My lips fall open, searching for a word, but I swallow instead, reaching out for the edge of the couch. I stumble sideways, my balance tipping too far in the wrong direction. His hands find me again, steadying me, and my palm spreads across his chest. The sweet smell of whiskey makes my heart press tightly against my ribs, and his shoulders flex as he slides an arm around my waist and leads me toward the stairs.
“Neil Hagdorn makes a stiff whiskey,” I say, my eyes slipping closed, my legs feeling suddenly weighted and useless beneath me. A second later, he hoists me up into his arms. I wish I wasn’t so drunk; I wish I could form a clear thought, a clear sentence, but then he’s climbing the stairs with me in his arms.
“His whiskey’s been known to steamboat even the hardiest sailors,” Clay answers.
“I’m not a sailor,” I mutter, smiling, my face only a few inches from his. “I’m a pirate.” I laugh, and I can see the smile in his eyes.
We reach the bedroom, and Clay lowers me to the bed. It feels impossibly soft, the mattress curving around me, smelling of mint.
“Best ye sleep it off, or risk staggering out into the sea.”
I blink up at him, wanting to make some joke about how I swam across the sea once, I’m sure I could do it again, even drunk, but stop myself—certain that the words will leave my lips in a long slur.
“I’ll have a strong brew for ye in the morning. I suspect ye’ll be needin’ it.”
I let my head sink back into the pillow. “You’re not so bad,” I say, eyelids shuttering closed. “Not as rough as you’d like me to think, I might even start to like you. Could be friends, even. We are roommates, after all.”
He makes a sound from the doorway. “Yer good an’ sloshed.”
“I don’t even know what you’re saying most of…” My voice trails into nothing, into my dreams, into the dark of my eyelids, until there is only the sound of his footsteps on the stairs and the wind against the walls of the old farmhouse.
Shit.
Two glasses of whiskey, maybe three, and it knocked me flat on my ass. But not before he had to carry me to bed. Shit.
What did I say to him? The details are murky—shadowy flashes of memory that feel like a dream. I wish they were.
Did I try to convince him to dance with me?
What the hell was I doing?
My head pulses in time with my heartbeat, each thud cracking against my temples as I wobble from bed. At the doorway, I brace myself against the wall to keep from retching. To keep from pinwheeling to the floor. The stairwell is crooked, the ceiling tilting too far to the left. I grip the banister and half slide, half stumble down the stairs, pressing a palm to my forehead as I reach the living room.
When I lower my hand, eyes watering, Clay is crossing from the kitchen, a mug in his hand.
“Wasnae sure I’d be seeing ye on this side of the living today,” he says with a knowing grin, unable to hide his amusement.
I don’t answer, but I take the mug—the scent from the steam is bracing, the herbal tea awakening my whiskey-clotted mind. “I don’t knowwhat happened.” I touch my temples with my fingers, trying to push away the ache.
“I shoulda warned ye,” he answers.
I make my way toward the front door. “I need fresh air,” I mutter. Back home, after a night of too many glasses of wine with James, I always slept with the windows open, even in winter, because the clear air always seemed to steady my swirling head and stomach.
Clay walks beside me, a hand against my back, like he’s afraid I’m going to tip to the floor. “I need to check a few things after the storm,” he says as we reach the door. “But I’ll be back to make breakfast. Ye should rest.”
I nod, pulling open the door. I just need a few deep breaths, and then I’ll sink onto the couch and wait for him to return. But when the door swings wide and the cool morning air rushes over my face, I see down to the shoreline.
I see something that wasn’t there before.
A boat.
“Clay—” I suck in the damp air. “Do you see it?” I don’t trust my own eyes; the fog of my hangover could be materializing things that aren’t there.
He moves past me, stepping out onto the porch, a hand over his eyes. “Aye.”
Leaving the cup of tea on the railing, I stagger down the steps, then propel myself toward the dirt path. I sway briefly, touching the garden fence for balance, before pushing myself on—the skyline tilting, my eyes wincing away from the bright morning sun—until I reach the rocky shoreline.
I buckle over, certain I’m going to vomit, sweat beading at my temples, but I draw in a slow, measured breath and tell my stomach to stay where it is. I lift my head, and there, bobbing aimlessly againstthe rocks, is a small wooden boat—not much bigger than a bathtub. No motor. Only a single oar knocking idly against the hull. But it’s floating, and it isn’t taking on water. At least not that I can tell.
