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I believe her. She doesn’t exactly have the world’s greatest father, either.
I’m not looking right at her; I don’t know if I can right now. The wounds are ripped open and feel too fucking raw.
I swallow and change the subject. “So anyway, that’s how Tolya wound up teaching me how to surf. We had the time, we were bored, and sometimes, if we were lucky, we’d run into some locals who gave us pointers.”
“At least you had fun?”
“Something like it, at least.”
It’s a long, heavy moment of silence between us. The waves slurp at the sand. Seagulls caw overhead. I keep my eyes on a lock of Clara’s hair where the wind is tousling it dry.
“Is the stuff with your mom why you hate women?” she asks suddenly.
If I’d been drinking something, it would’ve shot straight up my nose—her question catches methatoff-guard. “What? I don’t hate women.”
“Well, maybe not Bambi. But she’s different. I mean, like, women in general.”
I don’t like how this conversation is going. I like even less the way it makes me feelguilty. I have nothing to feel guilty about.
Right?
“I don’t hate women,” I repeat. But it feels like a clunky lie. “I just don’ttrustwomen. In general.”
Clara is silent. Then: “I can see that. Makes sense. You don’t want to repeat history.”
Even that simple assessment stings. I stare up at the cloudless sky and wonder if the sun is bright enough to blind me just so I don’t have to look her in the face after this talk.
She sighs when I still don’t answer. “Well, I get that. I can promise you that repeating history sucks. And I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wished I could just go back and kick Martin in the balls when I had the chance. So I do get it. I really do get what you mean.”
I want to look over at her, but I don’t. I’m pretty sure it’s the saltwater stinging my eyes and I don’t need her asking me if I’m okay. Because I’m perfectly fine. My chest feels like a boulder is crushing it, but I’m fine.
“If it’s any consolation, you’d definitely be a way better father to your kids. Without question.”
The invisible boulder just got heavier. I sigh. “If my mother had been half as good as you are to Willow, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have turned into… into what I am.”
Gulls caw as my words fade, swallowed up by the surf. Even breathing feels hard.
When I finally manage to glance over at her, Clara is leaning on her elbows and squinting at the sapphire horizon. She doesn’t steal a glance my way, and it’s almost as if she knows I’d rather she didn’t.
All the same to me. I stand up, brush the sand from my legs, and pick up my board. I want to say something, but I don’t know what. Or if anything that could be said, should be.
So I just start walking back toward the path to the villa, only slowing down a little when I hear her follow after me.
We’re both still silent. The weight on my chest has only marginally eased. I wish I knew what was causing it. Or rather, I wish I wasn’t such a fucking coward and could actually stare it in the face and call it what it is.
But since I’m a closeted coward who can’t handle a single heart-to-heart with a beautiful woman like Clara, I do the next best thing I can think of: I reach for her hand, then lead her down a fork in the path that takes us to a different wing of the villa.
Along the way, I set our surfboards up against a tree for someone on staff to pick up, then take her hand again and continue on.
When I booked this villa, I made sure there would be a guest house not too far from the main building but far enough for some privacy. I’m glad it’s private, too, because when we get there, it’s less of a “house” and more of a large, modernized hut. Instead of walls, curtains are draped and tied to each post for when the occupant is ready for bed. The bed itself is a king-sized testament to island luxury, laden with pillows and silk sheets and on a low platform. A mini-bar is fully stocked, and beachloungers with more of the same decorative pillows and soft towels are perfectly positioned for guests to enjoy the sunset.
Which is exactly what I plan to do.
I help Clara ease onto her lounger and then lie back in mine. I’m both enjoying and hating the silence still wasting away between us. There’s so much I want to say, and so much I want to hear her say in response, but… that fear. That same fucking fear won’t allow my tongue to move or my lips to form the words.
I want her, and it’s terrifying.
I need her, and that scares me, too.
