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Maybe it was the way he said her name, or the way they’d opened up their vulnerable sides on the deck, talking about their dreams and their losses. Or even the unabashed stuff-your-face Jewish food fest where he matched her, knish-for-kneidlach, and still had the appetite to try more.
She felt like she had known Beck far longer in that comfortable way, yet – there was something that excited her, the newness of his mouth and how it reacted to her kiss. The solidness of his biceps, his chest, as her hands explored. The feel of his long, strong fingers in her hair, gently tracing circles behind her earlobes.
His dark eyes, taking the time to watch, like hers did. To marvel.
Making out with a co-worker. On a party boat. In a ball gown. Twenty feet away from two of her best male friends. All of this should’ve been enough to make her want to run, Cinderella-style, at the stroke of midnight.
But all she could think of wastwo more hours.
Two more hours till the boat docked and they could steal away somewhere without an audience. At least the couches were low and cozy, the lighting discrete. Nora didn’t dare look, but assumed there were other couples up to similar mischief around them. The moonlight setting and all, and each part of the boat a different mood.
The dreidel game had dwindled down, leaving the floor free for the disco ball above to slowly shine its spots. It cast patterns across their entwined legs, then up Beck’s torso to where her fingers had loosened his tie. She liked the way it played across his jawline as he tilted his head to kiss the crook of her elbow.Hello, new erogenous zone, her lady parts zinged.
“Still good?” His murmur against her skin gave her the best kind of chills.
“Still great,” she whispered.
Beck’s mouth captured hers again, his tongue sweet with the taste of powdered sugar. She could happily spend the next two hours like this, with this man worshipping parts of her that had gone unconsidered for a very long time.
What happens on the Baller, stays on the Baller.
Still, she wanted off the boat. She wanted to find out what would happen next.
“Naaaaarahhhh!”
Arms jangling with silver bracelets and mala beads swooped in first, followed by the scent of sweet orange and patchouli.
Sylvie Shapiro happened next, apparently.
“Haven’t seen you in faaaaaevahhhh!” Sylvie made hugging an art, her limber frame collapsing onto the couch cushion next to them and molding itself to Nora’s free side. Whether it was the Negev in summer or the five boroughs in December, Sylvie dressed in layers as light as gossamer, as if spun by silkworms and blessed by fairy dust. Or as Avi liked to call it, Burning Man aesthetic.
“Hi Sylvie, happy Hanukkah.” Half-tangled in Beck, half now glued to Sylvie, all Nora could do was pat-pat her friend’s floaty garment and long, blonde balayage hair in greeting.
It wasn’t that Sylvie couldn’t read a room – she just loved intimacy in all its forms and had no qualms about approaching any situation with open arms.
“This is Beck. Beck – my friend Sylvie.”
Only two things grounded Sylvie: her ever-present combat boots and the Nikon hanging around her neck. Nora felt both as Sylvie leaned over to kiss Beck on both cheeks, her legs twining with theirs. “So I heard.” She beamed. “Hi Beck!”
“Ope!” He stilled the swinging camera before it could do more damage. “Nice to meet you.”
“You’re not from around here, are you?”
Funny, coming from the girl they would tease on Year Course, about how her “Boston was showing” every time she got excited, upset or drunk.
She squeezed each of their legs goodbye and hopped up without waiting for a reply.
“You take good care of each other. I’m going to shoot Avi.”
“I hope she means with her camera,” Beck said after she was out of earshot.
Nora laughed. “Sylvie’s mostly harmless.” But not clueless, it was important to note; Jay or Talia could’ve easily sent Sylvie in to size Beck up. A stealth Cupid spy, her empathy keen to any vibes he may be laying down. “And yes, she’s pretty much Avi’s personal photographer. Mutual muses, those two.”
Beck’s splayed hand finger-counted against her thigh. “We’re up to six. Of your eight friends from your gap year. Are the other two on the boat?”
Nora liked his hands-on math skills. She’d be fine if he added, subtracted, multiplied and divided against her body all the way back to the dock. And she’d happily tell him about Libby, the final of her fab four girl group. But the last integer of their Jew Crew?
Eli Gold.
