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“I honestly don’t think I’ll find it anywhere,” I admitted. Because there seemed little point anymore in pretending otherwise.
Leo’s fingertips brushed mine. “What if it’s not the sort of thing you’re meant to look for? What if it comes back when you’re ready?”
“So, you’re an artist now?”
“Not at all. But I know a fair bit about waiting.”
I hated everything about that. “My art is mine,” I told him sharply. “It belongs to me. It’s not some piece of superstition I make my obeisance to like sacrificing a bull to Apollo.”
“Okay, but”—Leo was touching me again, and I wasn’t pulling away, as he smoothed my hand open from the fist it had curled itself into—“life is more complicated than that. Even if your art is purely yours to control, you can’t stop the world from changing or from changing you, and that’s more than most of us can deal with.”46
“A lot of art is created from affliction. We’ve covered this.”
His thumb settled, warm and certain, in the centre of my palm. “Well, maybe yours isn’t. Maybe you just need to let yourself be hurt right now.”47
It felt like he’d slipped between all my spined and poisonous fronds to some poor, unprotected place—as naked as the mouth of a sea anemone. “I’m not that fucking weak.”
“Stay,” Leo whispered. “Why not?”
“This is some U-Haul shit, my friend. You can’t be that desperate to get laid.”
His mouth turned up self-deprecatingly. “I might.”
“You shouldn’t be. Get a decent phone and download Grindr. You could have anyone you wanted.”
“I want you.”
“I warned you not to like me, Leo.” I should have been pulling my hand away. I wasn’t a holding-hands person. It was twee and sticky and unnecessary. But Leo was dry and warm and not holding me exactly—just there, like his breath against my shoulder as he slept at my side. “I’m not cut out for relationships.”
“I’m not asking you for a relationship.”
“You’re practically asking me to move in.”
He shrugged. “It’s a boat. You can leave at any time.”
There was a part of me—the part that wanted to do things simply for the sake of doing them—that was tempted. Though I couldn’t really isolate what it was that was tempting me. If it was him. Hopelessness. Perversity. The possibility of change. Or simply the appeal of being able to peel away my whole life like a serpent shedding an old skin. But those were not supposed to be the sort of impulses you indulged. Not as a grown-up. Not when someone loved you. As Edwin had loved me when I had torn apart everything we had built together.
“And what am I supposed to do,” I heard myself ask, “on this boat I can leave at any time?”
“There’s always things to do on a boat.”
I gave him the arched eyebrow he deserved. “Ah, yes. Because I possess so many skills in the area of boat care and maintenance.”
“I didn’t when I started. You can learn.”
“I’m not sure that’s the sort of thing I’m remotely interested in learning.”
“You will be. There’s nothing quite like being in control of so much of your environment. Not that”—he gave a rueful laugh—“it always feels controlled. Especially if something’s gone awry.”
He was wrong. He had to be. I couldn’twantthis. Not really. “And while you teach me to live like the Amish, I—”
“Marius, I don’t live even a little bit like the Amish. That’s probably deeply offensive.”
“Well, the wonderful thing about the Amish is that they aren’t on Twitter, so who’s to care?” I smirked at him, daring him to press the issue. He didn’t, so, true to form, I pressed instead. “And while you’re teaching me to live like common people do—”
His laughter cut me off. “I don’t think that’s fair either. I’m the one who’d never been to a supermarket, remember?”
“I just mean”—too late, I realised I was already regretting what I was about to say—“what do you get out of all of this?”
