Mark Winterson leads me through a gate and down a long, narrow dock where boats are moored on either side.
“Here we are,” he says, gesturing to the back steps of a gleaming white boat.
When we get onto the lower deck, he picks me up, spins me around, and kisses me. I’m breathless from laughing, lightheaded, smoothing down the too-short dress I decided to wear. For a second, I forget how nervous I am for this date.
“So,” he says. “How do you like it?”
I shake my head, taking everything in. This back area is large enough for a couple of sleek beige couches outfitted with an assortment of blue throw pillows. There’s a whole inside area ahead, and another deck above us.
“Yeah, wow, I…” My brow furrows. “Is this a…yacht?”
His smile stretches. “Sorry I could only get a small one on short notice.”
I survey the second level, feeling slightly insane. “This issmall?”
He lets out a short laugh. “It’s my dad’s.”
Mark Winterson leads me inside to where the controls are. The…steering wheel? Whatever you call the thing that makes a yacht go.
He motions for me to sit beside him as he takes the boat out onto the water, narrating what he’s doing for my edification while I nod along, overstimulated. The marina gets smaller and smaller behind us, and the wind whips my hair.
“Okay, this will do,” he says, easing the boat to a stop. “I’ll give you the tour?”
This boat is fancier than the fanciest hotel I’ve ever stayed in—clean lines, bright wood floors, and modern furniture in shades of beige and blue, like I’m inside a West Elm that somehow ended up in the middle of the ocean.
“There’s, like, a dozen households’ worth of couches on this boat,” I say, dumbfounded.
Mark Winterson laughs as though he’s humoring a child who said something strange.
The realization stirs, vaguely, that I go around all the time telling myself I’m rich, in an admonishing way. I’m aware of how much I have, especially compared to Mom when she was a kid. I grew up comfortable in a suburban house. I always had something to eat and a roof over my head. I splurged on an Erewhon smoothie that one time.
But I forget about actual rich people and how little I know about what they’re up to.
As we’re walking around, I keep snapping pictures to show Mom later.
“You’re so cute,” he says, giving me a one-armed side hug. “It’s fun experiencing things through your eyes. Guess I take things for granted.”
His tone rankles me. “Oh, well, it’s not every day I go out on asmall yacht.” I take a couple more pictures of the view off the side for good measure.
Mark Winterson sits on one of the pristine couches, and I perch next to him, angling my phone to take a selfie with the ocean in the frame behind us.
“Where are you posting that?” he asks, strangely on edge.
“Relax, Mark, I read your contract.” I pat his leg with one hand. “Mutual consultation on posting photos of each other to social media.I’m just sending it to…”
I nearly saymy mom,thinking I can make up a fake story for him where she’s still alive—the way Mom would edit the details of my life for new acquaintances she’d make sometimes,even when I was right there. A freelance graphic designer I was dating becamea creative director.My completely average GPA in college becamenearly valedictorian, came so close but someone else got it, can you believe?My closet of an apartment in New York that I shared with three roommates becameShe’s living with friends in Brooklyn, so trendy and glamorous, you know kids these days. She’ll get it out of her system and move back soon, though.It gave me an out-of-body feeling, the way Mom would edit around the facts, sew all her deepest wishes into their lining, embellish until the familiar details became strange to me.
But of course Mark Winterson knows about Mom. He’s staring at me, eyebrows raised. “Send it to…?”
“My aunt. So she knows you’re real. She was asking about you.”
He makes a sound halfway between a laugh and a cough. “Sure, that’s fine. I am real, last time I checked.”
His phone starts ringing, and he visibly startles. “Sorry, I was waiting for this one.” He waves it in the air. “I should take it. Be right back.”
Mark Winterson jogs up the stairs to the upper deck, and I settle into the couch to send Mom the picture of us.
ruby.ocampo:
