I lean over the rail and slightly slump my posture. I can breathe and be alone with my thoughts. It’s nice to even have thoughts, even if they have to be kept to myself. I look out at the water and smell the salt air.
I hear a door swing open and feel a presence behind me.
Out of the darkness is a voice.Hisvoice. “It’s bloody cold out here,” Charlie says to himself. He breathes into his hands to warm himself, before realizing he isn’t alone out on the deck.
“My apologies, Miss Alice.” He seems surprised to find me outside… alone… in the cold.
I motion to the empty spot next to me at the railing. “It’s Alice, please.”
He takes a few steps toward me and positions himself against the railing. He’s standing next to me but facing the opposite direction. I stare at the ocean waves as the ship cuts through the water, and he faces the empty deck as though he’s keeping an eye out for other passengers.
He tips his head to the side toward me. “How was dinner, Alice?”
“Cold," I say flatly.
He turns his head and fully glances over at me, his brow curved. “The food?” He sounds apologetic, as if the service or quality of food did not meet my satisfaction.
“No,” I laugh. “The company.” I smile wryly at him, my sarcasm having accidentally slipped out. I also realize I’ve been leaning over the railing this entire time, my posture not at all the image of ladylike delicacy that it should be, though it does not even seem to concern him.
He arches his back over the railing to stretch, but I can see him smirking. “You seem different from the rest of them, Alice.” It’s dark, and he can’t see me beaming at his observation. I don’t know why, but it makes me happy that he thinks I’m different. I should be nervous about his observation. Do I make it that obvious that I’m not from this time? And why do I even care about what he thinks?
Charlie looks down at me, exhales loudly as if he’s made some sort of decision, and steps back from the rail. “Walk with me?” He tilts his head toward the empty walkway on the deck.
“I shouldn’t.” I can barely muster the words. I don’t understand many of the social customs, but I know this is scandalous. I should leave right now before anyone sees us.
He takes a step toward me and looks down at me. He’s close enough that our noses almost brush against each other. I breathe him in. The smell of sweet vanilla is intoxicating. He looks directly into my eyes.
“But do you want to?”
“Yes,” I say, barely above a whisper.
He takes a step back and smiles, waiting for me to cave in and follow. It works. He smiles like that, and God, I think I’d follow him anywhere. We walk for what seems like hours, talking about everything. I tell him what I can about my childhood in Boston, careful to leave out my birth year or my parents’ divorce. He listens intently as I talk to him about Ben and the relationship we have.
I’m suddenly very aware that I’ve probably been rambling, and I worry that I’ll slip up and reveal something I shouldn’t. Conversation seems to come easily with Charlie, and I can see myself saying something that should be secret. I also just want to know more about him. He somehow feels mysterious and yet also like someone I’ve known for years.
“Look at me, spouting off nonstop. I feel as though I’ve done all the talking.”
“No. It’s fine. I like it.”
“Why?”
His voice grows soft. “I just like the sound of your voice.”
My voice? He likes the sound of my voice? Why in the world would he find listening to me ramble on enjoyable?
I turn my head toward him in confusion. “Mine?”
Charlie turns toward me fully. His gaze intensifies. It stops me in my tracks. “Yes, yours.”
He says that so matter-of-factly, it's as if he’s surprised I’ve never heard that from someone before. To be honest, I don’t think I talk enough to anyone else, apart from Ben, for them to like the sound of my voice.
We stand there frozen, only for a moment.Yes, yours.I let his words linger in my mind, as if I’m slowly savoring their taste. I quickly brush a wisp of hair from my face and attempt to deflect attention from the rosy warmth flushing my cheeks. “Please tell me about you.”
Tell me something awful so I can stop looking at you as if I’ll melt. Tell me you hate babies, or sunsets, or Saturday mornings. Anything that will snap me out of this trance I find myself in.
“There’s not much to tell, honestly. Your life sounds far more interesting.”
“No, really. I want to know,” I press.
