That he’s not a person who picked up my pieces for me—that his hands held mine while I did it myself.
That I’d like to think, I did the same for him.
I lose count of the hours, but the sun drops lower and lower in the sky, and then the stars wink to life, and it’s just me and him, and a cooler of sweating beer, sitting on this docked boat, still in our bathing suits.
Him, hair curling around the nape of his neck, whispering over his ears. Lines crinkling around navy eyes, grin curving the usually sharp lines of his face, and skin bronzed from the sun, still peppered with droplets of water.
Me, shoulders pink despite my best efforts, the freckles that usually hide on my face painted more prominently across my nose, and my hair hanging limp from the lake water.
But he looks at me, and for some reason, I don’t think I’ve ever felt more beautiful.
His grin turns shy, and I think mine does too.
He glances away first, and when his gaze finds the empty leather bench lining the edge of the boat, his eyes pinch closed, and pain works down his throat in a choppy swallow.
“Was this ... where it happened?” I ask quietly.
Miller shakes his head. “Nah. The police needed that boat for the investigation when they were making sure it wasn’t a—” He winces. “Doesn’t matter. They took it, and uh, I didn’t want it back. They cut a cheque and sold it at a police auction. My aunt and uncle donated the money to some charity for research on heart disease.”
“And you”—I tilt my head—“bought another one?”
He nods, mouth twisting into a rueful line instead of the playful one I’ve seen all afternoon. “Yeah, uh, different model. But ... I don’t know. He loved the boat. Felt wrong, not to have one here at all.”
“Did you love the boat, too?”
“Used to.” He shrugs. “Haven’t driven it since.”
“I’ve never driven a boat,” I tell him.
He grins this time. “You have a license?”
“No.” I fold my arms, frowning.
“Can’t let you drive, then. Sorry.” He shrugs again, but he seems lighter.
I fake a scoff. “I didn’t think you’d be such a stickler for the rules.”
“I’ll make you a deal.” His elbows find his thighs, and he absentmindedly tugs on his fingers, but something winks to life behind his eyes. “You can sit on my lap while I drive tomorrow. I’ll even let you hold the wheel.”
I do scoff this time, but it turns into an embarrassed sort of sputter. My shoulders roll back involuntarily, imagining what it would be like if they were resting against his chest, not the leather seat. “That doesn’t feel very adult.”
“Oh yeah?” Miller asks, and the navy of his eyes gets swallowed by his pupils. “Sounds pretty adult to me.”
Itdoessound adult, and the thought of it, me pressed against him, the ridges of his thighs underneath mine, makes me feel something I don’t think I’ve felt in a very long time.
But Miller clears his throat, throwing me an apologetic smile. “Thanks for ... coming here with me. For doing everything on my list. Sorry you couldn’t think of a sixth thing to make it, uh, even, and sorry mine were all ... so depressing.”
“They weren’t depressing,” I murmur, finally looking up at him, glad for the night sky to hide the embarrassment on my face. “I did think of a sixth. It was ... sex.”
Miller blinks, mouth parting when he takes a heavy swallow. “Sex?”
“Yes.” I sniff, waving a hand. “I know. It’s embarrassing. And it’s not like you could—” I catch myself before I say it’s not something he could help me with. I think it’s probably something he’d be very good at. Shrugging, I dig a finger into the leather seam of my seat. “I just ... it’s not something I think I’ve ever really enjoyed, and I don’t know. I think it’s something that, if you’re interested in sex ... lots of people aren’t, obviously, and that’s fine. But if it is something you want ... it should be something you like about yourself.”
“You don’t like—” He takes a steadying inhale, palms his jaw, and I think he considers his next words. “You haven’t ever liked sex? Or ... yourself, during sex?”
“I don’t think so,” I whisper, shame burning my skin. “With ... him—” I don’t even feel like saying Scott’s name out loud and giving him space out on this boat. He’s already taken too much. I blink up at Miller through tear-stung eyes. “It was like a ... chore. Always. I think it was maybe exciting the first few times, but we were young and ...” A tear escapes, rolling down my cheek, and I swat it away. “Sorry, this is embarrassing. I’m a thirty-two-year-old woman crying about her abysmal sexual history.”
“It’s not embarrassing, Ren,” he says quietly.
