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Ansley
Itext Garrett and ask him what we are doing for dinner tonight. I want to make sure I’ll be dressed appropriately. All he tells me is to wear layers.
Layers?
I text again, asking for a bit more detail, and he ignores me.
So, I decide to throw on the most unattractive thing in my closet. A pair of ripped jeans and a well-worn flannel button-up. I leave my hair loose and forego makeup for a more natural look. A little moisturizer and some tinted lip gloss, and that’s it.
I take a look in the mirror and congratulate myself. Nothing says screw you like flannel.
When I see headlights beam into the front windows of my apartment, I hurry down to meet him. I open the door, and he looks me up and down and grins.
“Perfect,” he says.
I frown. “Where are we going? The hot dog stand?” I ask.
Not that I would care. I love a good chili dog.
He chuckles. “Not quite. Just trust me.”
He extends his hand, and I look at it for a long moment before I give in and place mine in it.
I lock up, and he leads me to his Land Rover.
We drive in silence out past town and to the banks of the river, where there are several boat docks. He pulls in beside one on the far right and parks.
“I’m not going skinny-dipping with you, Garrett Tuttle,” I say as he opens the passenger door for me to step out.
“As tempting as that is, I have something else in mind.”
He leads me to a boat in the water named Foxy.
“Is this yours?” I ask.
“It is. I have a room up there.” He points to the stilted structure above the dock. “I rent the space from Weston.”
He steps onto the boat and reaches for me. I let him pick me up and set me aboard. There is a picnic basket and tablecloth on the bench seat.
“You didn’t,” I gasp.
My mind travels back to when we were teenagers. On our very first date, he borrowed his grandfather’s fishing boat and packed us a basket full of ham and cheese sandwiches, potato chips, and pickles. We spent the entire day sailing around the river.
“I thought this would be a bit quieter and more private than a restaurant,” he confesses.
I walk over to the basket and lift it. Ham and cheese.
“I can’t believe you remembered,” I mutter.
He comes up behind me and wraps an arm around me. “I remember everything,” he whispers.
Not knowing what to say to that, I step away and take a seat on the bench.
“This is a speedboat, not a fishing boat. Don’t you think it’ll be cold on the water?” I ask.
“Hence the reason I said to wear layers. Plus, I have provisions.”
He opens a cabinet under the bench on the opposite side of the boat and pulls out a couple of warm, thick blankets.
I relent.
“Okay, captain, anchors up.”
He wraps one of the blankets around my shoulders. Taking the driver’s seat, he turns the key, and the boat’s motor roars to life.
We ride for about an hour before he turns off the motor and joins me. Spreading the other blanket on the floor of the boat, he opens the basket and pulls out the sandwiches, chips, and pickles.
I slide down beside him with my back against the bench seat. He opens a cooler that’s built in next to the captain’s seat and pulls out a bottle of white wine, grabs the pair of clear plastic cups from the basket, and pours us each a glass.
“Fancy,” I quip.
“I thought our original meal deserved an upgrade,” he explains.
We eat our simple meal in comfortable silence. It’s a cold but clear night. The moon hangs full over our heads, huge and glowing in the night sky that is dotted with twinkling stars.
“I love being able to see the stars. You don’t always get this in LA,” he mutters.
“Grandma used to say the stars were holes in the floor of heaven, so we could see a glimpse of the streets of gold shining through,” I tell him.
“I like that.”
“Me too.”
I sigh. “What now?” I ask.
He refills our glasses.
“I just want to sit here a moment with my memories,” he says.
“Memories of?” I ask.
“This place. You,” he answers.
“Funny, I try to block those out,” I say.
