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I squirt the sunscreen in my hand and lather it over her shoulders, working my way down. She’s slim, her shoulders small in my hands, and it doesn’t take me long to cover ground. I lotion the exposed skin of her back, which is already growing pink.
“I’ve been thinking,” she says, her voice resolute, “why would we ever leave this place?”
“What do you mean?”
“I know we came here to…detach.” She’s chosen her words carefully. Vanish is more like it. After the murder of Catherine Rossi, we knew it wouldn’t be long before her loyal followers went hunting for the person, or people, involved.
As with all empires—one mafia family falls, another rises. It’s only a matter of time before the buzz around Catherine Rossi’s untimely death calms down and we can return in relative obscurity.
In the meantime, Finley and I are taking an “extended vacation.” Jacobi, too, is in the wind—no one has seen hide nor bald head of him.
I squirt more sunscreen onto my palm and slip underneath her straps. I cover the small of her back as well, making sure to protect every vulnerable spot.
“That’s one way to put it,” I tell her.
“We can be anyone we want to be here,” she insists. “Who do you want to be?”
I think about it only for a second. “Someone who doesn’t kill people.”
“Alright. Promise me.”
“Promise you what?”
“That you won’t kill. Ever again.”
“I promise.” The words feel easy to say here. It’s easy to promise peace in paradise.
What surprises me is that I actually mean it. It feels like a weight lifted off my shoulders when I utter the words.
“What about you?” I ask her, and she squints at me.
“What about me?”
“Who do you want to be?”
She thinks about that. “I’m not sure yet. But I want to find out.”
I kiss her shoulder. “We have all the time in the world.”
“Yes. And I’m exactly where I want to be.”
“For now.”
“Maybe forever. Why would we ever go back? It’s paradise here.”
“Because, one day, you’re going to wake up and the sun will be too bright, and the beach will be too sandy, and you’ll long for the concrete jungle again.”
Like sand cracking between my teeth are the rest of the words I don’t get out:
One day, you’re going to wake up and realize you don’t want me.
Too old. Too scarred. Too damaged.
But Finley twists around just enough to nuzzle her face to mine. I can feel her breath on my cheek when she murmurs, “The only thing I long for is right here.”
I pop the top back on the sunscreen and rub the excess over my thighs. “You also have to finish art school. In New York.”
“Some artists never went to school,” she counters.
