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I chuckle. “Since she told me to. It’s too late for us, Parker. She’s closed the book on our chapter.”
“Know what? All of this will look different from the water.”
“What are you—
“I’m doing a shakeout sail before the upcoming race. You could be on my crew tomorrow. I need a pair of experienced hands. If you’re available.”
I frown at him. “I thought you don’t do the spiritual water guru thing for family.”
“I’m not. You don’t need a guru. You need the water.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Nothing gives you some perspective, like time out there. Everything becomes clear when you’re living in the moment. You can’t wallow in your past when you’ve got a boom swinging for your face. You can’t focus on your future when you’ve got a hole in your hull. Being on the water keeps you in the moment.”
I almost tell him no. But I remember the last time I went sailing, and he’s right. The peace of mind on the waves is unparalleled. “I’ll do it.”
26
Autumn
Pulling up to the yacht club, butterflies dance in my stomach. Every year, I capture some of the pre-Regatta pictures for their website, and Sawyer asked me to do it again. Clearly, Rowan has kept our previous involvement to himself—Sawyer is not one for drama at all. But since I do it every year, Rowan knows I’m here.
Is he?
Part of me hopes he is. Maybe we could bury the hatchet and put all of this behind us. Or maybe the Jewish grandmother was right and I should just tell him how I feel…I don’t know. What I know is, it’s easier to do my job if he’s not around. I hope he’s not here.
Bullshit.
I laugh and roll my eyes at myself, still not sure what I want. Not from him, not from life. The good news is, I probably have more time to sort that out, because since he knows I’ll be here, he’s likely avoiding the club like the plague. Rowan has Sawyer’s taste for drama.
Grabbing my gear, I head through the club and out to the marina. A breezy day for the Regatta means fast boats and a lot more excitement, and when the wind catches my hair, I smile. The crews always prefer the windy days.
Walking along the docks, crews buzz past me, and I have to stay out of their way. Some pose with their boats or each other, but others are too busy to be distracted by the club’s photographer. The busy ones make for the best pictures, in my opinion. I snap a few shots of people tying rope and organizing their decks.
Dozens of white sails aloft remind me of shark fins breaking the surface. Gulls squawk and soar overhead, as though they feel the electric excitement in the air. There is something about the moments before the big race that makes the entire world feel livelier. Hundreds of people, all with the same goal in mind. Winning.
When was the last time I had a win?
It has been a while. I’d thought I might win with Rowan, but that is not meant to be. Another white sail zips upward on the nearest yacht, and my stomach sinks. Maybe it’s being surrounded by extremely wealthy athletes, or maybe it’s the forward momentum of their energy, I’m not sure. But the longer I’m among the crews, the more I know things between me and Rowan are over.
Something about being out here crystalizes it for me. I can see clearly just how different we always were. These are his people. Not mine.
We come from different backgrounds. No matter how good we were about being friends, it was always going to be an issue for us. I’m the help. He’s the boss. I’m yoga pants and tee shirts. He’s tailored suits and Italian ties. He doesn’t get his hands dirty. The only time I’ve ever seen him truly rumpled was during sex.
My god, he looked incredible during sex.
I shake my head at the thought and move on with the job. Going from yacht to yacht and noting the occasional sail with some actual colors on it, I force a smile to keep the mood light for everyone I capture on film. But I don’t have to force it when I see a little boy carry a wiener dog and scamper after his big brother onto a yacht.
The Regatta is a family event, so there are plenty of kids around. When a woman with auburn hair like mine walks past with a baby in her arms and her doting husband next to her, I could spit nails. I shouldn’t take their happiness personally, but it is spectacularly difficult not to.
Strolling back to the shore, I glimpse the elusive Parker Cargill on his yacht. The baby of the family, Parker, has a strange way about him. The older brothers were jealous of him growing up—their mom always adored Parker and treated him like fragile cargo.
I wonder if she stresses out about his job now. Running a charter business is pretty easy but it really funds his other interests, months alone at sea enduring gales. Races like this are the fun part and I wonder if watching him smile as he instructs his crew makes it worthwhile.
At the Cargill mansion, Parker always seemed uncomfortable or nervous when he was growing up. Like he didn’t belong there. However, his yacht was another story. He is confident, commanding. At home. It’s nice to see that for him. He’s a good guy.
I meander nearby, waiting for him to finish his speech so the crew goes back to whatever they were doing and I can take some more action pictures for the club. Highlighting one of the Cargill’s own makes them appear as involved as the whole family truly is.
