“Or it’s building suspense,” Nate replied, but he was already pouring, tipping each flute with exaggerated care, determined not to waste a drop. He handed her a glass and grabbed the bottle by the neck. “Come on.”
They clambered along the narrow side deck, fingers grazing the rail for balance, the boat shifting under their weight. At the bow, the space opened up, smooth and curved, the dark windshield arching behind them like a shield.
Ella settled first, lowering herself and leaning back against the slanted glass of the cockpit. Nate followed, stretching out beside her, their shoulders brushing, knees nearly touching. He set the bottle down between them, anchoring it with his foot.
“Prost,” Ella said, her accent rounding the word.
“Prost,” Nate echoed, tapping his glass against hers.
For a while, they lay there sipping the champagne, as Ella occasionally pointed toward the distant shore.
“Ooh, those lights? Probably Nyon,” she said, gesturing toward a cluster of twinkling dots. Then, tilting her head toward the other side of the lake, “And that… Yvoire. French side.”
“Anywhere you haven’t been?”
Ella made a small, noncommittal sound.
They drained their glasses, and Nate grabbed the bottle, topping them up. The breeze tangled their hair, brushing against their faces as they sank back against the glass of the cockpit.
Nate squinted at the stars, jabbing a finger into the darkness. “That one there: Orion’s Belt. See? The hourglass thing. Classic.”
Ella scrunched her nose. “Uh, no. That’s Canis Major. A dog, Nate. You can’t just draw shapes and call it a constellation.”
“Oh, learned that in art school, did you?”
“Boarding school,” she corrected, smirking.
“Of course you did.” He nudged her with his elbow. “Seriously, you don’t know Latin, do you?”
“No,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Dick.”
“Come on. Ella.”
“Okay, fine,” she said, chuckling. “Like ten words. My parents insisted it would be useful.” She shrugged. “Turns out, not so much.”
Nate tilted his head, studying her. The champagne made his chest warm, his brain a little fuzzy. “You know,” he said, leaning closer, “I still don’t get you.”
“In what way?”
He groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I shouldn’t even be saying this. Not my business.”
Ella didn’t respond, but her fingers tightened around her flute.
“You’ll take a boat,” he said, jerking a thumb toward the shore, “but you won’t tell your parents you don’t want that job they’ve got lined up for you.”
Her throat worked. “I never said I didn’t want it.”
“I know, I know,” he interrupted, almost too fast. “Point is, you’re out here tonight, doing whatever you want, no regrets. But when it’s your actual life—your career—you’re just going to do what they expect?”
She stiffened.
“I mean, why?” he pressed. “Why not say fuck it?”
“You wouldn’t get it.”
“Try me.”
Ella exhaled through her nose. “You guys get to be ‘on a journey.’ We get to be ‘lost’ or ‘behind’ if we’re not exactly where we’re supposed to be by thirty.”
