“How can I say no?”
“Perfect,” Jonathan said with a grin, his teeth impossibly white. “We can always walk it off. The restaurant’s right by the park.”
They’d yet to have a proper conversation, and here Jonathan was, adding to their date, a first date at that! And yet, it didn’t feel presumptuous or arrogant. Cece got the distinct sense that Jonathan wouldn’t be offended or hurt if she declined to join him. He struck her as the kind of man who wasn’t afraid to say aloud what he wanted, even if it meant failure or rejection.
They never made it to the park. They remained at the restaurant until they closed, which was only possible because Jonathan bribed the hostess to let them stay well beyond their reservation slot. He was fascinated by Cece’s job and had to cut himself off after asking too many questions. “It never crossed my mind that you could assess uncertainty, not just in financial or insurance markets, but in life,” he said, cutting into his steak with zest,“but of course you can!” As someone with two brothers, he wanted to know what it was like to grow up with a sister. He asked what her parents did and whether she was close to them. He spoke excitedly of the future—a five-year plan that involved making senior VP at his private equity job, crossing Venice, San Sebastián, and Marrakesh off his travel bucket list, and finally beating his best friend at tennis, something he hadn’t accomplished since their days at Deerfield—and Cece listened intently. Except for swimming in high school and college, her own goals had rarely extended beyond the professional. As someone who saw the future as risk to be predicted and avoided, she was taken with Jonathan’s approach. Here was someone who imposed their will on the complete unknown, willing the desired outcome into existence. Data, models, predictions—Jonathan used them, but he didn’t let them stop him from taking action. It wasn’t a matter of if his goals would come to fruition, but when.
Cece was genuinely impressed. “Those are some grand plans.”
“Indeed. Although not very much fun when done alone,” Jonathan said while he looked around the empty restaurant.
“I suppose not,” Cece said, wary of the somber tone their conversation had taken. It would be just her luck that she finds a driven, serious, good-looking guy, only to discover he’s a depressive.
“I hope this isn’t too forward, but I’d like to see you again. I can’t tell you how long it’s been since I’ve had a good conversation on a date.”
Prior to leaving her apartment, Cece had made numerous promises to herself: Don’t be afraid to bail early if the date’s a disaster, don’t ask him questions and make him feel overlyimportant, and upon pain of death, do not, if asked, agree to a second date. Something in her face must have betrayed her trepidation.
“What’s that inane rule men are always following? Something about waiting at least forty-eight hours before calling someone after a date. I never understood that…Look, our friends set us up, which means they pity us, which means we’ve been on the dating scene far too long, which means we’re either damaged goods or just way too picky.”
Cece laughed. “Some friends.”
“I don’t want to waste your time or mine. I’m looking for something serious, and I think you are too, so let’s find out if something’s here. And if not, that’s okay. But at least we’ll have eaten some good food and gone on some fun dates.”
Put this way—so matter-of-fact, so simple—Cece could find no plausible reason to decline the invitation. And after they’d exchanged numbers and Jonathan walked her to the corner of A and East Sixth and put her in a taxi, she thought about what he’d said and how it had put her at ease. Through the smudged windshield, traffic thinned, and green lights stretched for what seemed like miles, and the cab rolled on, jostled and bumped by the rutted streets. The cabbie got a call and began speaking with someone in his native tongue. Cece liked to think it was his wife, calling to check in on him during his shift. She leaned back in the unforgiving seat and closed her eyes. Jonathan, with his forthrightness and maturity, felt like the perfect match for someone like her, someone who craved predictability and security. It didn’t hurt, of course, that he had a good job, had attended a reputable college. It was obvious he came from a good family, a family that no doubt occupied a social class well above Cece’s. If shehad to guess, Jonathan’s parents lived the kind of life her mother wished they could afford to live, which meant her mother would approve of him. These weren’t the most romantic notions, but where had romance gotten her?! She was ready to settle down, even if that wasn’t the phrase Cece would have used, not in a hundred years. At last, she was ready for something simple and good.
Luxuriating in a Saturday off from work, the dark shape of Bernard snoring at the foot of her bed, Cece stretches her legs out until they’re hanging off the twin mattress. She wiggles her toes, touching air. A mosquito whines somewhere in the room. Cece flails for a flip-flop on the floor and hucks it in the direction of the incessant drone. What has she done? Why is she here, in this room, alone? She wonders what Jonathan is doing at this precise moment, and then, before her mind can wander, she wipes the thought, like a hand across a foggy windowpane.
The sky is streaked the most glorious daffodil yellow by the time Cece makes it down to the boatyard. Last night over text, Morgan had insisted they leave at some ludicrous hour, and now Cece finds herself grumpy and resentful until he puts a warm mug of coffee in her hand and says good morning, boyish cheer on his face. Lorraine’s gossip fades faster than the foghorn somewhere in the distance.
Underfoot, waves slap the dock, wooden planks warped and curved. Shells and algae cling to pilings, ashen and still. Wind bends off the water, and Cece shivers, cursing her insistence on wearing a pair of jean shorts and abandoning all practicality for the feeling of Morgan’s eyes on her legs. By the time they board the imposing white powerboat, Cece’s teeth are chattering, andshe does her best to smile while Morgan unties knots and tosses buoys. He checks the outboard motors before pressing the ignition button, purple diesel fumes gurgling upward. After throttling up, he bends down and digs through his backpack, moving invisible objects with ease. “Here we go,” he says, and tosses Cece a pair of sweatpants. “You might wanna throw these on, at least until the sun comes out.”
If she weren’t still waking up, Cece might have blushed, feigned ignorance, but for now she’s just grateful to be warm as she slips on the sweats.
The boat cuts a V down the Thames, sending ripples across the placid water. Under the two steel truss bridges, I-95 rumbles overhead, steady and deafening. The current swirls, turning back on itself and around the concrete piers to their right and left. Morgan guides the boat with equal parts caution and confidence. He knows these waters, where the river runs deep and the shallows rise up without warning. Ahead, the sun hits the first Cross Sound Ferry departing New London, lighting it up like a polished cumulus. Out into the Sound, past the lighthouse, Morgan opens up the throttle, the twin motors roaring to life. With the wind in their ears, it’s impossible to talk, and Cece’s happy just to sit on the white leather seats in the stern, sun on her face, while Morgan takes them southwest, following the coastline. On the port side, Long Island, slender and green, slips in and out of view.
An hour later, they drop anchor near Duck Island. Cece admires the flocks of great egrets nesting among the dark, junglelike foliage. With their slender necks and bright yellow beaks, there’s something prehistoric about the birds.
Morgan emerges from the hold wearing only his bathing suit and black flip-flops. “How about a swim?”
Cece turns away and looks intently at the water. Nothing sounds better to Cece, which surprises her. She can count on her hands the number of times she’s gone swimming since Bucknell. She’s kept her promise, her petty revenge: never to dip so much as a toe in a pool again, but the ocean is different, dark, and endless, no lanes, no colored floats bobbing in uniformity.
Diving off the back of the boat, Morgan’s the first one in, his body surprisingly lithe and elegant as it knifes into the water. For a moment he doesn’t come up, the water going placid and smooth. Cece watches for air bubbles, strains to see into the murk, her chest suddenly tight, breath frantic. Then he emerges, shoulders breaking the surface, thick black hair plastered to his skull, and Cece finds she’s relieved, which makes her feel foolish and flustered. Before Morgan can recognize the look on her face, Cece crouches and launches from the deck, arms out in front, one hand over the other, chin tucked to her chest, hips high, like she’s done a million times. The water is colder than Cece expected, and for a moment, gliding under the surface, eyes scrunched shut, it takes her breath away. Then she’s emerging, everything sharp and bright.
They swim, tread water, do laps around the boat, dive under and come up on the other side. Cece stretches herself, breaststrokes long and sweeping, legs thrumming. Morgan spouts water at her, laughing as he crawls away. The water tastes salty and good in Cece’s mouth, and for a moment, with the boat bobbing blissfully beside her, the sun cleaving up into the sky, she is present.
Lunch is egg salad sandwiches on whole wheat with acucumber dill salad and potato chips, washed down with seltzers. They sit in the stern wrapped in beach towels, sunglasses shading their eyes.
“You swim well,” Morgan says, backhanding some mayonnaise from his mouth.
Cece nods and squints.
“Like, really well. I was practically doggy-paddling next to you.”
“I swam in college,” Cece says.
“I’m guessing that’s how you got those?” Morgan says.
Cece pulls the towel over her shoulders to hide the purple-hued scars in the shape of boomerangs.
