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Fish guts . . . knives . . .
My eyes water and I blink hard.
He’s too entranced with his equipment to notice. He caresses the fishing pole in a way that is vaguely obscene, looking at it with lust in his eyes. Finally, he hands one of them to me. “It’s a Shimano Johnny Morris Carbonlite,” he beams. “Isn’t she a beauty?’
I manage a weak smile. “Your fishing rod is a she?”
“Your possum was.” He opens up a tackle box.
“With that logic, I can’t possibly argue with you.” The boat is moving smoothly, but I still feel queasy.
He starts talking to me about the different kinds of artificial bait, but I’m too busy clinging to my chair and trying not to barf to pay attention.
Then the boat starts slamming into whitecaps.
“Urgh,” I groan.
Paxton holds up a lure. It’s lime green. “You are the same color as this lure. Are you all right?” he asks.
In reply, I run over to the edge of the boat and vomit up this morning’s omelet and coffee.
“Ruby?”
The water gets choppier. I am barfing and barfing. I can’t stop. I am going to throw up my intestines and all of my internal organs.
“Ruby!”
I fall to my knees on the deck. He kneels next to me.
“When I go out on a boat, I get seasick,” I moan.
“You think? Why didn’t you tell me before we got on the boat? I could have gotten you some Dramamine.”
“I was trying to tough it out.” The boat rocks violently and I let out a moan.
Paxton sighs. “Next time, don’t try to tough it out.” He rubs my back. The boat slows to a stop. We’re still rocking, though.
“I’m just going to lie here and commune with the deck for a while,” I groan. “You go fish.”
“Don’t be silly. We’re not going to stay here while you’re heaving your guts out. Hey, Captain Santiago!” he calls out. He gets up. “I’m going to go tell him that you’re not feeling well and we need to go back.”
He leaves my side and returns a minute later. “Bad news. The engine has stopped. We need a tow.”
Panic ices my veins. We’re trapped out here? “You said it was a brand-new boat,” I wheeze.
“It is!” He winces. “I guess even brand-new boats can have problems sometimes.”
The boat rocks from side to side.
I scramble to my feet and go retch over the edge again, with Paxton by my side.
What follows is a blur of misery. I lie on the deck, curled up on my side, clutching my stomach. My head throbs. I’m dry-heaving, because there is nothing left in my stomach.
Paxton never leaves my side. He doesn’t get angry; he doesn’t make fun of me; he doesn’t complain. He had a day of fishing in the bay planned, and even though he doesn’t get that much free time, he’s not giving me any grief about it.
He’s actually a really, genuinely good guy. I’m feeling guilty about the possum thing now. That was a pretty horrible date idea. At least the ice skating had some humor to it, even if I got showed up by a six-year-old girl.
I hear a boat approaching, and then I hear voices, and then apparently at some point the boat hooks up to ours. Our boat jerks, which makes me moan, and then we’re being hauled back to shore.
