Cocoa
I’m in denial—I realize that. The normal reaction to losing your memory and waking up in a rowboat is not an overwhelming sense of peace. That is nonsense.
But it’s what I feel around Mac. Mr McLaggen the harbor master. His presence is like a drug, soothing and warm, even when his voice is gruff and his face is stern and everyone else seems to give him a wide berth.
When we walked here, striding quickly past the town square, folks waved at Mac, but they didn’t approach to chat. They seemed wary. Well, they’re all wrong. I opened my eyes in that rowboat to find him looming over me, and I knew: this is a good man. The best. I’m safe with him.
He’s inside now, mugs and dishes clinking in the sink as he washes up our lunch things. He fed me a baked potato with tuna salad and cheese—said I need to get my strength up—and hey, maybe if I focus on these details, living minute to minute, I never have to face the disaster of forgetting my own name.
“Cocoa.” I try out my new identity, drawing the name out, my lips rounding. It’s kind of funny. Old fashioned but pretty. And the fact that Mac chose it for me makes my tummy warm.
Clink. Clink.
Is he nearly done in there? I shift in the garden chair, metal squeaking, and peer into the kitchen. I offered to help clean up after lunch but he waved me off, and now I’ve got no company except the low-grade panic buzzing around my skull. With Mac gone, my irrational sense of peace ebbs away too.
Because… what if I never remember who I am?
What if I never find out what happened to me?
Or what if I do remember, and wish I hadn’t?
What if Mac gets sick of me, and I lose the only person keeping me sane right now? What if I’m cast out on these strange streets, completely helpless?
What if, what if, what if…
A fat bumble bee drifts over one of Mac’s flowerbeds. I focus on that instead, on its furry little body with black and yellow stripes, though it takes every ounce of my concentration to block out all those other thoughts. So much easier to stay calm when the harbor master is nearby.
“Clues,” I mutter once the panic has subsided again. It’s still there, still sloshing around my insides like battery acid, but it’s less urgent. Muted again. “Look for clues.”
The only starting points I have are my dress and my own body, so I shrug off the bundle of blankets Mac wrapped me in and stand up. I’m moving stiffly, muscles aching like crazy, and I guess that’s a clue.
Waking up soaked in a rowboat after a storm… signs point to a dramatic swim, right? Especially with all this salt greasing up my hair. I blow out a harsh breath and examine my dress.
It was white, once upon a time. But it’s a casual design, thank god—falling to mid-thigh, and made of cotton. Not a wedding dress. Whew.
There are stains and tears, but nothing obvious. No bloody hand prints or whatever, nothing that a TV detective might zoom in on. Just the ordinary wear and tear of nearly drowning in a storm. Fine.
“Clues,” I say again, repeating it like my new mantra. Why don’t I want the actual police to do this? I’m not sure, exactly—I only know that when Mac wanted to call them, the word no clanged through me, my panic suddenly fierce. I may not know much, but I don’t want the cops anywhere near me. I do know that.
And he listened to me. I love him for that.
Propping a heel on the chair, I inspect one leg then the other—then check out the rest of my body, spinning in a slow circle, noting every faded bruise and scar. Most marks look old, apart from a few fresher bumps and grazes.
Hmm.
I have an athletic build, with strong thighs and a tight waist. Rounded hips and small boobs—so small I didn’t bother with a bra.
Does Mac like pear-shaped women? Let’s hope so.
With a glance over my shoulder, I raise my dress and peer at my underwear. More faded cotton—pale green, I think, before our dunking in the ocean—and threadbare as hell, with a snapped elastic on one leg. I’m like a ripped orphan Annie. Who am I?
Whoever I am, I clearly had no plans to show those panties to another person. So last night probably wasn’t a date gone wrong, right?
Maybe I’m grasping at straws. Gah.
A throat clears behind me, and I let my dress drop, cheeks flushing bright red. When I spin around, Mac’s hands are shoved in his pockets, and he looks wary. Tall, dark and bearded, with a weather-beaten face and strong shoulders, but wary. Of me.
Because I’m lifting my dress in his garden like a psychopath.
“I just wanted to see,” I blurt. “I thought my panties could be a clue.”
If anything, he looks more bemused. “Sure.”
“I checked other things too. My body. My dress.”
“Right.” The harbormaster scratches his chin. His short beard makes a crackly noise, and for some reason that sends a dart of heat through my belly. “Any luck?”
Any luck? No, not really. No answers, just more questions—and he must see the despair rising again like the tide, must see the panic squeezing my throat, because Mac curses and shakes his head.
“Stupid question. Come on, Cocoa.” A hand reaches out, etched with faded scars and calluses. When I take it, my fingers are dwarfed by the size and heat of his palm. “I ran you a hot bath.”
I trip after him. “Will you be in it?”
Crap. I shouldn’t flirt like this, not with the man who saved me, and especially not when I’m all snotty and bedraggled. Who wants that? Sure enough, Mac makes a choked noise, but doesn’t reply. He tows me through the back door into the kitchen, past the checkerboard tiles and the gleaming pile of washing up, through the cottage hallway to a rickety staircase.
“Up there, first door on the left. I laid out spare clothes and a towel.”
Guess that’s a firm no to my shameless proposition.
That’s for the best. It shows he’s a good man, one who wouldn’t take advantage.
So why do I feel like crying?
“Take as long as you need.” He’s frowning everywhere but at me, like he can’t even bear to look me in the eye. My stomach twists, and my mouth tastes sour. Did I make him uncomfortable? Ugh. Whoever I am, I’m the worst. “I’ll be close. Call if you need anything.”
It’s not an invitation; not flirtatious in any way. It’s a clipped instruction, one that is clearly only meant to be followed as a last resort. The harbor master glares at a wooden beam in the ceiling.
“Thank you,” I whisper, trudging up the stairs.
His gaze is hot on my back the whole way.
* * *
When folks talk about ‘muscle memory’, they’re talking about dance routines and sports drills, right? Not literal secrets that your body is keeping from you.
And yet as I sink into the harbor master’s tub, a shudder rolls through my whole body. I gasp, the sound bouncing around the simple bathroom, echoing off the vintage tiles.
Heat.
So much heat. Jeez.
I’ve been cold to the core since the moment I woke this morning, the shivers coming from deep inside. Probably because of my mystery dunk in the ocean, then sleeping in a wet dress outdoors, right? It’s summer, but it’s not that warm around here. It’s perfectly logical that I’d be numb.
Still, as I tilt my head back and let my body float, it feels deeper than that. Like my soul has been cold too. Frozen with horror. My muscles have been locked tight, my stomach tense for hours, and a headache squeezes my temples.
And now…
Mac’s bath warms me from my toes to the tips of my hair. He’s put some kind of scented oil in the water, something that makes my limbs extra slippery and soft. When I suck in a deep breath, the steam smells like rose petals.
“Oh my god.” The tension drains from my body, and I sag in the water. The bathtub cradles me, and I blink tears from my eyes. The dark wooden beams waver overhead. When will I stop sniffling already?
So Mac didn’t want to join a strange, bedraggled girl in the bathtub. Of course he didn’t. It was crazy to blurt out that offer.
I’m a hot mess, but even if I knew everything, even if I could recite my social security number by rote, we still only met this morning—and in the hours since, I’ve caused that man nothing but trouble.
Plus Mac is older than me. Definitely. In his late thirties, at least, and maybe even older. There are specks of silver in his beard, and creases at the corners of his eyes, and he’s a respectable man with an important job.
What could I ever offer him? Right now, I don’t even own shoes.
I’m distracting myself again. Hiding from the real problem.
Scrubbing my body down with soap feels good. Like I’m scrubbing off my nonsense along with the salt and grime, until the bottom of the bathtub is gritty with sand. I drain the water and refill it—only halfway this time, don’t want to be wasteful—then work shampoo through my brown, tangled hair.
No conditioner. Typical man.
See, why do I know that and not my own name? It’s like I’ve kept all my general cultural knowledge, but no specifics. Such bullshit.
“Come on.” There’s a giant knot in my hair, around shoulder length. “Come on, you bastard.” I shampoo it again and again, but if anything it gets more snarled, until I’m panting with fatigue and so freaking over this already. “Right. Screw this.”
I dunk my head, washing away the shampoo suds and tears.
Water sloshes as I stand, swilling up the sides of the tub. Good thing I only filled it halfway, else there’d have been a tidal wave on Mac’s bathroom floor.
The fluffy bath mat is soft beneath my feet, and drips course down my body. I snatch up the navy towel Mac left me, but in my sudden blind rage, the clothes stay behind.
The cottage staircase is loud, the wood screeching with every step. I huff and puff my way into the kitchen, the towel wrapped tight around my body.
Mac looks up from his kitchen table, a cookbook spread over the scrubbed wood. His eyes go wide.
“Scissors,” I say, heat climbing my throat, but it’s too late to run out of here now. Might as well see this crazy train into the station. “Please tell me you have scissors.”
Wordlessly, Mac points at a drawer. It rattles as I yank it open, and I sift past a bottle opener, a garlic press, and one of those lemon zest doohickeys before snatching up a pair of scissors. They glint as I hold them up in triumph.
“Be right back.”
My wet feet slap against the tiles, then creak back up the stairs.
Twenty minutes later, I tiptoe back into the kitchen, all my bravado long gone. I’m swaddled in a pair of men’s black sweatpants and one of Mac’s gray sweatshirts, the clothes drowning my frame. My hair is cut into a choppy, uneven bob.
“Um.” The drawer sticks when I open it this time, and I shake it to knock the utensils loose. “I cleaned the scissors, and put the cut hair in the bathroom trash can. Thank you.”
My face is burning. I must look like such an idiot. God, why did I do this?
It’s like all the stress and fear rose up in one go, choking off my good sense, and I did the first impulsive thing I could think of. Now my head feels weirdly light, and I look even younger and scruffier, and Mac is probably wishing he never took me in.
When I catch a glimpse of myself in the shiny refrigerator door, I want to sob.
“Cocoa.” The harbor master’s deep voice is soothing. Gentle. I sniffle, wiping my eyes on my wrist.
Am I always such a crybaby? Or just when I’ve had some mysterious near-death experience, lost my memory, then cut off all my hair in a panic? That’s fair, right? Most people would probably go a bit nuts after today.
“Cocoa,” he says again. “Come here.”
This time, his tone brooks no argument. Mac pats his thigh—and man, rockets have moved slower than me. I’m over there in a flash, perched on his strong lap, looping my arms around his neck.
He’s so solid. Sturdy.
If this is weird, he doesn’t comment on it. Mac tugs gently on a lock of my hair, and says: “Pretty.”
That’s it. Just one word.
One word, and the sun comes back out. The residual panic and shame drain away, replaced by his warmth and strength; by the steady regard of his gray eyes.
I breathe out, nice and slow. My feet kick in the empty air, bundled up in a thick pair of men’s hiking socks, and I feel so tiny and cute when he holds me like this. Safe and treasured.
This is nuts.
Reallynuts.
But maybe I don’t care. Maybe I can’t afford to care. As of this morning, this man is the center of my universe.
The corner of his mouth lifts when I pet his beard. His arms tighten around me, and I’m so fizzy and sparkly inside. Trauma? What trauma? I’m fine.
“You’re gonna be a handful, huh?”
Lord, I hope so. I hope I fill his hands, and give him plenty to grip and squeeze. I hope I’m everything the harbor master craves and more. Want to please him so badly.
“So. Want to watch a movie?”
He asks it shyly. Like I’d ever say no.
“Sure.” Mac’s eyes flutter when I scratch his beard. “I’ve got no place to be.”