My heart races. What is he saying? All the blood from my brain has shifted southward.
Oh.
Wait.
Lucky is a virgin?
LUCKY IS A VIRGIN TOO.
I listen for the ticking inside my head:
Silence.
“Do you have a condom?” I ask, a little shaky and awash in emotion.
He nods slowly, eyes hooded and lazy as he stares at me.
I’m not blushing now.…
As lightning flashes, we peel off the rest of our clothes as if we’re trying to race the storm, hungry and afraid we’ll lose each other. But we don’t, and it doesn’t take us long to figure out that losing your virginity isn’t a thing that happens all at once. It’s not part A inserted into part B equals done. It’s more of a multipart triathlon than a continuous sprint, and there’s no camera to hide behind, no program to digitally edit out the details I don’t like.
Everything’s there, for better or worse. Lucky can see all of me.
But it’s okay, because I can see all of him, too. Lucky 2.0 and every Lucky I’ve known.
I can see the scars on his forehead, and the way his hands tremble because he doesn’t want to hurt me. In his eyes, I can see the years of solitude, the resentment and bitterness, the scars from the fire, every rumor around town. I see it all. The good, the bad, and the lonely.
But the thing that surprises me most is the commentary.
The conversation.
All the honest communication that happens when there isn’t even achanceat an invisible wall …
The heated whispers—“Here.” Explicit directions, “Not like that—Jesus!Don’t ever do that.” Quick apologies, “Sorry-sorry-sorry.” And simple assurances: “You’re perfect. This is perfect. We’re perfect.”
And for one beautiful, gasping moment, we truly are.
The scent of beach roses drifts through the dock house on a warm breeze. Flush with pleasure, I listen to the rain on the roof and the strong, otherworldly thudding of his heart against mine, our limbs intertwined, feeling weightless and filled with bliss and hope.
I don’t feel cursed at all.
For the first time in years, I don’t feel alone.
I want to stay here. I want it to last forever.
I know it can’t.
But when the doorway of the dock house lights up, and an apocalyptic crash thunders beneath our bodies, I’m genuinely surprised that we don’t even get five stinking minutes.
FOR EMERGENCIES, SEE LIGHTHOUSE KEEPER: Sign posted inside small dock house at northern end of Rapture Island in Narragansett Bay. The rugged building doesn’t appear to have been in use for many years.(Personal photo/Josephine Saint-Martin)
Chapter 19
A howling gust of wind roars through the door, driving rain into the dock house. Our cooler shifts across the floor, and the door slams shut, leaving us in darkness.
“What … was that?” I shout over the driving rain. It sounds like a war hitting the metal roof. I’m scrambling to get up in a panic, but my legs don’t work. Knees jelly.
Naked Lucky is already on his feet, taking all his warmth away, and yanking the door open to peer outside.
