Sleeping Beauty (15 page)

Suddenly it seems like the perfect time for heavy drinking.

Chapter Twelve

September 9
^th

I can’t believe it. The guy who fearlessly cuts into brains for a living–who has the ability to cut short or prolong the lives of little children like some scalpel-wielding, modern-day Fate–looks a little unsure.

“Are you getting in or what?” I shield my eyes with my hand, looking up at Brendan standing on the dock while Davin’s boat–a twenty-two foot cuddy cabin–bobs underneath me, the current rhythmically nudging it against the foam fenders affixed to the dock.

He eyes the boat uneasily, like he’s working up the courage to sky-dive or bungee jump off a bridge, instead of lowering himself five feet into a speedboat. “Shouldn’t we be wearing life jackets?” he says finally.

“What is it with you and protective clothing?”

“I thought it was the law.”

“It is, and you will, but they’re in the boat. I really don’t think we’re going to sink in the marina.” I lift one of the bench cushions and grab one of the neon yellow life jackets. “Here.” I toss it up to him before digging around in my bag for my SPF 1000 sunscreen. My contract specifically requires that my nineteenth-century face (and any skin not covered by the fifty pounds of fabric) stay as pale and pasty as possible. Apparently, women didn’t get outside much in the eighteen hundreds.

“Aren’t you putting one on?” he says. This is followed quickly by a
thump!
The boat lurches suddenly to port. Startled, I spin around, sure that he’s fallen off the dock into the well of the boat. Instead I find him standing, barely, his legs spread four feet apart like we’re getting ready to capsize.

I try very hard not to smile and almost succeed. “I hope you brought a protective helmet, because that’s not standard on this vessel.”

Looking very grumpy, he plops onto the bench seat and clutches the grab rail. “What do you want me to do?”

I look him over while I’m giving the spray-on sunscreen a good shake. Generally, it’s best to ask as little as possible of anyone who’s acting like they’ve missed the last rescue boat on the
Titanic
. “Uh, that’s okay. I’ll do it.”

I press my lips together, close my eyes, and spray my face, waving my hand in front of my nose to dispel the fumes before I inhale. Lifting my braids up, I spray the back of my neck before handing the bottle to him.

I hate sitting in the marina; the smell of boat fuel and rotting sea life makes me nauseous. I’m anxious to get out on the open water as soon as possible.
I’ll spray everything else later
, I think to myself,
when there’s more of it exposed
. It’s chilly on the water at eight o’clock in the morning in September. The skies are partially overcast, leaving the air even chillier. We’ll both probably need the windbreakers and pants we’re wearing for another hour or two at least. By then we’ll be there.

“Make sure you get it good on your neck and ears,” I tell him as I slip my arms into my life jacket. “Sun’s always worse on the water. And you’ll enjoy the ride more if you sit here.” I point to the left-hand seat in the cockpit. For good measure I add, “
Not
the one with the steering wheel.”

He wobbles and lurches forward like a toddler. Once he’s sitting, I reach across the driver’s seat and flip a switch.

“Is the engine on?” says Brendan. “I don’t hear anything.”

“It’s the bilge blower.”

“The what?”

This is fun, knowing things a neurosurgeon doesn’t. I plan to mock him later for his ignorance. Of course, I’ll be working in the phrase “It’s not brain surgery” as soon as possible.

“Fuel vapors build up around the engine,” I say. “If you don’t vent it out the boat will explode when you start it.”

“Oh, great,” he mutters.

Smiling, I disengage the propeller and choke the engine. “
Now
I’m starting it,” I warn him. I turn the key and Davin’s boat burbles to life. I leave it puttering in neutral before retying the bow line to the dock from the amidship cleat. Then I cast off the spring and stern lines and head back to the cockpit put the engine in gear. Once I’ve re-engaged the propeller, I slowly push the throttle forward.

“Hey, wait, we’re still tied to the dock!” he shouts, grabbing my arm in alarm.

I sigh, trying to be patient. “The tide’s pushing us against the dock,” I explain as I crank the steering wheel to the left. “Trust me.”

The guy who asks for other people’s trust in the most desperate of circumstances is clearly not accustomed to giving his to anyone else. He tenses, watching the slack in the bow line disappear. Once it’s taut, I up the throttle slightly, keeping a close eye on the stern as it swings away from the dock. When there’s enough distance between the two, I idle the engine and jump onto the bow to release the line.

In one smooth movement, I slide back into the cockpit. With my knee on the seat and my other foot on the floorboards, I throw the throttle into reverse. The boat moves backwards, the current pushing against the stern and straightening us out. “See?” I grab the sunglasses at the end of my neck cord and slip them on as the boat motors slowly towards the marina exit.

“How did you learn all this?” he says. “Did Wib teach you?”

“Nah, I knew boats way before I met Davin. My parents never had one, but they always seemed to have friends who had power boats, sailboats, yachts…and then West started surfing.” I shrug. “I don’t know. You live this close to the water, and you just meet people, you know?”

“How does Wib afford a boat? Everyone’s always telling me how expensive it is.”

I chuckle. “The guy has an apartment the size of a litter box and a beat-up old van so he can afford a boat, that’s how. Besides, it’s not buying the boat that’s the problem. Upkeep and docking it are where all the money goes.”

“Why does a surfer need a boat anyway? Don’t you just have to wade out into the water with your board?”

“Your average surfer does. Davin’s willing to travel to find the best waves. He takes this thing out for days at a time, even by himself, always trying to find the best surf. The Channel Islands have some great spots.” I point down by his feet. “Hey, can you stow the lines for me? There should be three.”

He looks at the ropes scattered across the floorboards all the way to the stern. “Wouldn’t it be easier if we just threw them overboard and bought new ones?”

“Just hold one end in your hand and coil it, like you’re wrapping up an extension cord. There’s a rope locker in the bow.”

He grabs the closest line. “Aren’t you going to sit down?”

I frown. “If I sit down I can’t see over the dashboard when the boat’s plowing.”

“Plowing?” He looks closer at the dashboard dials and buttons. “Does this thing seed and thresh too?”

I roll my eyes. “Quick boating lesson–look.” I hold my hand in front of me, horizontal to the floorboards. “Right now we’re like this. “When we accelerate, the boat will sort of jump up like this.” I tilt my hand to a forty-five degree angle. “That’s plowing.”

“You’re going to steer us all the way to wherever we’re going without being able to see? Maybe I should put you on my shoulders or something.”

“Funny. Once we’re up to speed it’ll level out again and start planing, sort of skimming along the top of the water. But even then it probably looks like there’s no one steering the boat. The Navy gets a little antsy about unpiloted craft, so I usually just stand.”

“The Navy? You mean the Coast Guard?”

I shake my head. “The Coast Guard has jurisdiction until we get to within a couple hundred yards from the island. After that the Navy keeps an eye on you.”

“For search and rescue?” He finishes wrapping the last of the three lines into a coil, and drops it on the deck.

I chuckle. “You’re thinking Coast Guard. The Navy cutters will just blow you out of the water and sort it all out later, especially after Nine Eleven.” I see his anxious expression and laugh again. “Don’t worry, if you’re still floating around in the flotsam afterwards, I’m sure the Navy will, ah,
rescue
you.” I add under my breath, “Or what’s left of you.”

Brendan reaches out to grip the top of the windshield. “Maybe I didn’t read our itinerary all the way through…can I ask how our pleasure cruise to the Channel Islands involves possibly being overtaken and shot at by the U.S. military?”

I lift my chin in the direction of his chair. “Better sit down.”

The way ahead is clear of other boats, and the last “
SLOW–NO WAKE”
buoy is at least one hundred yards behind us. I gun it. Brendan flies backwards into the chair as the bow surges up. When I look over he’s got a death grip with one hand on the side of the chair, the other braced against the instrument panel. I grin as the hull hits the crest of a wave, blowing a fine spray of water over us.

After about five seconds we’ve leveled out, and I accelerate to our cruising speed. There’s hardly any wind this morning, leaving the water pretty flat. The engine noise on Davin’s boat is minimal, even at high speeds, which I love. There’s nothing worse than having to shout yourself hoarse just to have a regular conversation.

I double-check our heading while Brendan tries his luck at standing again. He looks a little more confident.

I’ve spent the two weeks rebuilding whatever I’d torn down between us after the awkward and disastrous date at my apartment. If nothing else, I want to get back to the level of playfulness we’d had before my first ill-advised and embarrassing foray into aqua seduction.

Yeah
, I think to myself,
that’s why you immediately planned a second aqua seduction
.
Because the first one worked so well
.

Time to get playful. “So,” I say, “do I already know you’re scared of the water?”

“Don’t you get tired of starting every other sentence that way?”

I shrug. “I just figured since we’re seeing each other now–”

“
Again
,” he adds. “Seeing each other again. A week shy of two months altogether, unless you want to include the month where you wouldn’t talk to me. Then it’s a little under three.”

I snort. “What do you mean ‘again?’ Again for
you
. I’m still stuck with whatever scraps of memory my brain randomly tosses to me. It’s not enough to fill a bucket, let alone four weeks of missing time.”

“I think you’ve recovered a lot of memories. You’ve gotta remember–”

“Oh,
there’s
a good choice of words.”

“Sorry,” he says with a wry grin. “Actually, you
don’t
have to remember…that’s the point. Your brain doesn’t put every single thing you do every second of the day into permanent memory. That’s why most people can’t recall what they ate for breakfast a week ago.”

I chew the inside of my cheek, thinking, as the boat cuts through the dark blue water. By ‘a lot of memories’ he means that I’ve been able to recall things like the lunch with Andy Gordon at The Ivy, bits and pieces of my screen test, and getting my hair cut by Andy’s friend in my kitchen.

Sure, there are glimpses of other things from those four weeks too: the two of us making out in my kitchen while chicken filets defrosted in the microwave behind us; watching a horror movie with him on my couch, me peeking through my fingers and begging him to turn it off; me studying him unobserved–his back to me as he sat in the swivel chair in my home office–and becoming inexplicably turned on listening to him bark medical orders to someone at the hospital on his cell phone.

Rarer still are the fragments that I covet from the one night I want to remember most: earnest whispers to each other in the dark; the rustle of clothing sliding away from skin; my body wrapped around his in the stillness, no sound save our gradually slowing breathing.

Ironically, this is the one encounter I can’t really ask him about. What am I going to say? “So, Brendan, am I correct in remembering that you like it best with me on top?”

“I’m not scared of the water,” he says, looking mightily offended. “I’ve just never been in this kind of boat in this much water. Not a lot of ocean in Arizona, you know.”

I’m skeptical. “You’ve never been in a boat? How’s that possible? Aren’t there, like, rivers in Arizona? Isn’t that how the Grand Canyon was formed?”

“I didn’t say I haven’t been in a boat. Of course I’ve been in a boat–”

“But you know the tables at Woody’s Boathouse Restaurant don’t count, right?” I say, hoping he catches my reference to a local place that offers booths in the shape of boats.

“You’re funny for a short girl. I’ll take you grade five whitewater rafting, then we’ll see who’s laughing at who.”

“Well, the ocean’s pretty flat today, so just think of it as a ninety minute, grade one whitewater rafting trip. Should be a cinch for a big, tough guy like you.”

He reaches over and wriggles his fingers under my chin, the only place on my body I’m ticklish.

“Hey!” My right hand jerks on the steering wheel, the boat lunging to starboard as I jump away from him. “No tickling the captain!” I make small corrections to even the boat out before we capsize. I shake my head. “It’s really frustrating, you know.”

“What?”

“The things you already know about me. Your home field advantage is driving me crazy.”

He frowns. “I thought we agreed that any comparison between our relationship and team sports or board games was a bad idea.”

“I don’t even
want
to know how you know where I’m ticklish.”

He smirks. “Yeah, probably not.”

“You’re the worst.”

I say this–that I don’t want to know–but in reality I’m
dying
to know. Because after the last twenty-one days with him, here’s what I
do
know: I love the surgical softness of his hands, the way they feel on me, the way they make me want to move under them. I love the scent of him, his cologne and shampoo–even the antiseptic soap he uses at the hospital–and the way I can still smell him on my clothes when he leaves. I love his mouth on mine, the roughness of his mysterious and ever-present three-day stubble, and the way ten minutes of kissing him is better than the memory of sex with anyone else I’ve ever been with.