For someone not participating in the talk or doing any speaking whatsoever, I felt abnormally nervous when the clock struck four and the audience quieted down. At the front of the room, Dad and Ethan sat in two plastic chairs like the ones for the audience, their nameplates and water bottles on the table in front of them. They were joined by one of the women Dad had been talking to in the green room, who clicked her microphone on and nodded to someone in the back, who hit the lights.
Polite applause rippled through the room, and the woman smiled. “Thank you, everyone. I’m Farah Irfan, and I’m pleased to be joined by Tony Edelman, author ofMapping the Atlantic: A History of American Maritime Cartography. His other publications include articles inThe Atlantic,The Boston Globe, and more. Let’s all welcome him—”
The room applauded again. Dad waited for it to die down, then leaned toward his mic. “Thanks, Farah. Thanks for having me. I’m so glad to be here, and to get a chance to share some of my research. I’ve spent this summer working on my second book, and today I’m going to talk about…”
After years of giving talks, Dad had perfected it, and thankgod—in the beginning he’d been as nervous as Ethan, and when Dad was nervous, I was nervous. Now Dad was a pro, timing his water sips for when he knew the audience would laugh or need a moment to process his stories. His body was relaxed, and he never once glanced at his notes.
Ethan, on the other hand, sat stiffly at Dad’s side. He kept still save one hand drumming against his thigh, and his eyes were unfocused, as though internally going over his own words.
And then Dad said, “To talk about Frederick Gibson himself, we have my assistant, Ethan Barbanel—a student at the University of Chicago.”
“Hi,” Ethan said into the microphone, his voice breaking. He’d leaned too close and feedback cracked through the room. He jerked back, eyes widening.
And then they found me.
I smiled encouragingly, even though nowIfelt like I might be sick.
Ethan visibly took a deep breath—one of my yoga breaths—and let it out. “Hi,” he tried again. “I’m Ethan Barbanel, and I’m excited to talk to you today about Frederick Gibson’s work for the US Coast Survey.”
It went fantastically. He was, for all he’d been so nervous, a good speaker. He landed a few jokes, and when the audience laughed he relaxed. Sometimes he sped up too much when he got excited, but when his gaze landed on me—as it often did—he seemed to remember to take a breath, a sip of water, and slow down.
When he finished, Ethan let out a long breath and attentionswitched to my dad, who picked up with an unexpectedly humorous anecdote about getting lost while trying to use a homemade compass. I kept watching Ethan, who’d sat back in his chair. The tension seemed to finally drain out of him, his stiff shoulders relaxing. He met my gaze and beamed.
Afterward, the usual post-talk shenanigans occurred; most of the audience filed out, while a few approached my father—and the Barbanels descended on Ethan. “My sweet little boychik,” Ethan’s mother said, kissing him on his forehead. “Look how well you did! We’re so proud.”
“Good job,” his father said, and Ethan smiled so broadly I thought I might cry.
I stood a little way off, grinning as Ethan’s family peppered him with praise. Finally he broke free. “I’ll see you at the keynote speech,” he said when they tried to pull him back. “I’ll see you soon!”
Then he swept past me, my grabbing my hand along the way. “Come on.”
I tossed a look behind us. “What—don’t you want to be with your family—”
He pulled me outside, to a quiet hotel courtyard. Riotous hydrangeas bloomed, the air heady with their perfume, and a fountain splashed and burbled. He pushed me against the gray-shingled wall and kissed me, a long, searing kiss that left me melting into his body. I looped my arms around his neck and hung on for dear life, my knees no longer working, held up by the wall and Ethan’s body.
He pulled away. “Sorry. Sorry, I know you don’t want anything public—”
“No,I’msorry.” I pulled him back. “I’m sorry I’ve been so scared. God, Ethan, I want you so much. I want this. I want us. I do trust you, you know. We don’t need to be secretive. We can tell people.”
“Really?” He perked up. “You’re sure? You’re not just overwhelmed by hormones? Because I could totally stop kissing you if you need to think about it more clearly.”
“Don’t you dare.”
He pressed a kiss to the base of my neck. “Thank god.”
And then we were kissing again, our lips pressed together, my arms twined around his neck, and Ilikedthis boy. I felt good about this. I wanted him, only him. I wanted us. The sea and the sky. The horizon.
***
For dinner, we joined my father, Ethan’s parents and grandparents, and Cora at one of the white-clothed tables set up on a stretch of lawn. Cora, it’d turned out, had always planned to attend the conference, though she’d told me earlier in the week she hadn’t submitted a grant proposal. “None of my research fit. Next year, maybe,” she’d said. “The grant committee likes a Nantucket connection.”
The rest of the Barbanels had absconded. Shockingly, hangingout at a conference wasn’t the highlight of their summer. But, I thought with a glance at Ethan, who sat at my side, talking earnestly with his grandfather, it might have been the highlight of mine. I couldn’t stop smiling, didn’twantto stop smiling. I had been so scared this wouldn’t work, that I made the wrong calls and choose the wrong boys, and Ethan would be like the rest. But Ethan wasn’t like them; Ethan wasn’t like anyone butEthan. He was goofy and ridiculous and loud and sweet and soft-hearted. And a little arrogant and ridiculously hot, but hey, I couldn’tcompletelygo against type. And I didn’t want to. I wanted Ethan.
We held hands under the table, hidden in the cloth falling over our laps. I beamed at Ethan, at everyone, and so did he.
“It’s impressive, everything you two have done,” Ethan’s dad said as the waiters poured water and wine and served tiny plates of salad covered in sheets of parmesan. “I didn’t realize the level of research involved.”
No?I wanted to say archly, but I let Dad take that one, diving with excitement into a description of the work necessary for his latest chapter, concerning the invention of the stern-post rudder during the Han dynasty and its introduction to and impact on worldwide technology.
