Some unknown part of me misses the weight of his eyes, the tenderness of them when he talks about Scotland, about his life before, about the sea. A thing he seems to love, but also fears.
Nine days have passed since the boat arrived, and I start to settle back into the rhythm of each day. Watching the sky for a break in the storm, but knowing it could be weeks until it comes.
He seems to relax too. A slow softening, like the heavy layer of clouds and constant rain has eased his worry. The storm that has prevented me from leaving has calmed his nerves.
We wash dishes side by side, him scrubbing with a linen cloth, then handing each plate and cup my way, where I dry them with a rag before placing them back in the cupboard. We find our old, easy pace again, not just with the work, but with our conversation.
After dinner, we sit on the front porch in the two wooden chairs, a blanket wrapped over my shoulders, mugs of chamomile tea in our cupped hands.
“This place where ye live, Seattle, you like it there?”
I smile at the question. “Yeah, it’s okay for now.” I tell him about my years at college, how I enjoyed the pattern of classes, the reading late into the night, even the exams. I liked having something to focus on, to hold my attention. I don’t tell him that I think I liked it because it was a distraction; it didn’t allow me to obsess over the past, my memories. The island. I even tell him about my life since graduation, the years I’ve spent counseling young kids. But I admit that it’s felt dull somehow, lacking meaning, even though I know the work I do is important. Strangely, I’ve felt unanchored by anything truly purposeful—a thought I never really allowed myself to examine, to consider, until now.
“Sounds like ye have a good life,” he answers, bringing the mug to his lips.
“It is good,” I agree. “I just wonder… I don’t know. Maybe it’s not the right life. Maybe when I get back, I’ll find something that makes me happier. Something other than what I was doing.” Unconsciously, I spin the diamond ring around my finger.
Clay catches the motion. “What about James?”
My eyes lower to the ring. “He’s…” I pause, shaking my head. I don’t want to think about him—I don’t know why, but it’s a thorn in the back of my throat. I lift my gaze, the sun now a wavy orb against the sea. “Life isn’t nearly as simple on the mainland as it is out here.”
Clay nods. “Simple, aye, but dangerous too.”
I try to imagine all the things he’s seen and endured. “Are you ever afraid?” I ask. “Of what’s out there, at the other end of the ocean?”
He lifts a shoulder. “Nae. Rifle should suffice, if I ever have need of it,” he says matter-of-factly. But we both know there are things out there that the rifle—tucked away, unused, at the back of the hall closet—won’t be able to stop. More complicated things. Like the tide, the weather. And time.
He turns back to the ocean, the opal of his eyes like a whole world reflected back. His beard has grown out, and his hair could use a trim. If I’m leaving soon, I should offer to give him a proper shave and a haircut before I go. Maybe in the morning, after breakfast.
Or maybe not.
I think of last time, my hands against his face. The closeness. He is a man who makes me feel something perilous in the cavity of my rib cage.
“Tell me a story,” I prompt. “About the island.”
He smiles, and I love his face when his lips pull into a grin. I love the lightness in his eyes. The slow shift of his eyelashes as he glances at me.
“For that,” he says, “I think we could use a small dram.”
He stands, walks into the house, then returns with two short glasses of whiskey, handing one to me. The blanket slips from my shoulder. Our hands touch, our fingers graze. And my heart does something I try to ignore.
He settles back into the chair. “Slàinte.”
“Slàinte,” I echo, taking a small sip, careful this time; I don’t plan to repeat the other night. But I keep my eyes on the horizon, unable to look at him until this feeling passes.
“The island has taken me to many unusual places,” he begins, and I love the way his voice lilts when he tells a story, the cadence that feels like remembering, like an old dusty tome. A past that I wish I could see through his eyes—a life I want to know, to feel, as if it were cut into my bones. I wish—I want—him to write it all onto my skin.
He tells me stories about nights when the wind felt like it would tear the house from the rocks, when he swore he could hear ghosts howling through the halls of the house. He talks about standing on the shore and watching lightning turn the sky electric and crystalline, making the sea appear like it was on fire. And he recounts long, dark nights when he wondered if he was the last man alive in the whole world.
He talks, and the wind settles around us, soft like honey.
He talks, and I sink back into the chair, absorbing each word, wanting nothing more than this. In a few minutes, the sky will be a kaleidoscope of stars, a map that could lead us anywhere, but right now… I don’t want anything else. Not the boat. Not Seattle. Not James.
I only want this.
Here.
With the gentle sway of the island beneath us, the wind calmed to almost nothing.
