Chapter 35 Borrowed Days
BORROWED DAYS
Time loosened its grip on us in Mykonos.
We woke late, tangled in sweat-damp sheets, Jonathan heavy and warm against me, his breath slow and steady on my shoulder.
Sometimes we didn’t get out of bed right away.
Sometimes we didn’t get out of bed for hours.
When we finally stumbled into the kitchen, the air was already humming with cicadas.
Breakfast was coffee so strong it jolted me awake, fruit so ripe it dripped down my chin. Jonathan sliced figs and peaches, fed me bites with a grin, then licked the juice off his fingers before kissing me slowly. From the terrace, the sea stretched in every direction, so blue it looked painted.
I followed him past souvenir shops crammed with evil-eye charms, down narrow alleys where bougainvillea spilled pink and purple over crumbling stone walls.
Every surface was sun-bleached, every corner smelled like salt and thyme and dust. A donkey clopped past with a rider perched sideways, phone in hand.
Music drifted from a café where men smoked and argued in rapid-fire Greek, laughter rising above the clatter of cups.
And somewhere in the middle of it, it hit me.
I’d been sprinting, no, flying, through weeks that felt like they belonged to someone else’s life.
From dingy Philadelphia government offices to Formula 1 paddocks, London boardrooms, champagne toasts, now this island where the light itself seemed to hum.
I should have been back in my cramped apartment, writing newspaper copy few would read.
Instead, I was here, chasing after a man who kept rewriting what I thought was possible.
The days melted one into another. We wandered through whitewashed alleys so narrow our shoulders brushed the walls.
Bougainvillea spilled over balconies, and stray cats watched us with lazy contempt.
Jonathan bought me a bracelet of knotted cord and beads from a man who spoke no English but winked when Jonathan slid it onto my wrist.
The island ran on tourism, I realized. Every bracelet, every plate of grilled fish, every whitewashed wall maintained for the benefit of people like us.
Once, that kind of money would have made me uneasy.
Now I watched Jonathan bargain in halting Greek and tip too much afterward, and I felt something closer to recognition than resentment.
One afternoon we climbed to the windmills of Kato Mili.
They stood in a row, ancient and beautiful, their sails still catching the constant breeze.
From the hilltop, the harbor glittered below us, as ferries carved bright white lines across the water.
Jonathan stood beside me, hair whipped by the wind, sunglasses hiding his eyes, but his hand sought mine without hesitation.
At sunset we sat in Little Venice, on a terrace that seemed to float over the sea.
The sky bled pink and gold, the waves lapped at the café’s foundations, and the whole world felt like it had narrowed to the two of us and the glow between us.
Plates of grilled fish and tomato salad appeared, a carafe of cold white wine sweating on the table.
Jonathan talked about Singapore and Suzuka and Shanghai, his voice threaded with excitement, and I let myself imagine being there, walking foreign streets with him, watching lights glimmer over water on the other side of the world.
But it was the sea that kept calling us back.
Every afternoon we swam, diving into water so clear I could see the shadow of our bodies on the sand far below.
Salt stung my lips, clung to my hair, coated my skin until I tasted like the ocean itself.
We’d swim out past the clusters of tourists until we were alone, suspended in endless blue.
Sometimes he splashed me until I lunged at him, dragging him under.
Sometimes we just floated, side by side, letting the water hold us.
That last afternoon, the sun high and merciless, he swam close. His hair was plastered to his forehead, droplets tracing paths down his jaw. He bumped against me, shoulder to shoulder, chest to chest, and I laughed, pushing him back only for him to circle and catch me again.
Then his mouth was on mine. Salty, wet, dizzying. A kiss without hurry, made weightless by the sea, his hand cupping the back of my neck as if to anchor me to him.
I pressed back, opening to him, our tongues tangling as the swell rocked us together.
His thigh slid between mine, the hard line of his cock unmistakable even through the thin fabric clinging to us.
I groaned into his mouth, grinding against him, the salt stinging my lips, his body hot against mine despite the cool water.
“God, Waldo,” he whispered, breathless, and the sound of my name on his lips went straight through me.
I wrapped my legs around him, letting the water hold us up.
His hands slid down to cup my ass, kneading, pulling me tight against him.
I could feel every inch of him, hard and insistent, trapped between us.
He rocked against me in the rhythm of the tide, slow at first, then harder when I gasped and clutched at his shoulders.
The sea lapped around us, gulls wheeling overhead, but all I knew was the heat of him, the delicious drag of our cocks grinding together through wet fabric. His mouth stayed on mine, kissing me deep, groaning into me as I rutted against him, slick and desperate.
“Don’t stop,” I begged, biting his lip.
“Never,” he said, and thrust harder.
The world narrowed to friction, to salt and heat and sunlight flickering on the waves.
I came first, shuddering against him, my body seizing with pleasure that pulsed through every limb.
He followed with a low cry, clutching me tight as his release spilled hot between us, mingling with mine, the water swirling around our tangled bodies.
I realized, with a jolt, that I wasn’t thinking about disclosure at all, and that frightened me more than the secrecy ever had.
We clung together, breathless, still rocking with the swell, kissing like we could drink each other down. The sea carried us, and for a long moment it felt like we were the only two people in existence, weightless, endless, unbreakable.