“Did you sing banjo troubadour songs?” asks Brock, dodging the fake punch Tatum throws at him.
“No. It was like, Alicia Keys and ABBA.”
We’ve reached the bottom of the driveway. With no warning, mid-conversation, Meer and Brock throw on their helmets, turn on their headlights, and rev their motors. They take off to the left, down South Road.
They’re gone before I even fully realize what they’re doing. Their taillights quickly disappear over the hill.
Tatum gets on his scooter. It’s mint green. “Put your helmet on. Let’s go.” He says it like it’s burdensome.
I don’t want to get on his scooter. I don’t like him. But I’m not going to break my word to Meer. “Coming.” I buckle my helmet and climb on behind him. My arms circle his waist as Tatum flips on his headlight and pulls out onto the road.
It feels strange and intimate. The cables of his sweater brush my bare arms. The wind is cold on my skin.
22
Menemsha is areally small fishing village. All I can see is a gas station, two fish markets, and a marina with a parking lot near the docks. There are houses up the hill, and maybe some more shops farther down the road.
Down one dock a ways we find the motorboat that belongs to Kingsley and June. It’s large and shiny white, with a black hull and cushioned seats. The name on it readsMarsh-wiggle.
Meer steers us out of the harbor and into the open water. Looking back to the land, I can only see glimmers from houses not yet put to bed. The water around us is lit up by the boat’s lights.
Beyond that, the ocean spreads around us, infinite.
Brock and Meer talk to each other, up by the wheel. I can’t hear them over the roar of the motor. We head past the jetty and into the open sea.
I am so tiny in this enormous world. The water could swallow me easily. There’s no telling how deep it is.
I have left my old life behind, and it was already
a life
adrift.
I’m nowhere. I spiral into the infinite space around and below me, unable to grab on to anything, overwhelmed by the vastness of the sea and sky.
“You get motion sick?” Tatum in the back next to me, his long legs folded up to his chest for warmth.
“Not at all,” I lie.
“You look queasy.”
I hadn’t realized he was looking at me at all. “I’m fine.”
“Brock said you fainted. And got sick at the airport?”
I hate that those things are true, so all I say is “It’s strange being out here at night.”
“I actually love it,” he says.
“The impossible looming void?”
“The infinity. Or the depths, or whatever. Everyday problems are unimportant out here.”
I concentrate on Tatum’s profile to steady my mind. His lower lip juts out as he squints against the wind. The dimples are hiding, but his freckles are clearly visible where the moonlight hits his face.
It’s probably the fatigue talking, but I can’t help thinking about how his waist felt underneath my hands as we rode on the Vespa, the way his body shifted as we leaned into the curves of the road.
—
