Savor It

Chapter 18. Sage

In a shocking turn of events, I am once again up before dawn. Today, however, I think it’s from excitement.

I cannot say the same for Fisher.

I’m sipping on my coffee when I see his silhouette making its way across the meadow, his wet suit dangling from his hand and his gait visibly sluggish. Sable’s nails tap-dance against the tile in the sunroom when she spots him, too. I open the side door before he has a chance to knock, and he blinks like I’ve shined a flashlight in his face.

“Why aren’t you dressed?” I mean to ask it softly, but in the quiet of the morning, my voice possesses all the subtlety of an air horn.

“Coffee?” is his only reply. I’m unsure if it’s meant as a question or as a prerequisite for interacting. Either way, I lead him into the kitchen and pull down a mug, passing it to him while I try to slip on a mask of patience. I hover at the counter when he drags himself to my table and sits in a chair facing me.

I keep quiet until I think he’s down to the dregs, and decide to gauge his mood by setting the stage for my own. “It’s so beautiful out there in the mornings,” I tell him, voice tight with exhilaration. “Everything looks like it’s letting off steam, like dragons are just starting to wake up, too, or something.” I sigh happily. “It’s nearly silent and completely peaceful, and the water is… well, the water’s like fucking ice needles, but it’s also genuinely refreshing. There are harbor seals all over where we’re headed today. Last time, I saw a pair of otters. It’s gonna be amazing, Fisher.”

He exhales a tired laugh and rakes both hands down his face before he grabs his empty mug and goes back to the coffeepot.

“Not much for chitchat this early, huh? Guessing that appetizer day was a fluke?” I sing. “That’s fine. I’ll wait. Another thing I’ll have to win you over on.”

He manages to maintain eye contact while he gulps down the entirety of his second cup. And it’s almost unfair, how even puffy and tired work on him. How even his moody morning face is handsome. The light circles under his eyes only serve to make him more real, more here. Present and in the flesh, in my kitchen, with my dog’s big head just below his ribs. Sable moons up at him as he scratches behind her ears, so much unfiltered adoration in her doggie expression it should probably embarrass us both. Her tongue lolls out the side of her mouth, and I suppress the urge to roll my eyes at her.

“What are you wearing under that?” he asks me, his sleep-hewn voice wiping chills across my skin in an instant. When he notes my perplexity, he lets out a drowsy growl and rubs at his eyes. “I mean, just a swimsuit?” he clarifies, lifting his bundle of neoprene in the air. “I didn’t know what I was supposed to wear under this.”

“Oh,” I say. “Yes. Just wear as little as possible.” And then, aggressively gesticulating with my arms, I add, “Like, so you’re comfortable, I mean.”

“Right,” he says.

“Right,” I chirp back.

Because miracles do exist, we manage to avoid any more awkward innuendo-laden exchanges and shuffle to the barn to collect the canoe once he’s changed. It’s cumbersome work, but we guide it down the trail with a few breaks.

“All right,” I begin when we’ve got it shored. “This is Connie.”

His forehead folds up in amusement. “The canoe?”

“Every vessel deserves a name,” I say. “Connie will be our official race canoe, so let’s treat her right.”

“Aye, Captain,” he says with irony, bringing the hot pirate comparison full circle. I swallow a nervous giggle.

The proximity to the water and the anticipation of finally getting to do this make my mind turn over into hyperfocus, so I launch into the instructions I’ve got mentally plotted. The sooner I can bring him up to speed, the sooner we can begin to seriously train.

“Today’s going to be all the basics,” I inform him. “Safety first, then where to put things, how to move, how to work with each other’s rhythm and strokes, et cetera.”

He gives me a long-suffering look before his shoulders lift in a helpless shrug. “Of course it is,” he mutters, fiddling with his life vest, the orange sunrise at his back.

“Here,” I say, reaching out and batting his hands away. I finish doing up my own vest before I reach for his, tugging down on the zipper where it’s snagged and pulling it back up in one fluid motion. When his body goes rigid under my knuckles, I try to make quick work of the clasps, too, but end up pinching the tip of my finger in my haste.

“Ouch.” I wince, slipping it into my mouth. Fisher’s throat bobs in the corner of my eye, but when I bring my gaze up to him, his darts away. Maybe his caffeine hasn’t kicked in yet, or maybe it has and that’s what’s got him so jittery.

In any case, I press onward, too excited to linger. “Let’s talk about the paddle first,” I say. Slipping into my teacher voice is unavoidable. “I’m sure you’ve heard it referred to as an oar as well, but this is technically a paddle. Oars are attached to a canoe and propel it in the opposite direction from where the rower is facing—like what you see them doing in crew. Our race allows single-blade paddles only, so we will both face forward and we’ll propel ourselves the same way. While the canoes themselves don’t have to be entirely wood anymore, in honor of tradition, the paddles do.”

I wait for his silent nod of confirmation before I continue, grabbing my paddle and holding it out between us.

“This handle here at the top is called the grip. You’ll always have one hand on your grip and the other here, on the shaft.”

His head falls back with a dark laugh, and he searches the sky. “Byrd, let’s just go, please,” he rasps. “I’m more of a hands-on learner, anyway.”

If he thinks his ire will faze me, he’s sorely mistaken. With three older brothers, I am well versed in being the source of annoyance and pushing on regardless.

I mentally set aside the rest of my lecture for now, though, and follow where he’s already stomping away. I definitely do not stare at his firm (surprisingly thick) thighs, or his equally taut ass in that wet suit. “Okay, that’s fine. I’m flexible,” I sing.

“I’m sure you are,” he grits.

We slide the rig in the water and get settled into our designated spots without any more tantrums or tipping it—and it’s off to the races, figuratively speaking.

I start babbling on about the various parts of the canoe and explain how I’ve arranged the seats to face one another for this particular lesson only. Today, I’m rowing from the stern, while he sits on the seat at the bow. He’s visibly prickling again about twenty minutes into my tutorial.

“We need to switch places or something,” he suddenly blurts out, just as I’m demonstrating how hard and how far from the throat one should grip the paddle. “I feel like I need a parasol sitting here being towed along like this,” he complains.

“A parasol?!” I sputter a laugh. “With that getup?!”

“You know what I mean,” he snips. “I should be paddling you—fuck. I mean I should be the one paddling this canoe!” he shouts. He buries his face in his hands.

“All right, all right,” I say. “Perfect timing for the flip lesson, anyway. First lesson is how to recover if we capsize.”

His hands fall away with notable exasperation. “I suppose you’re gonna say something about me flipping you now, aren’t you?” he growls.

I frown and straighten a degree at his tone. “Well, I mean, you can if you want? Or I can flip you, or I guess we could do it together?”

“Oh, I’ll do the flipping, Sage.”

“Wonderful! Ready whenever y—”

The shock of the water never fails to take me by surprise. My breath freezes in my lungs, the frigid ocean bites at the bare skin on my cheeks. The initial trickle that makes its way into the suit jolts through me, too, but warms soon after.

I break the surface on a laugh and search for Fisher, but don’t find him or his paddle floating alongside.

“Fisher?” I call out.

I hear a muffled knock from inside the overturned canoe and swim back toward it, scooping up my paddle on the way. Here in the estuary, the water is calm and probably only ten feet at its deepest. I push below the surface and under the gunwale of the canoe, and sure enough, I find him inside when I pop back up, his own paddle bobbing by his shoulder. He doesn’t look surprised that I discovered him.

“Hiding from me?” I ask, my voice reverberating through the hull around us.

He smiles and shakes his head. “Just knew you’d find me.”

His eyes dip to my mouth before they glance over the rest of my face in a way that would normally have me flustered but only makes awareness sizzle beneath my skin right now. My scalp burns hot in spite of the freezing water. Aside from the sounds of our breaths and the water gently lapping, the noise from the outside world is cut off here. It feels like its own pocket in the universe, like we can say what we want, do what we want, and we might be able to forget the rest of it. Forget all the noise—maybe even the internal clamor.

“I did find you,” I say, just barely above a whisper. I don’t say that I’m glad I found him that night he showed up here or that I’m glad he found me in the library that day, but something tells me he knows what I mean. We both can’t seem to stop finding one another.

The damp makes the ends of his hair curl against his neck, his wet eyelashes like spikes around his dark eyes. My body’s drifted closer to him without me being cognizant of it. When his gaze drops once more to my lips, I lick at a drop of salty water there.

“Sage,” he whispers forcibly, eyes stuck on the same spot. Every tiny sound echoes in the enclosed space—my breath as it picks up tempo, the hitch when he swallows. The sucking thump of water against wood batters in time with my pulse. My life vest bumps up into his, and one of his big palms grasps at my hip beneath the surface, thumb pressing the soft spot just inside the jut of my bone. All my warmth becomes concentrated there, and the small disturbances of our movements send ripples crashing against the boat faster.

It’s like the library all over again, where the safety I feel with him is somehow dangerous—impossibly tempting. The difference is there’s nothing to excuse it this time, no one but us here now. I’m not comforting him, and I don’t need some arbitrary win.

I just want. All I am is want. There are thoughts trying to rise in my mind, words I should say and—and I know I’ll need to reflect later, but maybe I can actually take my own advice and live fully in the present. He wants, too. I can see it in that irresistible color high on his cheeks and in his expanding pupils. Can feel it in the way his treading rhythm gets unsteady and breaks. Maybe I could do something like this, I think. Maybe I can have a casual fling. We’re already doing so much together as it is. Already on our own team in this arrangement, and maybe this could just be an added perk.

An added perk and nothing more, because it can’t be anything more.

The moment I realize my internal noise is gaining volume, it’s as if the want becomes a living thing, screaming above it. I press myself in closer, our noses brushing, and we both inhale sharply at the touch—or maybe it was just me and my echo. I breathe him in for one more beat, waiting for a loud enough reason not to or for him to turn me away. Instead, his air lands warm on my cheek and his hand clutches firmer on my hip, and I decide to drown out the rest of it, tipping my mouth to his.

He hums from the back of his throat—that same noise he makes when something is delicious—and wraps both my legs around his hips, sending the water sloshing in a frenzy around us.

“Put your arms around my neck,” he tells me, reaching out to grip the edges of the canoe so he can keep us afloat.

I comply, caught in some sort of trance that has me dipping forward to flick my tongue into his dimple and run my teeth along his jaw. Somehow I know that from now on, the tang of him and salt water will be what I think of when I imagine summer’s taste.

A whimper unspools out of me when he runs his lips back and forth along my neck, the cold water tickling me from his hair and his stubble scraping the sensitive skin.

“Fuck,” he whispers below my ear. “So sweet, Sage.”

I turn, and he captures my mouth again with his, nipping gently at my lips like he’s savoring me. My hips roll of their own accord, needy and seeking, and I suck in a small gasp when his thrust up to meet them. I use my heels to crush myself closer, rubbing at the hard ridge of him trapped between us.

This is impossible—insane. This can’t go anywhere like this. My impatient mind starts sprinting full force toward any plausible scenario where we can peel ourselves out of these suits and get to each other, and consequently stumbles on all the awkward logistics.

Something knocks hard and sudden against the top of my head, bright starbursts behind my eyelids. “Ow,” I hiss. My fingers jam against the hard surface above me when I lean back to see.

Oh, fuck.I push off Fisher like I’m on fire and scramble around for my paddle in a panic. “The seal!” I quickly shout at him.

“A SEAL?! WHERE?” he roars, kicking up and slamming his head against one of the carrying yokes.

I’m sure I’ll find that funny later, but right now, my heart is racing in my throat. “No—no, not a seal!” I yell. “I mean we have to break the seal and get this turned over before the canoe settles too deep under the water and we have to abandon it. We need to get out, and then I need you to use your paddle to try to get it wedged under this side, NOW.”

He complies at once, and we both dart under the water and head toward the stern. When I emerge, it’s already more swamped than I’ve ever had to recover it from before, but I refuse to admit defeat quite yet. We’re not at risk for hypothermia, and we’re both strong.

“Okay, once we break the seal, we’ve got to get this end lifted up and roll it to the side,” I explain. “There’s a bag hooked onto the seat at the bow. I’ll need you to unhook that and start scooping out as much of the water as you can before we turn it all the way.”

He nods and gets to work.

Between the two of us, we manage to break the suction and grunt our way through lifting one end. He hauls ass as soon as we maneuver it onto its side, grabbing the dry bag and rapidly scooping water out of the hull. I keep it steady with one hand and use my other arm to help fling it out, too. We’re both wheezing and breathless by the time it’s in an okay state to climb back in.

“Hang on,” I gasp. “Need to catch my breath, and then—” I cough. “And then I’ll show you how to get back in.”

His breath saws in and out of him at my side. “You all right?” he asks, brow furrowed in concern.

I meet his gaze but quickly blink away. I need to not think about what we were just doing or we’ll be stuck here even longer while I try to regain my equilibrium.

“Yeah, I’m good,” I say, feigning composure and grinning stiffly. “You good?”

“Yeah, I’m good,” he repeats.

I show him how to pull himself up and tuck himself to the side as he gets in, not going to his knees since that would just make the canoe slip out from under him and send him right over the opposite side. When he’s succeeded and stable, I reach up and let him help me in after. This time, I make sure he’s set up at the bow, and I flip my seat forward at the stern to avoid being face-to-face. I toss him vague instructions over my shoulder, telling him to watch how I row and to try and mimic it as we make our way back home.

The disquiet comes howling back out here in the open, outside of the safety of our little inverted world. My strokes pick up speed alongside the anxiousness of my thoughts. What do I want from him? More importantly, what could I possibly expect from him? Other than his friendship and partnership this summer. I’m not so obtuse that I don’t recognize that we’re attracted to one another. But I’m also unable to lie to myself, and the truth of the matter is I’ve never once had a fling. I have never operated this way, and I don’t know if I’m capable. I stab my paddle clumsily into the water at the thought.

Silly, soft, too-nice Sage. Why shouldn’t I be able to just enjoy myself? To take something I want for what it is and have a hot summer full of healthy sex and fun?

If he’s open to it, too, that is.

That’s the only capacity I could let someone like Fisher in. Eventually, people like him always get bored with people like me. He’ll flee at the end of August and sprint right back to his reality. Because that’s what he once called this summer, isn’t it? A detour from his life.

Maybe I’d like a detour of my own. The trick would be keeping those boundary lines firm, keeping things surface level. For how open we’ve already been with one another, pulling back on that might be difficult.

God, this is infuriating. The first new friend I’ve made in years, someone who is helping me finally do something I’ve wanted for me—and I had to go and have a devastating crush on him.

We paddle the rest of the way home in silence, this stupid suit and the twisting in my gut pulling tighter by the second. I practically leap out of the canoe when we finally make it back to our little half-moon strip of beach.

“We don’t need to carry it back up the trail,” I say, reaching in to grab one of the yokes and dragging it onto shore. I don’t meet his eyes.

“Sage,” he says.

“I’ve got a blind over there I store it behind. No one else comes here, so it’s safe.”

“Sage,” he says again.

I close my eyes and summon my courage before I finally look at him. My mouth judders open when I find that he’s peeled down the top half of his wet suit.

“Sorry,” he says, bare-chested and glistening. “I was overheating, and it felt too tight,” he explains, quickly adding, “We need to talk about that kiss, don’t we?”

I look up at the sky to avoid staring at the chest. The smattering of hair dusting across his pecs and the junction down his abdomen. “It’s all right, Fisher. We don’t,” I say. “It was probably a bad idea.”

“It was definitely a bad idea,” he agrees, and my eyes snap back down to his.

“Right,” I agree angrily. “But out of curiosity, just so I know… why, exactly, do you think it’s a bad idea?”

He rubs at the back of his neck, biceps bunching firm. “Because, Sage. I’m a fucking mess,” he says.

Damn him for that. For shifting the onus on himself instead of making this easy and saying something along the lines of, Because, you sweet summer bumpkin, I know you’ll catch feelings, and I’m still a decent guy that doesn’t want you hurt.

“We’re all a mess, Fisher,” I reply. “But look—it’s fine, really. You don’t need to worry about me getting this”—I point back and forth between us—“mixed up again, okay? We’re friends. I just got caught up in the moment. Small-town girl with stars in my eyes and whatnot.”

“Don’t do that,” he says harshly. “‘Can’t let it get to you if you own it first,’ right? That’s what you said to me the other day.” His expression softens. “As your friend, I don’t like when you try to make yourself seem small. And I’m sorry I ever belittled you before, I was wrong.” He huffs out a frustrated sound. “I don’t know how to defend you from yourself, though, Sage.”

I search his face in stunned silence, and he closes in on some of the distance between us. “I’m a mess because I’m fucking untethered. I’ve spent too much time white-knuckling my way through shit, and now I’m trying to figure out why. I’m questioning my career—something I no longer have, Sage. I should get that straight and make that clear. I was fired. I’m questioning many of my life choices, too, and to add pressure on top of everything, I’ve got a fifteen-year-old kid depending on me who I’ve already failed tremendously.”

“Fisher—”

“I’m sorry, but I’ve gotta get this all out and lay my cards on the table before I lose the nerve again, okay?” he says, his mouth bracketed in pain. When I nod, he continues. “I’m her godfather, too. I was officially appointed to that role and everything. I was in a rush to get off the phone with my sister the day she called and asked. And it’s not like I even remember why I was in a hurry, but I do remember every word she said to me during that conversation. And you know what I did when the time came and I was supposed to step up?” Emotion hardens itself across his features. “I fucking abandoned Indy.” The break in his voice has me desperate to reach for him again. “My parents offered to step in, and I just let them. And not because I was struggling with something like addiction or because I couldn’t carry the financial burden. It was all because I didn’t know how I’d make it work with the career I was half out of love with, anyway. Because I didn’t feel like I knew what I was doing and I was still gripping my life so tight that I was terrified of anything else that was out of my control. And guess what? None of those things have changed for me. I’m just finally facing the truth of them and trying, I guess. This is me trying, and I’m still this much of a mess.” His eyes dart back and forth between mine. “Sometimes I get so lost in my head that I have to remember to breathe, Sage. I… Until I started spending time with you, it was like I forgot how to just be present.” He lets out the saddest laugh. “But I think you make it hard to be anywhere else.” I’m openly gaping at him, I’m sure, but he keeps going.

“So, it’s not that it’s a bad idea for us to become friends,” he says. “I’m happy we’ve got each other, and I’m glad we’re doing this. Criminally early mornings and all.” A muscle ripples up his jaw, and he blows out a long breath through his nose. “And I won’t lie, Sage. I want you. More than I should, I think, but it feels good to want.” A look of raw longing drifts across his face. “I just don’t know what I’ve got to offer beyond whatever we are to each other for a few months. Friends, teammates. Friends with benefits, for lack of a better term. And I’m so tired of letting people down, Sage—myself included.” His eyes flick to my mouth and back up just as quickly. “I promise I wouldn’t let you down in some ways.” He smirks, and I bite the inside of my cheek to stop the butterflies trying to flutter up from my chest. His expression sobers. “I know I’d let you down if I led you on, though.”

He’s essentially confirmed what I already knew, but hearing him explain it, realizing he’s just as unsure… it sounds like he’s also as much at risk of getting hurt.

It’s no wonder we keep finding each other. I’m learning that it’s okay for me to want more for myself, to want the new and the unknown, and he’s trying to learn how to hold on to less. How to let go. How to quit trying to hold on to control, to let go of regrets and shame.

“I think,” I say. “I think that maybe we make ourselves wait. Just to make sure it’s not a fluke thing brought on by the romantic setting.” Because no matter what, it’s bound to make things awkward the hypothetical morning after, if we take this step. We’ve got nearly a whole summer left to get through. I need to leave the romance at the door.

He fails to stop a grin. “I’ve always said that nothing screams romance like being submerged in the icy Pacific before seven A.M.,” he says.

I snort. “That’s an oddly specific motto.”

He steps closer. “I don’t think it was a fluke. Know why?” he asks.

“Why?”

“Because that was also at least a half hour ago now,” he says, taking a dangerous step closer, so close the temperature changes at my front. “And I’m still hard for you.”

Hunger sweeps low and licks back up my spine in a loop. I glance down to check if he’s telling the truth, but the half-draped wet suit blocks my view where he’s holding it. And he tips my chin back up to his face, anyway.

“You can talk that long and stay hard?!” I dumbly ask.

“Sweetheart, I’m finding when it comes to you, I don’t know what I’m capable of, but I’m happy to test those limits.” He breathes into a smile. “I’ll follow your lead. And our deal stands no matter what you decide.”

I try to swallow, though my throat feels bone-dry. “Okay,” I tremulously agree before I spin and yank myself away.