At once, Waylon and Fletcher said, “No.”
After everything he’d done, all the pain he’d caused, Fletcher didn’t mind letting him sleep with the literal fishes.
For a half second, Ford contemplated this. Then he shrugged. “Cannonball time!”
With as much liquor as he’d clearly consumed, Melv’s interruption would be blacked out of Ford’s memory by morning.
He trailed after the stampede upstairs, leaving Waylon and Fletcher to mull around the rapidly emptying dance floor. Through the glass bottom, the center of the boat windowed into the ocean as they routed away from the marina and back out to open sea.
Schools of vibrant fish parted, revealing a raging attorney, tangled in the kelp. As if sensing her gaze, Melv craned his neck toward the surface. A stream of bubbles left his mouth with what Fletcher could only assume was a deeply unpleasant combination of profanities. He raised his middle finger. Wicked to the very last breath.
“Can I get you something to drink?” the bartender called. He looked like Waylon’s party boat alter ego—sun-bleached hair grown long enough to wrap in a bun, a beard that hadn’t been trimmed in god only knew how long, and a stripe of zinc down his nose.
Waylon cracked the faintest hint of a smile. “Oh, she’ll have a—”
“Actually.” Fletcher tapped her nails against the counter,perusing the shelves behind his head. With a thoughtful hum, she said, “I want to try something new. What’s your special?”
The bartender sliced a pineapple. “That’s the Dramarama Bahama Step-Mama.”
“What’s the dramarama?” Waylon asked, his eyebrows doing that wiggly thing again. Uncertain but intrigued.
Pouring as he went, the bartender said, “Five types of rum: dark rum, aged rum, banana rum, coconut rum, and spiced rum.”
Fletcher hesitated. “What part is the…step-mama?”
“It’s strong enough to make you forget your old life,” the bartender deadpanned.
“Incredible,” Fletcher beamed. “We’ll take two.”
An umbrella poked out of each of their frozen drinks, skewering a slice of pineapple, a plump cherry, and an orange wedge. Nary an olive in sight. Fletcher and Waylon elbowed through the throng to find a quiet corner by the rail where the pulsating kick drum faded out, leaving only the hypnotic wash of the ocean.
“I propose a toast.” Fletcher lifted her pink plastic cup.
Waylon lassoed her closer with a hand skimming beneath her loose shirt. “What to?”
“To defining ourselves and exploring new horizons. Together.”
“Together,” he echoed. His gaze sparkled like sunlight glistening against the sea. “I could get used to together.”
Fletcher inched onto her toes and pressed a kiss to his lips. “The feeling’s mutual.”
As they tipped their cups together, a wave crested over the top deck and soaked them with pool water. Above, the announcer shouted, “Ten points for Fooooord Jepson!”
Fletcher sputtered, lips slick with chlorine. Waylon hadn’t fared any better. And when they laughed, it almost erased all the bad parts of this week from her memory. Almost.
She craned her head against Waylon’s soaking-wet chest as the tide carried them away. They stood like that until the ice in their drinks melted, until Lydell grew speck-small in the distance, until all that remained was the churning blue sea, the whipped white clouds, and the wind in Fletcher’s hair.
28
Six months later
The shutter of Fletcher’s camera snapped. Peeling the viewfinder away, she looked up at all sixty-five stories of the Cartwright Media building. A limestone monolith, its windows were capped with art deco flourishes, and the golden revolving doors spun into a marbled lobby.
Some part of her brain wondered when she started looking at this building like an interesting piece of architecture and not a place that gave her heart palpitations.
May had blossomed, drenching the city in color. Around her, New York danced to a symphony all its own—one of taxicabs and squealing train brakes and jaywalkers shouting about having the right of way—and Fletcher found a new rhythm that didn’t involve panicked dry-cleaning runs or copying memos. She’d strolled Central Park. She’d consumed enough bagels to last a lifetime. She’d even stopped waking up from night terrors about sleeping through her midyear review.
Still, her palms grew slick with condensation as she watched herformer coworkers come and go through the gilded doorway. That was mostly the coffee’s fault. She was halfway through her vanilla latte when Waylon ambled onto the sidewalk.
