She stares at me. I stare back. Water drips off my jaw and hits the dock.
“You’re soaking wet,” she says.
“I’m aware.”
“Your shirt is —” She gestures at my chest. Makes a vague motion with her hand. Doesn’t finish the sentence.
I look down. The white T-shirt iscompletely transparent, clinging to my chest like a second skin. I can see every line of my own body through it, which means she can too, and she’s currently looking at the situation with an expression I’ve never seen on her before and can only describe asshort-circuiting.
I grab the hem and pull the shirt over my head because it’s uncomfortable and useless and I need it off. The air hits my bare chest and shoulders and the relief is immediate.
Emma makes a sound. A small sound. The kind of sound a person makes when they’re trying very hard not to react and failing.
“You’re bleeding,” she says.
I look down. She’s right. There’s a cut along my ribs on the left side—probably scraped the dock ladder on the way up. Thin, barely bleeding. Not worth mentioning.
“It’s nothing.”
“Then why is it bleeding?”
“Barely counts.”
“Stay here.” She disappears into the houseboat and comes back with a first-aid kit—the kind with cartoon characters on the bandaids because she has three kids and this is the medicine cabinet she has. She sets it on the dock box and opens it with the focus of a surgeon.
“Hold still.”
She steps close. Her fingers touch the skin below the cut and my entire body goes rigid. Not from pain. From the fact that Emma’s hand is on my bare chest and her fingertips are cool from the first-aid kit and she’s standing close enough that I can smell her shampoo.
She dabs the cut with an antiseptic wipe. Her hand is steady. Mine wouldn’t be.
“It’s not deep,” she says, quiet, like she’s talking to herself.
“I told you.”
“You jumped in wearing work boots.”
“Wasn’t planning on it.”
“You could have just used the boat hook.”
“The boat hook was on the other side of the dock.”
“So you jumped.”
“It was sinking.”
She peels the backing off a bandaid. It has a cartoon whale on it. She presses it along the cut, her fingers smoothing the edges against my ribs, and I feel every single point of contact like a brand. Her fingertips trace the edge of the bandaid, slow, careful, making sure it’s sealed, and goosebumps follow her touch across my skin like a wave.
She notices. I know because her hand stops moving. Her fingers rest on my ribs, just below the bandaid, and neither of us breathes.
The dock is quiet. The water laps against the pilings. The yacht gleams white in its slip. Somewhere on the houseboat, Aidan is telling Millie the rescue story at full volume.
“There,” Emma says. Her voice is barely there. “All fixed.”
Her fingers stay where they are.
Neither do I.
