I’d snorted. “Earning interest, you mean.”
“Whatever. Point is, I ain’t worried about it, and I don’t want you holdin’ on to any kind of worry.
I’d rolled my eyes. “Whatever.”
He’d cupped my jaw. “Mama.” It was a scold.
I’d breathed a sigh of annoyance and resignation. “Fine, yes. That’s exactly what I was thinking. What are you, psychic?”
He’d shaken his head. Brushed his thumb over my lips. “No, I can just see it on your face. See you gettin’ all twisted up inside.”
“It’s conditioned into me by now, Chance,” I’d whispered.
“I know,” he’d murmured. “Fight it. It ain’t your reality no more. I got you. Okay? Try to trust that.”
“I’ll try.”
Now, we’re following the coastline toward his beach property. We’d left the marina at Hanalei behind a while ago, and I’m not sure how long it would take to get there. I don’t really care, to be honest—I’m enjoying the ride. The island on our right was lush, dense, and mountainous, almost eye-wateringly verdant and beautiful. I’ve never been anywhere so beautiful. Behind me, Chance has long-since shed his shirt, kicked his flip-flops off, and taken his hair out of its ponytail, letting the wind whip it behind him in a long black streamer.
I sit twisted on the seat, so I can watch the coastline unfold ahead of us and also soak in all that was Chance.
I’ve been blocking myself from really opening up to how I feel about him, I’m realizing. How deeply I’m starting to feel about him.
How attracted to him I am.
He’s got one hand on the tiller of the outboard motor, the other slung forward along the side of the boat. His brown skin glistens, moistened by the spray, mountains of muscle bulging and rippling, black-and-white tattoos seeming almost alive. His beard is thick, recently trimmed and brushed. His eyes are deep and dark, constantly moving, scanning, assessing. He seems…at peace, in a way that’s new even since I met him. As if some of the shadows swirling behind his eyes have fled, dissipated.
He’s handsome.
Rough, rugged. Immensely powerful. Hewn from granite, the steel of him forged in the fires of life…yet despite all that, he’s gentle. There’s a sweetness to him. A tenderness belied by the colossal enormity of his physical presence.
I feel safe with him. And I can’t even put into words how long it’s been since I’ve felt safe. But I don’t just feel safe—I feel taken care of. I…belong.
Something is unlocking inside my soul, as I sit in this boat and let my mind wander and my heart finally escape the suffocating prison I’ve had it locked away in for so long.
I could be happy. With him.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit—Iamhappy with him. I don’t have it all figured out. I don’t know what I want to do with my life, but…with Chance supporting me, I can figure that out. I can learn to dream again. I can’t be an athlete anymore, but I can find something else to fulfill me.
Maybe it’ll just be…life. Being with Chance.
I feel a glimmer of what that might be like. Scraps and shreds of a vision: the train of white dress, a black tux…a hospital room, a tiny little head with damp dark hair…a home, a future…life.
Someday.
For now, I just want to learn how to be with him. How to trust him with all that’s me. How to give him myself, my heart. My body.
I’m eager to explore our relationship. Not just the emotional outlines of it, but the physical depth of it. What it’s like to have a sexual relationship with someone I care about. I’ve never been with a man in that sense. It’s scary, but exhilarating.
He catches my eye, and I realize I’ve been staring at him. “Thinkin’ deep thoughts over there,” he calls; the motor and the crash of the waves against the hull and the wind is loud, making normal conversation pointless.
I nod. Smile. “Thinking about you,” I call back. “Life.” I hesitate. “Us.”
He opens his mouth to answer, but his eyes flick over my shoulder, fix on something, and he points. “There it is.”
I twist the other way and follow his gesture. The mountains descend dramatically in a V, with lush, dense jungle filling the space between them, the peaks curling around the coastline in either direction, leaving a wedge of lowlands extending toward the ocean. There’s a short but deep stretch of white sand beach, jungle trees swaying in the wind at the edge of the beach, casting shadows on the sand. As we approach, I can see, tucked into the trees, a small hut, built up off the ground on stilts. The roof is thatched, and the walls seem like they can be rolled up down somehow—I’m not sure, it’s still too far to see clearly. Against one side of the hut, there’s a wooden rack with surfboards and standup paddleboards tipped up on end; the boards are colorful, beautiful. A few minutes later, we’re scudding up toward the beach—Chance tips the motor up out of the water, and we coast up onto the sand with a noisy scraping sound. Chance hops lithely out of the boat and into the water, grabs the prow of the boat with both hands and pulls powerfully backward, dragging it up further onto the beach as if it weighs no more than a bag of laundry. There’s a long, wrist-thick rope tied to a tree, the bitter end coiled just out of reach of the high tide line, and Chance uses it to tie the boat off.
He stands ankle-deep in water, hands propped on his hips, taking in the scene. “God, but it’s good to be here.”
