Understanding clears his cloudy expression. “Ah,” he says. “The water.” I swear I can hear what he would have said if this were five, ten years prior, can picture his wry expression in my head.The odds are there might be, maybe.But I’ll get you out of here long before we find out.
“I like the ocean,” I insist, shaking the image of past Everett from my head and forcing myself to focus on the present. “I like this whole boat tradition.”
Everett nods. “I know you do.”
“Good,” I say. “Just wanted to... clear that up. My phobia isn’t that pervasive.”
“Well,” Everett says. He walks down the narrow aisle between the bunks and drops onto the same spot he was in before, directly across from me. “I’ve seen you master this phobia before.”
I don’t say anything, just widen my eyes in confirmation at the memory, mouth set in a straight line.
I haven’t done a lot of dredging up the good memories Everett and I share. That effectively means I haven’t really dredged upanymemories we share in the last four years. There’s just one, really, that I’ve examined more than I ought to. The one that defines us for me now.
But the memory he’s talking about is one of those good ones, even if it’s laced in nerves. There’s also an excitement there, the same kind I used to associate only with Everett, and a feeling of triumph, and a deep want that colors the whole thing in swirling reds and dark purples. That whole second summer with him is like that for me, somehow shimmering ephemeral and heavy at the same time. The most I’ve ever wanted someone and that desire’s quick answer, two days of giving in to what we hadn’t that first summer.
“I’ll get Laurel to let us out,” Everett says and stands, starting toward the door.
“Wait,” I say. He turns back to me. “I can do it,” I say. “I’m fine.”
“You sure?” he asks, which only sends another current of stubbornness through me, a need to prove that I can sit in a boat’s cabin for thirty minutes without freaking out.
“Yes,” I bite out.
Everett sits down across from me again, elbows on his thighs and his folded hands hanging between his knees. He looks a little like a coach about to give a player a pep talk. I steel myself, the waves in my stomach matching the rhythm of the waves around us.
“So,” he says. “The cookbook.”
I raise an eyebrow at him. “What, are we talking now?”
He shrugs one shoulder. “We can sit here in silence for half an hour, or—” he holds one hand out to read the watch on his wrist “—twenty-four minutes and about forty-five seconds, if you’d rather.”
I don’t say anything in response, which I guess Everett must take as confirmation that Iwouldrather, because after a moment he kicks his feet up onto the bed and lies down, hands tucked behind his head.
“Are you going to nap?” I ask after another minute.
“Not a lot of options down here, Sutton,” Everett says. His eyes are still open, staring straight ahead.
I look around at the room, at the dark blue of the quilts on the bunks, the wobbly light coming in from the portholes, the clasps on the cabinets. Think about how the mattresses stay put. Wonder what the light looks like when the boat is docked. Consider the effectiveness of the clasps in rough water, until I can’t take it anymore.
“I’m nervous about it,” I blurt. “The cookbook.” Everett turns his head to look at me, something like disbelief on his face. “What?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he says. “I’ve just never known you to be nervous about something in your professional life. Sharks, sure. But not cooking.”
I shake my head. “This feels different. It feels... important.”
Everett sits up at this, like it’s caught his attention. He swings his feet to the floor and fixes me with the full force of his gaze. A spark shoots down my spine at it, as I remember what it’s like to be the subject of his undivided attention, how it feels to have Everett Bridges interested in only you.
“Was cooking in Hank’s kitchen not important?” he asks.
I sigh, shaking my head. “It was,” I say. “Of course it was. But I don’t know if I’ve ever wanted anything this much. Ithoughtthe thing I wanted most in the world was to take over the restaurant once he finally decided to retire.”
Everett nods. “Last I remember, you were still pretty hell-bent on that,” he says.
I let myself think about the last time we were really together, weeks before everything went south, for exactly two seconds. San Francisco. A chilly pier. Things I thought were true finally spoken out loud.
“Why haven’t you told Hank?” Everett asks softly after I’ve gone quiet for too long. I glance up at him, still wary of this conversation. Not just with him, but with anyone.
At some point in the last few years, I stopped wanting to own a restaurant. Or maybe I never really wanted that. Maybe it was the impression of it all: If I was ambitious enough, if I achieved enough, I would somehow matter. To the world, to people paying attention, to the people who already loved me. To my parents. But the truth was, the people who loved me didn’t mind. I could be the person sticking hot dogs on the rotating rack at a 7-Eleven and I still mattered to them just as much as if I were crafting Michelin-starred meals comprised of things like tallow foam and lavender essence—served under a glass dome on a pillow, of course.
