Chapter 26
Good for Second Questions
Nathan saw it first because he had absolutely not been staring at the shared inbox and refreshing every thirty seconds like a man conducting important administrative business. Marissa was in the bathroom brushing her teeth when the notification appeared.
He did not open it.
That was the first victory.
"Marissa," he called, and his voice cracked on the third syllable.
She appeared in the doorway with a toothbrush in one hand and toothpaste foam at the corner of her mouth. "What?"
"He replied."
She froze.
Then she disappeared, spit, rinsed, and returned with exaggerated dignity. "I was very composed."
"You had foam on your face."
"Erotic suspense is not always glamorous."
They sat together on the couch before opening the email. Nathan placed the laptop between them. Marissa's knee touched his. He clicked.
They read silently.
Then they read it aloud.
The sentence that changed the air was the last one.
There is another inlet north of Saint's Mouth. Quieter. Less theatrical. Good for second questions.
Marissa leaned back slowly. "Oh."
"Yes," Nathan said.
"He writes like he talks."
"Annoyingly, yes."
"Good for second questions," she repeated.
Nathan closed the laptop halfway, then opened it again because closing it felt too much like panic. "What are our second questions?"
Marissa looked at the legal pad. "Do you want the honest list or the polite list?"
"We promised not to live on the polite list."
She nodded. "Do we want to see him again because it deepens us or because it lets us avoid something between us?"
"Good one."
"Can you desire me with him in the room without disappearing into comparison?"
Nathan flinched, then nodded. "Fair."
"Can I enjoy being desired by him without using your jealousy as proof that I'm valuable?"
That one quieted him.
"Marissa."
"It's honest," she said. "Not pretty."
"Still."
"And..." She looked away, then forced herself back. "If we keep going, is there a part of me that wants more than watching and kissing and dancing?"
The room seemed to hold its breath.
Nathan did not ask more what. He knew. The knowledge passed between them without needing detail.
His body reacted with a sharp combination of fear and heat. He hated that the heat did not wait for permission from his dignity.
"Is there?" he asked.
Marissa's cheeks colored. "A curious part. Not a decided part. Not a promise."
He nodded slowly. "Curiosity is not a crime."
"Does it hurt you?"
"Yes."
She reached for his hand. He took it.
"Does it make you want to stop?" she asked.
He did not answer quickly. That, too, was a victory.
He looked at the email again. Clear limits discussed before we leave the dock. No expectation beyond conversation, dinner aboard, and whatever all three of us name clearly in the moment.
"No," he said. "It makes me want very clear limits."
Her shoulders lowered with a breath.
"Your second questions?" she asked.
Nathan stared at the blank reply box and let himself say what he had not wanted to know about himself.
"Am I aroused by your desire because I trust you, or because I'm trying to turn fear into something I can control?"
Marissa squeezed his hand.
"Can I let another man want you without deciding that makes me less of a man?" he continued. "Can I admit that part of me wants him there because his presence makes me braver with you?"
Marissa's eyes filled.
"That was the part I hoped you would say," she whispered.
"Which part?"
"That it makes you braver with me."
He looked at her then, really looked. "It does. I hate needing a witness. But maybe I don't need him. Maybe I need what his presence forces me to stop avoiding."
"The difference matters."
"I know."
They sat with Dane's email between them. The second charter was no longer hypothetical. It had a suggested time, a location, a shape. Dinner aboard. Clear limits. A quieter inlet. Second questions.
Marissa reached for the legal pad and wrote those words beneath their signatures.
Second questions.
Then she drew three empty lines.
Nathan watched her.
"For what?" he asked.
"For the questions we each bring. One from you. One from me. One we ask him."
Nathan smiled despite the ache in his chest. "Your soul likes worksheets."
"My soul likes not imploding."
"Fair."
They chose not to reply that night. That was Marissa's suggestion, and Nathan loved her for making it before he had to ask.
Instead, they carried the laptop upstairs, left it closed on the dresser, and got into bed with the unsettled knowledge that invitation had become possibility again.
In the dark, Marissa turned toward him.
"Nathan?"
"Yes."
"I don't want to drift away from you."
He touched her face. "I know."
"But I do want to drift."
The confession was barely louder than breath.
Nathan pulled her closer, not to anchor her against her will, but to feel the tide move through both of them.
"Then we'll learn the currents," he said.