“Yeah.” He glances left, at the row of boats we’re slowly moving past. “Yeah. She would have lo—been obsessed with you.”
I’m glad he isn’t looking at me. Because this is worse than him shutting me out entirely. It’s a different yearning from the glimpse of him shirtless earlier. It’s a tease of more. A taunt of what it could be like—of what we could be like—if we escaped from this state of … something. Not nothing, not everything.
I asked him what we were, and he stayed silent, which felt like the worst reaction at the time. But there’s space in uncertainty.
Or maybe that’s just hopeful thinking.
“Move right,” Sawyer says suddenly. He’s refocused this way, looking behind me, not at me.
“What? Why?” I twist my head, trying to spot whatever he’s seeing. Slowing our progress down to nonexistent and making the entire dory rock.
Sawyer says my name like a swear, grabbing both sides of the small boat to steady us. “There’s another boat coming in. It’s fine; they see us. Just move right.”
“My right or your …”
“Myright.” He leans forward, adjusting my grip on one oar. “Exert more pressure on this side.”
“You should take over,” I blurt.
I wanted to contribute, but I’m not trying to capsize us either.
“Nah, you’ve got it.” He slumps back, arms propped on either side, like he’s reclined in an armchair.
“You’ve been asking to take over since we left the dock,” I remind him. “Now, you’re happy watching?”
“You’re doing fine,” he tells me.
“Fine, huh? Your compliments still suck.” He opens his mouth to reply, but I forge ahead first. “Also, you’re the one wholikes boats. Presumably, that means you know how to steer them, so you should really take over.”
Sawyer smiles. “You have this, Wren.”
Which would be sort of sweet, if he didn’t follow it up with, “Told you so,” once we finally do reach the sailboat.
30
“What are you doing down here?”
“What areyoudoing down here?” Wren counters. “Who’s steering the boat?”
I grin. “Worried we’ll hit something?”
“We could. A whale or?—”
“We’re not gonna hit a whale.”
“What, because there aren’t any whales in the ocean?”
“Because we’re moving slower than any whale swims. They’d have plenty of time to get out of the way.” I walk down the rest of the stairs, ducking my head to avoid hitting the cabin ceiling. “Let me see.”
“See what?”
I glance pointedly at the notebook she flipped over as soon as I appeared in the doorway.
“It’s nothing.”
“So, show me.”
Wrensighs, then reaches out and turns it over. It’s a simple pencil sketch, but impressively detailed. There’s texture to the water visible behind me and to the rope of the rigging. There’s definition to my forearms, too, as I secure the sheets, my hair ruffled by the wind. I’m smiling, expression relaxed and focused.
