Most definitely. I'm running from the reality that I'm not meant to manage the day-to-day affairs of the company I founded. I'm running from the failure of my latest project, and the failures of five before that one. I'm running from the fear that I might have lost the vision that launched my career. I'm running from all the mistakes I can't seem to shake. I'm running from the cliché of being a sad, lonely boybillionaire.
"Of course not," Icontinued.
Owen wasn't buying it. "You're not in trouble with the law?" he asked. "Or…something like that? Crazy ex-wife? Childsupport?"
I knew it then, with absolute certainty. Whether he liked me or loathed me was a direct response to this stripped down version of myself. My money, my relative fame, my history—none of those factors could cloud his perspective. I had a blankslate.
"No. None of that. Not at all," I said. It sounded believable this time. "I'm taking some time to reevaluate my business and my priorities, and wanted to get off the grid. I'd be doing that right now if my navigation and electrical hadn't shit the bed." I gestured to him, my gaze as honest as I could manage given my lies of omission. "I'm serious about payingyou."
Owen looked around, his eyes prowling over every surface in the kitchen save for me. I wasn't sure whether he was debating with himself or evaluating whether I'd fucked up the precise order of things in here. He was a right-angle enthusiast. Everything justso.
"I'm not going to take your money," he said at last. He scrubbed his palm over the back of his neck, and oh what fresh hell was this life. I needed to feelmyhand on his neck right now. "But I could use somehelp."
Please say you need help massaging away some knots in your neck, or a charleyhorse.
"You name it," I said. I was really rooting for that charley horse. Maybe we could get to the bottom of the gay/straight question, or unbox some bi-curiousfeelings.
"My deckhand leaves for school this week," Owen said. "He goes to the University of New Hampshire. It's early, but he works in the dorms now. Some kind of advisor. He found out about this a few days ago. Or, hetoldme a few days ago. He's a bonehead, so good luck to UNH withhim."
I blinked, not sure I understood my place in this story. "You need a deckhand?" I askedeventually.
I knew he worked on the water. Hell, there was a coffee table fashioned from a lobster trap in the other room. An anemometer on the back deck. Framed photos of boats and crews decked out in yellow rain gear lined the hallway walls. Curtains embroidered with anchors. Throw pillows in the shape of seashells. This place was fishermancentral.
"Yeah," he replied. "Think you can handlethat?"
"I'm better with…" What the fuck did I do well? I was terrible with people, moody as shit, and hated matters of business and finance. I could code, and had the personal phone numbers of several other billionaires who alternately wanted to kill me and commiserate with me. "Technicalthings."
His eyebrows arched. "You had a tough time with the technical things on that boat ofyours."
"Ah, yeah," I said, rubbing my temples. "Different kind oftechnical."
"Decking isn't hard. You'll learn," Owen said. His gaze landed on me for a long beat, and I would've fidgeted under his watch if I hadn't enjoyed it somuch.
Fuck yeah, I'lllearn.
"How about a steak?" He moved to the refrigerator and then the pantry, piling food and dishes in the crook of his thick arm as hewent.
Soon he had the materials laid out on the counter in neat rows. All right angles. I wanted to ask how often he cooked for two, whether there was someone special in his life. This wasn't a bachelor pad. It was ahome, a place soaked with family, comfort, tradition. The idea of Owen living here by himself filled me with sorrow. He didn't even have a dog to keep himcompany.
Maybe there was someone, and he saw no reason to share that information with me right now. Fair enough. It wasn't as though I was being transparent about my lifeeither.
"Why won't you let me give you any money?" I asked from the opposite side of the kitchenisland.
Owen was busy seasoning the meat, and didn't look up when he spoke. "It's not necessary," he said. "If you really need to get rid of thirty grand, give it to the Maine LobsterConservancy."
"Is that what you fish?" I asked. Watching Owen prepare food was like ballet, but instead of the dancer andSwan Lake, it was a hot fisherman and red meat. Breathtaking. "Lobster?"
He nodded, and pointed his elbow toward the romaine lettuce. "Can you manage a salad? Are you as reckless with kitchen knives as you are withshotguns?"
I sighed as I reached for the cutting board and salad bowl. I wasn't living that one down any time soon. "Since we've established you're not a pirate, I'll befine."
"Arrrrr," he barked in a stunningly bad pirate voice. I wedged in beside him at the counter and chopped the lettuce. "Ye can't besure."
4
Spindrift
n. Spray blown from the crests of waves by thewind.
