Ties (18 page)

By the time I pay for all the pie and coffee and drop her at her house without so much as a goodbye kiss--since I instituted the whole moronic ‘take it slow’ idea that wound up stricter than I wanted--I’m more pent up than I’ve ever been in my entire life.

I need to get on the water.

***

“Bex? This is Ryan Byrne.”

I check my watch and wish I had done that before I picked up the damn phone. It doesn’t feel late because I’m buzzing, but it’s not an appropriate time to be bothering anyone not on my crazy night-owl schedule.

“Ryan.” He sounds wide awake and not all that happy to hear from me. “How long were you going to leave me hanging exactly? I thought your edge was the extra push you give this whole thing. But it’s been over a week since I even heard from you.”

“I thought we were waiting on parts to come in.” I’m still on the line with him when I get in the truck and head to the pier where the boat Bex is getting ready for me is docked, right alongside the one Darryl had arranged for months ago.

“Parts are always coming in. Get your head in the game, kid. If you want to win this, you need to commit.” His words drip with disgust, and I instantly feel it for myself.

Hattie. My family. Work. It’s all been distracting me. I can afford to juggle things, but the brunt of it all has to be on racing or this won’t work.

The funny thing is, the minute I think it, it occurs to me that Hattie would totally understand. Maybe she’d even help me get some shit organized.

“Yes, sir,” I say, and he hangs up on me.

By the time I’m to the pier, it’s late as hell and things aren’t exactly the way I need them on either boat, but Bex is pulling up.

“What are you waiting for?” he asks as he jogs over, his worn Northface jacket already zippered. It’s too warm for that in the calm night air here on the dock: he’s ready to be out in the deep, where the temperature drops and there’s nothing but vast ocean.

I want to be there now, but it’s not a great idea without at least another crew member or two.

“Is there something smaller we can get out on?” I ask, just because I’m hungry for the rush of it.

“Smaller?” Bex shakes his head, pulls his cap off, and runs a hand through his hair. “Kid, what kind of racket are you running here?”

“Excuse me?” I try to press down the urge to throttle him.

“You seem like a decent guy. You do. But you never show up, you don’t seem remotely hungry for this, and now you’re scared to take the damn thing out?” He rubs his temples. “Ryan, I don’t think this is gonna work out after all.”

The entire day--my stupid run-in with Hattie at the synagogue, my asshole brother, my weeping mother, the dinner, the boat, everything I want and won’t let myself have with Hattie--comes crashing over me.

“If it gets rough out there, do you know the basics?” I ask, making sure my voice is steady and strong. This guy needs me to prove that I can handle this. “There’s no point if having some pissing contest that ends up with the boat at the bottom of the damn ocean.”

He smiles, and there’s something vaguely familiar about his cocky expression. “That’s what I like to hear. I can hold my own, kid. You’re not the first person to handle himself on the water. I may not have the speed, but I can keep things afloat in a pinch.”

“Let’s go.” I hop onto the deck before he can agree or disagree.

***

For the next few hours, I’m completely consumed by the adrenaline rush that comes with being out on the ocean.

The sailboat Bex managed to get for me is bigger than anything I’ve handled before. There’s more to keep up with than I’m accustomed to, and it proves a huge challenge. I pride myself on keeping an extra close eye on every element, and that’s not as possible on a boat this size.

So I have to content myself with keeping everything as smooth as I can while making as much use of Bex as possible. Ideally, it would have been good to have one more crew member at least with us.

As it is, I thank St. Jude the water is calm and the night is clear and bright. I can barely do this at the level I need to with all the elements in alignment, and I need to give him way better than barely.

I need to show him he didn’t make a mistake throwing his weight behind me.

The wind picks up and whips around us, and this is where I need to put my brain to rest and do what comes naturally. I know it sounds like hippie voodoo shit, but I focus on the wind until it’s part of me. Not just an element I feel or hear, but something that wells up in the pit of my gut and tells me, clear as if the words were whispered in my ear, what direction to head in and how to keep everything in balance..

Embracing the wind is how I know to change the luff tension just slightly and adjust the trim of the mainsail, pushing Bex out of the way to do it. Because it looks fine, but fine isn’t good enough.

Not to win.

“Isn’t the leech too tight?” Bex questions, but I decide to push my luck and bark at him to sit back. One slight adjustment more, a subtle change in direction, and it all clicks together.

We flip into high gear, and I catch the look of shock on Bex’s face because the wind hasn’t picked up enough to justify our speed.

“How the hell did you...?” His voice trails off when I roll the boat windward and catch a second draft, shooting us ahead again.

It’s a beautiful feeling, a sense of pure control and total power that’s tricky. A tiny change in tides, a shift in winds, and we’re going to slow to nothing. It almost happens.

I don’t panic, I do stay focused, and Bex’s grin stays on his face right up to the point where we dock.

My arms are shaky as hell, my heart is hammering, my body is coated in sweat, and I’m tired. I’m bone tired, and all I want is my bed.

“Holy shit. I’ve seen the light!” Bex slaps a hand on my back. “I’ll see you at dawn.”

It’s not long enough. I need to regain my energy, or I’ll be running on fumes. But I don’t say ‘no.’ I say as little as possible, even when Bex is gushing in my ear.

Because, good as this run was, something feels off.

It’s like the difference between a nice buzz and two beers too many. It’s the difference between the awesome high of flirting with a cute girl in a bar and the sleazy low of waking up in her bed the next morning, knowing it’s going to be awkward and awful.

Tonight, for the first night, it was too much. And I have a feeling that’s not going to let up with Bex at my side. I know competitive racing is going to be this way, but my edge has everything to do with my ability to focus on what’s pure.

Elemental, Hattie would say.

I make it home and collapse in my bed, alone.

My last thoughts should be a mental checklist of things I need to do to get ready to be out on the water tomorrow before dawn.

Instead it’s all Hattie: her voice, her body, the amazing way she smells. Hattie laughing, Hattie furious, Hattie wearing red lace, Hattie wearing absolutely nothing at all...

14
HATTIE

Whit and I are in Grandpa’s kitchen attempting to whip up some salted caramels for Marigold’s birthday party.

You’d think it would be easy...easy as stealing candy from a baby.

Especially for me, because candy making is like a science--all about temperature and precision--and science is my thing. But Whit leaves me alone for two and a half seconds and the thick, bubbling brown mess starts to burn.

I turn the burner down, I stir until my arm strains, but that fucking candy just sticks and bubbles until I’m forced to yelp, “Whit! Help!”

She rushes in from the living room, where she was working on setting Grandpa’s new wireless TV up.

“I’m here!” She bumps me out of the way with one perfectly curved hip, so I’m standing behind her like the moron I am, watching as she brings everything back to perfection, all while looking like this alluring hybrid of a pin-up girl and a fifties housewife. No wonder my brother can’t keep his hands off of her.

No wonder Ryan couldn’t resist her.

“It’s this stove,” Whit says, and I know she’s saying it to make me feel better. She jerks her thumb at the appliance she’s using with absolutely no problem. “Coil burners? They’re notorious for burning everything. No worries. Hattie? Hattie! Are you crying? Hon, it’s gonna be so fine. The caramel won’t even taste burned!”

I try to explain, but I’m blubbering too hard and fast.

Then I try to tell her I’m fine.

Then I give up and try to rush to the bathroom, but Whit is right on my tail, and she crams into my grandfather’s tiny pink and black tiled bathroom with me. She sits me down on the edge of the little pink bathtub and runs one of the soft black and white washcloths through with cool water. She squeezes the excess and presses it on my forehead.

I should be grateful, but all I can do is picture her in a sexy nurse’s uniform, complete with a little white cap. This girl oozes...everything. Everything awesome a girl should ooze.

I press the washcloth over my eyes, my entire being hot with deep, unavoidable shame. I am so not the jealous girl. Ever. I grew up around only other girls. I never had a single coed class until college. I adore girls, and I never get catty.

But I feel...jealous. Of Whit

“...seriously, even if it burns, I can whip up a fresh batch in no time...” she’s saying, and I jump up and race out of the bathroom and to the stove, muttering a string of curses. Whit moves me out of the way with another gentle nudge when I stare like an idiot into the bubbling caramel.

She clears her throat, focusing on stirring. “So. I’m getting the feeling this isn’t about candy.”

“Can I ask you a question? Woman to woman?”

I know Whit isn’t all that much older than I am, but I feel exactly how I felt as a middle schooler, asking my fabulous high school babysitter Clarice every crazy sex/period/random adult question I could think to ask. To this day, I credit Clarice for instructing me on how to use a tampon, what ‘hummer’ was slang for, and how to use chopsticks.

Everyone always assumes I should know, since I’m ‘Asian.’ Filipino, folks. No chopsticks for me. Well, not until Clarice taught me.

“Of course.” Whit looks super nervous. She takes the pot off the stove and leads me to the kitchen table, her dark eyebrows pushed low over her eyes. “Did Deo run his mouth again? I’m so sorry, Hattie. He sometimes has zero filter, and he has the best heart. He really does mean well. He’s just so dense sometimes.”

“No,” I manage, but then my voice sticks low in my throat. I must look a little choked, because Whit holds up a finger.

“Grandpa has some amazing grappa stored away in the freezer. I have a feeling we’re going to need it.” Whit gets up and rummages behind the frozen peas and tin foiled fish.

“What’s grappa?” I ask.

Whit brings back a frosty bottle and three glasses. She unscrews the cap and pours a tiny bit of clear liquid into each glass.

“Grappa is what you make with everything left over after you make wine. And it’s intense. I think this stuff is 80 proof. I’m going to give Grandpa a little nip. You wait for me.”

She sashays into the living room and my sweet grandpa thanks her and swats her bum before he takes a shot and goes back to his Shark Week marathon.

Is there a single male in the world impervious to Whit’s sex appeal?

“I’m back.” She holds her glass up. “To sexy bitches.”

“To sexy bitches,” I echo back in a hollow voice and we clink glasses.

I tip the liquid down my throat, and try not to sputter like some goody two shoes in an after school special. I’m not a total alcohol novice, but this shit makes tequila seem like cherry Coke.

“Holy crap,” I wheeze.

“Right? It’s a little like jet fuel.” Whit knocks hers back with a delicate tip of her glass. She also manages to not muss her bright red lipstick. “Now that we’re fortified: spill, Hattie.” She sits back, all business, and I try not to weenie out.

“Do you...you strike me as very...I mean, you must know that you’re...” I throw her my best desperate look, but she’s clearly not reading my mind. “You’re sexy,” I blurt out.

Whit’s eyebrows leap up to her hairline, and I think she blushes. “Oh. Um, thanks.” She puts a hand to her throat and darts her eyes to the side. I’m positive she’s searching for an escape hatch.

“I’m sorry. This is so weird. It’s just...it’s Ryan.” I roll the glass between my palms, watching the few remaining drops of grappa chase around the bottom.

Whit goes pale and quiet. “Ryan? I didn’t think...Deo said you guys weren’t together.”

“We’re not,” I rush. “Not exactly. I mean, I guess we kind of are.”

“Oh, Hattie.” Whit’s voice sounds mournful, like she doesn’t want to say any of what she has to.

Shit.

“It’s not what you think, I swear,” I say, but then I think about what it is. Or at least what I want it to be.

And it’s not what she thinks.

It’s worse.

Shit, shit, shit.

“Look, I’m not big on giving advice. I tend to think of myself as a screw-up who happened to get pursued by a really amazing guy with a ton of patience.” Whit taps her fingers on the tabletop, then looks right at me, her forehead creased with apology. “I’m not trying to pass judgment, but Ryan’s lifestyle is...a little wild, I guess. A little open. And if you’re into that, more power to you. I’m not being sarcastic about that at all. Just...I’m not sure he’s the kind of guy you stick with for the long haul. Does that make sense?”

Whit is sweating like a mother delivering the birds-and-bees speech to her preteen.

“It does,” I say slowly. “But I think Ryan has changed.”

“Oh.” Whit twists her hands, the ring my grandfather gave to Deo to propose with winking on her finger. “Maybe? I mean it’s been a long time. People can definitely change. Look at me. If someone said I’d be a married woman this time two years ago, I would have laughed in their face.”

“I think Ryan may be where you’re at. Just not married or anything, obviously,” I explain. “The thing is...no judgment, right?” Whit shakes her head. “I am really attracted to Ryan. I mean, like, very, very attracted.” I blush, realizing I don’t have to explain to
Whit
of all people how sexy Ryan is. Ugh. Awkward. But I press on. “I thought, you know, since he was pretty experienced he might want to...you know. With me.”

Whit looks like she’d gladly volunteer to be drawn and quartered if it meant she’d be out of this conversation.

“If that’s what you’d like, he’s, um...experienced. Definitely,” Whit mutters.

“No! I mean, that kind of
is
what I’d like. But he doesn’t want to.”

Whit’s eyes soften with something that looks like pity, and I bristle and blink back tears. “Hattie, you are beyond gorgeous. Undeniably gorgeous, inside and out, and I’m not just saying that in a sisterly way, okay? I’m being totally straight with you. A guy would have to be blind and crazy to not want to follow you around on a leash if that’s what you asked him to do.”

“It’s not exactly that. He definitely finds me attractive. He just won’t...” I clear my throat. “Jesus Christ. Can I have another hit of that grappa?”

“Great idea!” Whit’s arm flashes out so quickly, it’s just a blur. She gives us each a second generous splash and we chug.

“I’m a virgin,” I announce to my glass.

I hear Whit’s glass smack onto the top of the table. “Oh.”

“Ryan and I were going to...and I told him. And he said no. Like, stopped right before it got...there. We ate pie and talked. There was
it.
” Even this detail-stripped version feels so damn hard to just spit out.

Whit is alternating between looking like she’s going to puke and like she wants to hug me hard.

“I mean zero offense when I say this, Hattie. None at all. I love you like a sister. I mean, I never had a sister, but, if I did? I’d want her to be like you. But maybe I’m not--um, how can I say this? Maybe I’m not the best person to talk to about this. And about Ryan. Is there, like, a good friend of yours? Someone with less, uh, entanglements?”

“See, I have a friend, and I plan to tell her about Ryan. Eventually. When I’m more sure how I feel about him. She’s only had two boyfriends, and her second one has been with her for four years. She would have no good advice for me.” I flick my glass. “Just, is there something I can do? Is there any advice you can give me?”

She takes a deep breath and mutters, “Your brother is going to have my head for this.” Then she looks me in the eye and says, “Hattie. If Ryan found out you were a virgin and said no to sex, it’s because he’s a really decent guy. I mean, I always knew he was a decent guy deep down. So let me back up: he’s a really decent guy who is finally making good decisions.”

I slump back in my seat. “Figures he’d start on his whole ‘good decision’ kick when he met me.”

“Hattie?” Whit puts one tentative hand on mine. “Maybe he got on his whole ‘good decision kick’
because
he met you.”

I shake my head. “No. That is the absolute last thing I want. I’m not looking for anything serious. I definitely don’t want Ryan changing for me.”

“Ah.” She bites her bottom lip and nods. “Okay. Well, maybe you should, um, wait? Until you meet someone who you’re completely comfortable with.”

I cock my head to the side and narrow my eyes at her. “Did you? Wait until you found that perfect person?”

She shakes her head and gives me a sad smile. “I didn’t. And I don’t wallow in regrets anymore. I did that for long enough. But I do sometimes wish I’d kept that part of myself to myself. I didn’t realize what a difference it made until I met Deo. Before him it was just sex. After him there was no such thing as ‘just sex’ anymore.”

“You realize you’re trying to explain this to a virgin,” I gripe, saddled with self-pity.

“A super smart virgin. Way smarter than I ever was.” Whit stands up. “I’m going to check on the caramel, okay?”

I know she tries hard to disguise the look of profound relief that slackens all her features when I nod. I decide I’ve tortured Whit enough for one day and wander into the living room where a baby seal is being viciously devoured on the screen.

I sit next to my grandfather and open my hand for some pistachios.

“You look glum, sweetie.” He lifts his empty glass. “You need a refill? I think my glass has a hole in the bottom.”

I jump up and grab his glass. “Let me get it for you. I’m fine, though. I had a few thimbles full, so that’s, roughly equivalent to, what? A barrel of wine?”

He chuckles as I go to refill his glass. Deo skids into the kitchen just as I finish pouring, bronzed and sandy from an after-work surf trip. Cohen and his brother Enzo are close behind him.

Deo grabs Whit around the waist and kisses her neck. They fit like two slightly bent, standing spoons. Whit turns in his arms and runs her hands up and down his chest. I’d be jealous except that I’ve seen that look up close, first-hand.

It’s the way Ryan looks at me.

Cohen clears his throat and points to the bottle. “Tough day making candy?”

Whit twirls her dishtowel and snaps it his way, flicking him on the hip. “It’s not as simple as it looks. I mean, it’s not three hours of surfing hard. But it’s got its complications.”

Enzo laughs and whistles low. “Damn, Deo. Your wife’s tough, right?”

“Tough as nails, just the way I like my women!” my brother bellows, bending her dangerously close to the oven and kissing her all over her face as she shrieks and giggles.

Cohen takes out his phone and holds it up. “I gotta call Maren.”

Enzo hooks a finger in Whit’s empty glass and pours himself a little too much grappa. “Drowning my sorrows,” he tells me as he throws it back and sucks his breath through his teeth. “Damn that’s some disinfecting shit. Good thing, though. I need a serious brain duller. Being around these lovebirds can drive those of us unlucky in love to drink, you know what I’m saying?”

He holds his glass up, and I realize I’ve still got Grandpa’s drink in my hand. I clink and drink it down. Whit notices and frowns.