Chapter Eight
T he “boat” turns out to be a four-hundred-foot yacht large enough to accommodate all of us, including WMC’s executives, who are here to “mingle.”
So far, the only mingling they’re doing is from the top deck perched over us like stone gargoyles. With their sunglasses shielding their faces, it’s hard to tell if they’re watching or actually sleeping. I’m caught between wanting to hunt down Diane to explain the scene she witnessed earlier and hoping that if I never bring it up, she’ll forget it ever happened. I’m a mess viewed from every angle, proven by the fact that I also can’t stop wondering about Rafe.
Lan and I lounge on one of a dozen deep white sofas that line the polished wooden decks, sipping on drinks and munching on canapes. When I see how much money WMC is spending on this, I realize I should definitely have held out for that raise. When I get home, I’ll go straight to David and demand it. Clearly, they can afford it.
Andy finds us shortly after the boat sets sail, accompanied by a man named Frank, also from Sacramento. They settle on either side of us, Andy on my left and Frank on Lan’s right.
Andy’s light brown hair is messy from the breeze, and he’s wearing a blue-and-white striped T-shirt along with a pair of navy shorts. He’s handsome in a nonthreatening way, and with him, I never want for smiles. He offers them freely, showering them on me like confetti as I luxuriate in the sunlit glow of a generously given grin.
As I sip my wine, I scan the deck, definitely not looking for Rafe. He probably stayed behind to chalk pentagrams on the floor of our suite and summon his closest friends from the ninth circle of hell.
“Having fun?” Andy asks. “How was your session this morning?”
My nose flares at the memory of Rafe and me firing verbal crossbows like mercenaries with nothing left to lose.
“It was fine,” I say, summoning a tight smile.
His eyes tilt over me in an obvious attempt to check me out, and my stomach dips. I feel good in my favorite swimsuit—the bright red material perfectly contrasts with my skin and hair. I don’t usually burn, but I’ve layered on sunscreen in a war against time and skin damage.
Andy’s friend Frank is chuckling about something with Lan, whose expression suggests she’s been dipped in acid. I scoot closer to rescue her from his unwanted attention.
“And I said we should implement a short skirt Friday in our office,” Frank says.
My lip curls as Lan and I stare at him, unblinking. Did he really just say that? Oblivious to our horror, he goes on snickering to himself.
“Maybe we should do that here,” he adds as if this is an idea worthy of the Nobel committee.
“Sure,” I say, giving him a bland smile. “You go first.”
His face crumples into a glare. “Ha. Ha.”
I roll my eyes. “Seriously, what is wrong with you?”
“Stop it, Frank,” Andy adds, perhaps a moment too late.
“I think I’ll go for a walk,” Lan says, pushing herself up.
I catch her hand. “Do you want me to come?”
“No, you stay here. Have fun.” She winks before turning to Frank and waving in a shooing motion. “You go away. Bother someone else and think before you open your big dumb mouth next time.”
Frank’s bottom lip droops into an undignified pout, but he does as he’s told, slinking off with his tail tucked into his shorts. Lan flips me a wave and bounds off through the crowd.
“Sorry about him,” Andy says, stretching his arms along the back of the sofa and crossing an ankle over his knee. “He’s harmless but isn’t house-trained yet.”
“Yeah, we have a few of those in our office, too,” I say, thinking of Rory. “Sometimes it’s amazing how numbed to all this bullshit you’re forced to become.”
“Not all men are like that. On behalf of the entire gender of male pigs, I apologize.”
He gives me a crooked smile, and I try to pretend he didn’t just “not all men” me.
Despite that, Andy’s smile is charming, and my stomach swoops again.
We chat for a while as the boat cuts over the water. It’s a perfect day with the sun high and the breeze tosses my hair. As we keep talking, Andy is definitely getting cuter. He moves closer, his hip brushing my thigh, and I lean into it.
This is nice. This is easy.
I’m conscious of the need to release my fears and stop letting the past define the potential of my future. If I don’t want to die alone, I have to get over myself.
But I can’t seem to settle into this. If I abandon my firmly established rules, then that person would need to be worth the risk. Does that person exist? Or maybe I’ll just stay single. I’ve heard enough stories to suggest many women are much happier that way.
“Do you want to go for a swim?” Andy asks. “They’re stopping the boat so people can get off and go snorkeling. It’s supposed to be spectacular down in this cove.”
I shake my head. “Oh, I don’t really swim, but I’ll come and watch.”
We both stand, and Andy grabs my hand as we head for the main deck. I allow him to tow me through the crowd, unsure of how I feel about this.
When we reach the bottom level, I peer over the railing, where about a dozen people float in the water, wearing snorkeling masks and basking in inflatable tubes, splashing one another.
“You sure?” Andy asks.
“Yeah, have fun.” He releases my hand and tugs off his shirt, tossing it onto a lounger. I surreptitiously check him out and can’t complain about what I see.
He runs to the end of the boat, tucking himself into a cannonball before he plunges off the edge.
Lan and Gabrielle wave up at me from the water, and I stand and watch the fun for a few minutes. Eventually, I wander back to my seat and dig out my phone. I fire off a series of texts.
First, to my dad to let him know how things are going (minus the fact that I’m sharing a room with my male coworker—I might be almost thirty, but certain things are just easier to keep to myself).
Then to Molly about my disastrous morning and the conversation I overheard with Rafe and Hannah.
Molly: I wonder what’s going on. Did you ask him?
Me: I can’t ask him that.
Molly: I think you should ask him.
Me: Don’t be crazy. He’ll rip my head off and eat it like a praying mantis. He’ll think I’m prying.
Molly: But you are. (And it’s the females who do that)
Me: I know, but not for the reasons he thinks.
Molly: … what reasons, Tris?
Me: Nothing. Never mind.
Molly:
I pause, studying our words. What do I mean by that?
Rafe would assume I’d be digging for gossip and something to lord over him. And maybe he’d be right if we were talking about the Tris of a week ago. But the one sitting here now…
A shadow falls over me, obliterating the sun and sending an inexplicable shiver down my spine.
“What’s so interesting?” Rafe asks.
My head snaps up, and I stuff my phone into my purse, my eyes narrowing in suspicion.
“You came,” I say.
“Why wouldn’t I?”
I shrug as he lowers himself onto the sofa. He’s close enough that our elbows touch, and that tiny, meaningless fragment of contact sends a heated wave of sensation straight to my toes.
In comparison, Andy’s touch feels almost clinical.
Stop. I shouldn’t be comparing them.
“You seemed pretty upset when I left. I thought you might like some time alone,” I answer.
Rafe gestures to one of the waitstaff and orders a beer while I order a glass of Prosecco. He exhales a loud sigh as he falls against the sofa, his long legs stretching out and his eyes closing. I enjoy a slow perusal, noting the way his black T-shirt has ridden up, exposing a tanned sliver of toned stomach. He’s wearing white shorts and leather flip-flops, and even his feet are nice.
“Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it?” I ask.
I am prying because I’m a giant snoop, but he looks so distraught that I have a weird, unfamiliar desire to ease his burden.
“You won’t care” is his reply, and I frown.
“Why would you say that?”
He peers over at me, raising an eyebrow in a way that hooks me right through my stomach. I shift, pressing my thighs together. His eyes drop to my bare legs as I attempt to put some distance between us. But he’s screwing with me because he shifts in the same direction, as if he, too, is just getting more comfortable. When all our maneuvering is said and done, we’re still touching, and I’m still much too aware of it.
“Do you care what happens in my life, Malik?”
I open and close my mouth. I care. I’ve cared all along, but I’ve done such a good job of ensuring I never admit that to myself.
He snorts and scans the horizon, his eyebrows drawing together.
“Hannah and I broke up,” he says.
The words flow in a rush, like a raging storm, as if he couldn’t wait to set them free. My breath stops as his shoulders lift like he’s just released a thousand-pound weight. Yes, we already suspected it, but hearing it confirmed shifts something on its axis.
I think about the early years we spent antagonizing each other. For a while, I even wondered if, in my attempts to keep Rafe at a distance, we had actually gone full circle and started flirting in a weird, competitive way that I kind of respected. I’d never have let it amount to anything, of course, but there was something layered in the silent corners of our charged encounters.
Then he started dating Hannah, and I realized that whatever attraction I’d imagined had been entirely one-sided all along. Talk about humbling. But that was fine because I wanted nothing from him or anyone. I worked very hard to convert that initial spark I refused to embrace into fire and loathing, and that’s the way I liked it.
But suddenly, every innocuous word and touch and look of the past two days takes on an entirely different meaning. I think? His arm around me the other night. Begging me not to leave with Andy. The way he keeps touching me.
It hasn’t been just the last few days, though—it’s been the last few months. Something shifted—something he initiated that forced me to notice him beyond our professional interactions. I’d erected an inflatable bouncy castle between us—crossable but not without some difficulty—but a firing line has just blown it full of holes, leaving it flattened on the ground.
Rafe is single. Rafe is no longer in a relationship.
Why does it feel like everything just changed?
He gives me a questioning look, and I realize it’s been several seconds, and I haven’t responded.
“Oh, I’m so sorry.”
Why does that sound so insincere?
“Then… why does she keep calling you?”
He cuts me a sharp look. “How do you know that?”
Oops. I press my lips together and wrinkle my nose.
“Sorry, the door to the balcony was open in the bedroom earlier, and I heard you say her name. I didn’t hear anything else, though, I swear.”
It’s at that moment our drinks arrive, and I accept mine, taking a big sip to cover my embarrassment.
He closes his eyes and tips his face to the sky. “Whatever. It hardly matters what anyone hears. It happened about six months ago.”
Six months.
More than enough time for the body to grow cold.
He peers over at me. “She keeps calling because she wants to get back together.”
“Oh” is the only thing I can come up with. Should I be more encouraging? Should I tell him he should work things out? I’m not his therapist, and I might not be a totally impartial bystander. “And you don’t?”
He throws me a wry look, and I wince. Stupid question.
“No, we’ve been—” He stops. Chews on the corner of his lip. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”
He lets out a deep breath and leans his elbows onto his thighs, the beer bottle clasped between his hands. He picks at the paper label as he watches the water. His knee is still touching me, and if I was cognizant of his presence before, the last thirty seconds have just shifted me into hyper-awareness.
Rafe is single. Rafe is available. Why does this matter?
I study his leg pressed against mine, and now this means something . I think.
“Okay,” I say, wondering if he also feels the weird tension stretching between us. “If you change your mind, I’m happy to listen.”
That wins me another sharp look as he seems to weigh my words in his head. But I mean them sincerely and not because I’m looking for a way to destroy him. He must see that in my face because his own expression softens. It’s not a smile, but this, too, is… something.
“Thanks,” he replies, returning his stare to the water, where dozens of people frolic, shouting and screaming in the waves.
He gestures to the water. “Why aren’t you down there?”
I pull a face. “I don’t like swimming.”
“What kind of person doesn’t like swimming?”
“This kind of person,” I say. “What difference does it make to you?”
I guess that’s it. One moment of quiet civility has already evaporated, and we’re back to our usual patterns.
“It’s strange,” he adds, and I narrow my eyes.
“You can be a real jerk, you know that, Gallagher?”
Something like shame flashes across his face, catching me off guard. That’s not how this works. We share our insults like jellybeans, never regretting their casual dispersion. There are always more where they came from. He’s not allowed to change the rules and feel guilty.
“That was great!” Andy interrupts, walking up to us and toweling off his wet hair. Lan and Gabrielle follow closely behind, hands clasped and smiling.
Rafe and Andy stare at each other like this is West Side Story , and they’re about to break out into a knife fight. Or a song. But probably a knife fight.
Andy drops into the space on my other side, his wet hip brushing against mine. I shift, disliking the feeling of the cold material against my skin. It puts me even closer to Rafe, who is warm and dry, and so many other things I don’t have the courage to name.
I give a pointed look to the mile of empty space on his other side, but Rafe doesn’t move.
“You gotta come in next time, Tris. I promise it’s awesome,” Andy says, drying his face.
“She doesn’t like swimming,” Rafe says, a thread of irritation in his voice.
I frown. Wasn’t he just making fun of me?
Andy’s scowl matches my own. “Okay, man. It was just a suggestion. Calm down.”
“Don’t tell me to calm down,” Rafe says.
I share a look with Gabrielle and Lan, who watch their exchange intently.
The ease of Andy’s disposition slides away, and I drop my head in my hands. He leans across me, and I’m forced to sit back.
“Dude, what is your problem? First, you scared her away from me yesterday, and now you’re acting like I’ve morally offended the lady’s honor because I suggested she go for a swim. Are you two a thing or something?”
“No!” I say, maybe a little too forcefully, and four sets of eyes find me, each weighing and judging with varying degrees of suspicion. I clear my throat, willing my voice to a normal volume. “No, I mean, we’re just colleagues. Rafe, stop being weird.”
But it’s too late, and they’re both standing, fists balled at their sides. I rub my face with my hands and groan. Why are men?
“Then what is your problem?” Andy asks, their chests just inches apart. Rafe is taller and bigger and there’s that rip-open-the-sky expression on his face I’m so familiar with. Andy stands his ground, but I can sense his understandable wobble of concern.
“Boys. What is going on here?” An icy voice slithers through the tension.
David Gallagher stands a few feet away, wearing a white short-sleeve button-up shirt and khaki shorts, his hand stuffed casually into a pocket like he’s just stepped from the page of a Burberry catalog. He’s the picture of old money and distinguished elegance.
He swirls the glass of whisky in his hand before taking a sip, his cold eyes never leaving his son. “Is this how a Gallagher behaves? I thought I raised you better than that.”
Immediately, Rafe’s entire demeanor transforms, and he retreats into himself. This is his defense mode, I realize. He did the same thing this afternoon when speaking with Hannah.
This is a vulnerable Rafe. This is a Rafe that makes my stomach twist in a foreign way.
Andy backs off, thunder clouding his expression.
David Gallagher sweeps an arrogant glance over both men, who’ve been reduced to scolded little boys. He swirls his glass again, the clink of ice barely audible over the din of the boat.
“Sorry, sir,” Rafe says, and Andy echoes the apology before throwing Rafe a scathing look and stalking off.
We all stare at one another, and I consider tossing myself overboard just to escape this awkwardness.
Then it’s Rafe’s turn to walk away.
I stare at his back until he disappears, and that’s the last I see of him for the rest of the night.