“Lifeboats don’t have sails, idiot.”
I laugh as I extract Cameron’s sunblock. It’s a very unsexy, medicinal-looking tube, white plastic with plain black text. I pop the cap just as Arthur says, “Hey, Lilah, you actually came… You too, Cameron.”
“Warm welcome,” Cameron mutters.
I cast Delaney a quick peek as Arthur sits next to me on the blanket, barely fitting on the leftover space. She meets my eye and nods once. It’s ayour secret’s safe with menod. And I actually do trust her. I kind of think we’re friends.
My suspicions are mildly denied, though, when she pops up and dusts the sand from her thighs. “Hey, Cam, come grab drinks with me. Arthur, Lilah, what do you want?”
“Nothing for me,” I say as Arthur says, “I’m good. Trying sobriety for a bit.”
He is? Since when? Delaney’s eyebrows rocket up, confirming that this is a new development, but she opts for her standard chill dismissal as she helps Cameron get up and walk off.
Then it’s just me and Arthur and the sea.
There’s more space on the blanket now. I could move. But Arthur also didn’t have to sit directly next to me, the browned-gold hair dusting his tan leg making goose bumps prickle over mine. Hepicks up a smooth stone and runs his thumb across it, then sets it down and clears his throat.
“Need help with that?”
The sunblock. I’m still clutching the tube. Fuck my entire life. Momentarily, I consider chucking it into the water, though I’d rather suffer a million years of constant Arthur torture than litter.
“If you don’t mind.”
“Nah.” He nods toward his knees. “Come here.”
Hereis the micro-patch of blanket in front of his crossed-knee lap. Crisscross-applesauce-style lap, actually. I think I’m dissociating. I scoot over on my hands and knees—standing would be way too difficult—and then I’m here. In front of Arthur and his exposed legs as he squirts sunblock into one big palm. He gently moves the tips of my hair from my neck, just barely tucking it over my shoulders, and tugs the hem of my T-shirt down in the back to expose what I imagine is glaringly pale skin at the top of my spine.
“Sorry about the…” I pause. I’m not sure what I’m apologizing for. Having short hair, wearing a shirt at a nude beach, needing sunblock instead of sensual body oil glittering with scintillating microplastics.
“You’re okay,” he says. “I’m sorry if I get any on your shirt.”
“Ha. This thing’s basically a rag.”
His fingertips touch the notch at the base of my neck, wait, then smooth the sunblock in one right swipe.
“It’s cool. You always wear cool shirts.” He rubs the cold sunblock into my skin, using tiny methodical circles, heavenly and horrible. “I checked out the Velvet Underground. I think I like it.”
“You look up the bands on my shirts?”
“Yeah.” More circles, his fingers dipping beneath the fabric. “I’m making a playlist.”
I’m grateful I have a reason not to be looking at him. With his reading skills, he’d know instantly that I have a crush on him that’s crushing me. I stare at the waves, the bright blue sky over the water, and swallow downI like you, I like you, I like you.
“I’m sorry about the other stuff, too,” he adds suddenly. “I shouldn’t have unloaded on you like that at the hospital.”
That’s what he’s thinking about? “You don’t need to apologize.”
“I do.”
“Why?”
He runs his thumb over the slope of my neck, where it becomes my shoulder, like he’s studying my anatomy with his fingers. “Men aren’t supposed to do that. Freak out and, I don’t know, talk like that.”
My chest twists with surprise at his quiet harshness. “That’s not true. Men can feel and act however they want. And you have every reason to have baggage because of what happened.”Traumawould be a better descriptor, but that’s a big word to spring on him.
He pulls away briefly, and my heart drops. Then I hear the cap of the sunblock click back open. He’s only getting more.
“I don’t want you to think that I’m not… capable,” he says.
