to feel more of him, to savor the movement of his skin against hers. Without thought or hesitation, she removed her shirt and let it tumble away. Her bra fell next, and his fingers traced the outlines of her breasts. Though she knew they were small compared to those she saw in American movies, she noticed that his eyes were transfixed by them. She reached for another cube of watermelon, pressing it against her chest and then moving forward on him, lowering herself so that he might taste her. His tongue swept along her collarbone to the base of her neck to her right breast, circling her nipple, coming closer and closer until she felt his mouth on it. Her body shifted against his, arching forward and backward—movement without thought or premeditation. Her name sounded again on his lips, and he whispered of her beauty. Because she knew that beauty was fleeting and that this moment would be fleeting, his words made her slow down, despite her desire for haste. More fruit was crushed, dripped, and tasted. She covered him with such a rich, delectable sweetness that it didn't leave, no matter how many times she kissed and licked him. Her mouth made love to him, consuming his lips, the lobes of his ears, the length of his fingers. Though she had never before done such things, her movements were fluid and serene. His body had become an extension of her own, to do with as she pleased.

The watermelon lasted until the sun had lost much of its strength. Then he lifted her up, laid her on the bed, and began to move in the way that she wanted him to, as if, despite their different histories, they shared the same mind—a mind full of want and wonder, more focused on the future than on the past.

He became an explorer, delighting in discoveries, treating her body like an unknown country that he alone could search and cherish. And as he cherished her, as he empowered her through his tenderness, she rose higher and higher, moving like the sea beneath him, stirring and trembling and merging into another body that for a moment felt like her own.

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 26

About eight in the morning, hundreds of miles to the southwest of Ko Phi Phi, the crew of a fishing boat hauled in their net, which had been left in place overnight. Though the men had worked on the water all their lives, and could read its face like those of their children, they were unaware that miles below the sea's surface, something was happening.

A massive tectonic plate, the India Plate, shifted, as it had for millions of years. Only on this occasion, a portion of the India Plate slipped beneath the Burma Plate. The collision of the two tectonic plates created a rupture that released more than twenty thousand times the energy produced by the atomic bomb at Hiroshima. The seafloor above the focal point was suddenly thrust upward by six feet, displacing a colossal amount of water, flipping the fishing boat over like a toy, killing the crew, and creating a series of powerful waves.

As they approached nearby coastlines, the waves gathered strength in shallow waters, rising as they rolled forth, engulfing landmasses as if islands and coastlines had been dropped, from far above, into the sea.

Though no one knew it, Ko Phi Phi lay in the path of the waves.

In less than two hours, everything would change.

FROM THE LOOKOUT POINT ATOP the island, Ko Phi Phi seemed even quieter than usual. Sailboats were moored offshore and longboats were lined up along each curving beach. The water of both bays was flat and immobile, almost as if a coat of turquoise paint had been applied to some sort of model ocean. The day was remarkably still—a few clouds seemed stuck in the southern sky, the wind asleep.

Brooke and Patch were the only people at the top of the island. Perhaps other travelers were sleeping off their holiday celebrations. Or maybe the looming heat of the day had kept people from making the arduous climb. Whatever the case, Brooke and Patch sat in solitude on a limestone outcropping that marked the highest point on Ko Phi Phi. They held hands but didn't otherwise touch.

Though Brooke was usually comfortable with silence, she had only a few more days with Patch and felt the need to hear his voice, and to tell him what she'd been thinking while he gazed into the horizon. “Last night,” she said softly, “I wanted to go to your room. I actually left my bungalow . . . and walked toward yours. But then I stopped.”