High Note (Palm Island #7)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

YURI

Imust have lost my damn mind. Between when I had that awkward video interview for the bartending position and when I stepped onto this ferry, I’ve had a million chances to come to my senses, and quite frankly that’s exactly what I expected would happen.

When I boxed up my lab equipment and research notes, I thought the gravity of my decision would hit me and I would laugh this whole thing off.

The way my colleagues kept looking at me, I’m sure that’s what they expected too.

When I booked a plane ticket and boarded a plane from Geneva back to the States, I was positive that as soon as my feet touched American soil again, I would snap out of it.

But instead, I rented a storage unit for my things and went shopping for new clothes.

And now, leaning against the damp, rusted railing of the ferry, leaning over just enough to watch the churning waves crash against the side of the boat and see a pod of bottlenose dolphins playing in the wake, I still haven’t changed my mind.

At this point, I can’t decide if I’m hoping that seeing the island will bring me back to the reality of my decision or if I think it’s better to ride this nervous breakdown as far as it will go.

I’ve spent thirty years meticulously planning every detail of my life.

I’ve obsessed over every decision I’ve ever made to the point of giving myself ulcers, and I’ve still managed to regret at least half of them.

Maybe I’m getting my mid-life crisis out of the way early, or maybe I was just due for an absolutely bonkers, no-holds-barred, completely out of character freakout.

I guess I should be grateful that whatever this is, it comes with nude beaches, unlimited booze, and endless gay orgies…

If the brochures are to be believed, anyway.

“This is crazy,” I mutter to myself, laughter catching in my throat as I shake my head and grip the railing just a little tighter.

“Sorry, not to be nosy, but you kind of look like you’re freaking out and now you’re muttering to yourself, and… well… if you’re thinking about jumping off the boat or anything, could you warn me first?”

I glance over at the only other passenger on the boat. We nodded politely at each other when we boarded but that was it. He’s a bear of a man with broad shoulders, a round belly, and dark hair. He gives me a wry smile and I laugh again, the sound just as tight the second time.

“I’m not going to jump. Chances are the jump wouldn’t kill me, and I’d end up treading water until I drowned or got eaten by a shark, neither of which are ways I plan to die,” I assure him.

I wait for him to make some kind of joke about planning to die.

Most people do when I say things like that.

Obviously, I know you can’t plan how you’re going to die, at least not for the most part.

But what can I say? I like knowing what to expect.

So yes, I’ve thought about it. My top choices, in order, are: dying peacefully in my sleep (for obvious reasons), freezing to death (I’m told that’s reasonably pleasant and not exceedingly painful), or something quick that I don’t see coming, like a meteor falling out of the sky and crushing me on impact.

I know enough not to share the rest of those thoughts with my traveling companion though.

It took me until I was about seventeen to figure that one out, but apparently most people don’t want to be friends with the weird guy who has a list of his top three preferred ways to die.

He doesn’t tease me though, he just nods in understanding and seems relieved by my promise not to jump.

“I’m Bird.” He offers me his hand.

I let go of the railing, then pause. It seems rude to shake his hand with my palm clammy and damp, with little flecks of rusted paint clinging to the creases in my fingers, and I’m not about to wipe all that off on my clothes either.

He chuckles after a second and drops his hand, stuffing it casually into his pocket.

“Yuri,” I give my name, still holding my hand awkwardly in front of me, palm up, not sure what to do with it.

“Cool name. You new to Palm Island or coming home?”

“New… and temporary, probably. Honestly, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.

I never do things like this. I don’t even take vacations because they stress me out so much, and now I’m moving to an island I’ve never been to with nothing but a duffel bag full of beach clothes and…

” I stop myself and laugh again, finally letting my hand drop to my side. “Sorry, I’m rambling.”

Bird doesn’t seem too put off by it, at least. He’s still got that understanding smile on his face, and with the wind blowing through his hair and his posture perfectly relaxed, it reminds me of exactly the way Cooper used to look at me when my mouth would run away with me.

Well, not exactly like Cooper, just the patient, amused part.

Bird doesn’t have any of the love or affection or lust in his eyes that Cooper always did, and I wouldn’t expect him to.

I wouldn’t want him to. I guess that’s why I’m still single eight years after I made the biggest mistake of my life and let him go.

It’s not like I haven’t dated at all since then, but it definitely hasn’t been anything to write home about.

Maybe that’s the real reason I applied for this job bartending at The Sand Bar, on a gay resort island I’ve never even been to.

Some part of me must be desperate to feel something exciting and passionate again with another person.

Jerking off to memories of my ex during the long dry spells between mediocre sex with guys I barely like just isn’t cutting it anymore.

I turn back towards the railing as Palm Island starts to grow in the distance.

If it’s everything it promises to be then it’s exactly the kind of place he would have loved.

He always used to joke that his true calling was to become a beach bum with a guitar in his lap and a lit joint constantly dangling from his lips, and it’s not hard to picture at all.

I let myself indulge in just a few minutes of wondering what happened to him, where he ended up, if he ever found a man who was worthy of him or if he’s still single too.

A familiar ache throbs in a little knot just under my sternum, a feeling of longing that’s been there since he kissed me goodbye and I got on a plane to Zurich almost a decade ago.

The ferry pulls slowly into the dock, and I drag in a slow, deep breath.

The salty ocean air mixes with the green scent of palms and a faint, charred smell of smoke, and the strangest sense that this isn’t home, but that it could be washes over me.

I know I can’t live in the past forever, even if it is filled with the warm glow of nostalgia and a love I never managed to let go of.

Maybe Palm Island can be my fresh start.

I’m not saying I’m going to find love here or that it really will become home, but learning to relax and live in the moment will be good for me, even if it’s just for a little while.

LYRIC

I don’t have a clue what time it is. Early, probably?

Or maybe not so much. I tilt my head back and squint at the sky, hoping the sun will give me an idea of whether it’s morning or afternoon by now.

Not that it matters all that much. Time isn’t real, but the ferry does seem pretty committed to a schedule and I think it comes today.

The sky doesn’t give me any clues about the time of day though. It’s too cloudy to tell.

I pat my pockets for my phone since that’s usually a surefire way to figure out the time.

All I find is a bag of warm gummy bears.

Score. I grab a handful and stuff them into my mouth.

There’s no way of knowing whether they’re the THC laced ones I made or if they’re regular, but I guess time will tell.

I’m already heading in the general direction of the dock, so I’ll just find out if I’m too late to see the ferry arrive the old fashioned way—by showing up and seeing if it’s there.

Oh hey, come to think of it, I’m pretty sure I told Hen and Goose I’d meet them by the dock to check out the new bartenders.

It’ll be cool if I get the timing right; if not, life goes on.

I’ll see the bartenders eventually and the world will keep on spinning.

A warm breeze ruffles my hair, and I lock in on a couple of seagulls overhead.

I’ve always loved that seagulls don’t work too hard.

No shade at the way other birds flap their wings like crazy to stay in the air, but seagulls seem like they have it figured out, just catching the wind and riding it, trusting the process.

They get it. That’s the thing about life—if you try too hard to go in a certain direction or control shit that can’t be controlled, like the wind, you just end up tired and frustrated.

The sand under my feet turns to something more solid and I blink, tearing my eyes away from the seagull and looking down to see that I’m standing on the wooden walkway of the marina now. Cool.

I don’t see Hen or Goose, but the ferry is only a little ways out, getting close to the pier.

I hop up to sit on the railing and swing my feet while I listen to the steady roar of the ocean and the occasional seagull screech.

I wish I had my guitar with me so I could create a harmony to the natural music, but I left it at home…

I think. Maybe I left it on the beach last night.

Eh, it’ll turn up. It always does. Maybe my phone is with it.

I reach into my pocket for another handful of gummy bears and stuff them all into my mouth at once. The ferry reaches the dock right as Hennessey, Goose, and Hennessey’s brother, Pete, show up.

“Was I early or are you guys really late?” I ask. Not that it matters, but it might help me get a general idea of the time.

“We’re late,” Goose says. I glance down and notice that he’s holding hands with Pete, so I guess they’re not hiding it from Hen anymore.

Were they hiding it? I’m not sure. I try not to say shit about other people’s relationships just to be safe.

Even safer when I can forget who I’ve seen kissing or who’s been sneaking out of whose window in the middle of the night.

There’s been a lot less of that lately though with everyone starting to pair off.

“I walked in on these two boning,” Hen explains.

I nod. “Cool.”

“We were not boning,” Pete says defensively, his whole face flushing a bright shade of red that makes me think he’s probably lying.

Hen rolls his eyes. “Sorry, I caught Goose bent over the counter with his pants down and Pete was about to spank him with a spatula.”

“Hen,” Pete squawks.

“Spatula is a good call.” I bob my head in a nod. “Wouldn’t recommend a wooden spoon though, unless you want to spend a couple days pulling splinters out of your ass.”

I wince at the memory. Hennessey laughs and heaves himself up to sit next to me on the railing while Pete and Goose find a good spot to lean, all of us turning our attention towards the boat as the ramp is rolled out.

“Anybody know anything about the new bartenders?” Hen asks.

“I think Boston said one of them is a Russian spy who’s undercover as a super model.”

“A Russian spy?” Hen quirks an eyebrow at me.

“Maybe he was telling you about a movie he watched?” Goose guesses.

I shrug. Maybe, who knows. A Russian spy could be fun though.

The first guy steps off the ferry—dark hair, burly build.

Not bad. He might be worth a roll in the sand if our paths cross on the right night.

Then my gaze wanders to the second guy and my heart stutters, my head swimming for a minute.

Wait, were those gummies laced with weed?

It would have to be a bad batch to explain the jittery feeling in my chest and the way my fingers are suddenly numb.

A bad batch of edibles would be a problem, but I don’t think it would explain what I’m seeing. That can’t be who I think it is… can it?

He’s far away still, yards, miles, I don’t know measurements and shit, but far enough that it’s possible I’m seeing things wrong. I’m not though. I don’t know why I’m so sure but I am. I can feel it.

That’s not a Russian supermodel or a spy… it’s Yuri.

“See something you like?” Hennessey asks in a teasing sing-song voice.

My lungs demand a deep breath, so I drag one in and blink to clear my vision, then look again. It’s still Yuri, my ex-boyfriend, getting off the ferry on Palm Island.

“You’ve just got a little drool,” Goose says, and I absently swipe the back of my hand across my chin.

What the hell is Yuri doing here? He hates the beach.

At least, he did eight years ago. He hates vacations too.

Well, not all vacations. He loved the time I saved up to book us a night at a motel out of town and bought a kiddie pool to fill with sand so we could sit with our feet in it and pretend we were on the beach.

He liked that “vacation.” He told me he did, anyway.

A smile tugs at my lips and my usual sense of calm returns, washing away the trembling feeling that gripped me just a second ago.

Why am I freaking out? It’s Yuri. We’ve been broken up for years, but it didn’t end on a bad note.

No, our relationship faded out like the strumming notes of a favorite old song, finding a natural ending when there was nowhere else for it to go.

Goose’s stomach growls and mine answers with an even louder rumble. We all laugh and I hop down from my perch.

“I need some food. Let’s go see if we can get Raven to make us some of those turkey and cranberry sandwiches,” Goose says.

“If he doesn’t have the cranberry bread, the scones work,” I tell him. Everyone laughs again, but I’m not sure why. I’m serious; a couple of scones with turkey and cheese melted between them is bomb.

We wander off the dock towards town, but for the first time in years, Yuri is lingering in the back of my mind.

Here, there, it doesn’t matter where Yuri is, it doesn’t change anything.

We’re nothing to each other now and we haven’t been in a long time.

Life moves on. I’m sure I’ll run into him while he’s here, but that’s it.

Eventually he’ll go back to his life winning Nobel prizes, and I’ll still be here with sand in my hair and my guitar… wherever the hell I left it.