I’m far away from land. Far from dead neighbors and monsters who can tear bodies apart in an instant.
Dorian plays music through the boat’s speakers—a playlist that blends his favorites and mine. We sip beer, and we munch on sandwiches, and I begin to doubt my resolution to abandon him along with everything else. When we’re not talking about moral codes and life goals, being with him is easy. He fills my heart right up, makes me smile. He’s interesting. Sweet. Irresistible.
I suppose I could move to Nashville and be near him. That would be far enough from the site of the buried relic; I wouldn’t have to worry about causing more havoc.
But if I stay with Dorian, I will eventually give in and paint him. And if I paint him, I will never be sure where I stand with him—whether he’s with me because he cares or because he feels like heowes me. Or because he wants to keep me close in case he needs yet another painting.
I can’t live in his shadow. I can’t be with someone who doesn’t care how much he hurts people, who refuses to acknowledge the harm he causes.
Like Sibyl, I have to detach and disengage.
Except sitting here in the bright air, with the water rippling all around us and Neil Diamond’s rough, crooning voice flowing over the water, I want my life to always be this. Always Dorian, his lithe figure draped across the seat, his long fingers tapping the edge of the boat in time to the melody, the cold beer dripping condensation onto his hand. Personally I’d rather be the one dripping onto his hand…
God, I have to stop thinking like that.
“I called Sibyl yesterday.” Dorian’s eyes are unreadable behind his sunglasses. “She says she’s building you a new website.”
“Oh…yeah. I think it will be a lot more user-friendly. And it will look a lot better, too, which is important for my brand, no matter where I end up living.”
“Of course.”
Silence curls between us, thick and cloying.
“I apologized to her.” He pushes the words out, like each one weighs his tongue. “I—We talked.”
“Good.”
“And I donated the things you sent back,” he continues. “To a charity auction.”
“That’s great.” Oh god, why is this so hard? Why does he have to make it worse by showing me that he’s trying to be better? Fuck.
“I’m not saying that to convince you of anything.” He tips down his sunglasses, unveiling the sincerity in his eyes.
I nod, swallowing, running my fingers through the condensation on my beer. “Thank you. For not trying to change my mind and for—for everything.”
His jaw tightens. “Don’t do that. Don’t say goodbye to me. This move away from Charleston doesn’t have to be goodbye, Baz. You know that. It doesn’t have to be the end between us. I can follow you wherever you go.”
“Like you followed Basil,” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer, just changes his position and starts the boat again. The motor thrums to life, and we skim across the water, the breeze rushing over my heated face, drying the sweat that was filming the back of my neck.
I don’t think we’re headed back to shore. “Where are we going?”
“I want to show you something.”
My first instinct is to protest and insist we head back…but the tree graveyard was such a beautiful surprise, and I can’t help wondering if he has something equally gorgeous and inspiring to show me. So I wait.
After ten or fifteen minutes, Dorian slows the boat.
“Look.” He points to a wooded island on our right. Among the trees stands a pillared house, gleaming white in the afternoon sun.
“It’s beautiful,” I breathe.
“Let’s go take a look.”
“But it’s private property.”
Dorian laughs. “For a girl whose tattoos proclaim her as a rebel, you are certainly obsessed with minding the rules.”
