Chapter 17
Chapter seventeen
Yosh
Istab my fork into the stew a couple of times, then switch to the rice.
No. I don’t want that either. I don’t want to eat at all, but I have to. Otherwise it will look off.
I don’t want to look off.
Oh my God. how did we even get here? And now I can’t forget how good he’d felt on top of me. Daring me, his knee moving inbetween my legs. I hope he didn’t notice how hard I got. That would’ve been catastrophic.
This can’t happen. We can’t happen.
Is there even a we?
He’s one hundred percent straight, so it’s all in my head. It has to be.
Luckily, the resort’s generator kicked in just in time, or I would’ve made the biggest mistake of my professional career.
I take a bite of carrot, the crunch echoing in my ear.
Actually, no. Nothing beats the affair I had with a colleague, a senior surgeon, and a nurse who just happened to be his husband. They had no idea about each other.
Until they did.
And then the whole hospital escalated.
Scratch that, the entire Upper East Side escalated.
Tiffy was right. Deep Diver too. I’m the problem. I’m a walking red flag.
“Where’re you from?”
Tom’s voice pulls me out of my thoughts.
Wait. Is he talking to me? Yes, idiot. Who else?
“United States.”
“Nope. Doesn’t work like that. I need a bit more than that.”
“I…”
Shit. This isn’t the conversation I want to have.
I don’t talk about myself. Ever. It’s something I avoid at all costs. Do I give him a sliver of truth? Build a facade like I usually do?
Maybe it wouldn’t be so terrible to let someone see me for once. Even if that feels terrifying.
I want him to see me.
“I was born in Seattle, moved to San Francisco when I was seven. Lived in New York too.”
“Cool. Any siblings?”
I look down, scraping the last grains of rice onto my fork while I search for an answer I don’t want to give.
He grins.
“Damn. Are you in the fucking witness protection program, or what?”
Dimples appear in his cheeks, a mischievous glow settling over him. It’s hypnotic.
I get lost in it, then realize I still haven’t answered.
“Allright,” he says. “No questions about family. What can you give me?”
I set down my fork, folding my arms. I want to give him something. I really do. But it’s hard. Then again, I’ve always been my own worst enemy when it comes to this.
Let’s just do it.
“What do you want to know?”
Tom’s look changes; he wasn’t expecting this. I enjoy watching him glitch, even if only for a moment until he makes a smooth recovery.
“Fine, I’ll go easy on you,” he says with a grin. “What do you do in your free time?”
I crack my fingers.
“Morning runs along the shore. Swimming. Reading about science and spirituality.” I shrug. “Great combination, I know. And…eating.”
I laugh softly.
“Actually, I really love eating.”
He narrows his eyes. He’s about to say something but I cut in before he can.
“I try to eat clean, but I’ve got a weakness for pastries. Dairy-free, I’m lactose intolerant, which can be a challenge.”
Tom blinks and his mouth drops slightly. Obviously he didn’t expect me to be this straightforward.
The way he licks his lips tells me he’s recalibrating. Then he opens fire.
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-four. Same as you.”
“And how long have you been living on the island?”
“Almost four years.”
“Okay… what did you do before that?”
“I was a medic in the military.”
He scoffs.
“What!? You’re fucking joking me. No way. You’re lying.”
I give him a vague look and wait. It drives him a little insane, I can tell by the way he tries to keep his wild self in check.
I laugh. “I swear, Tom. I’m not lying.”
He tops up my glass like it will somehow get me to spill everything, his eyes stay locked on me the entire time.
“So tell me, what was it like?”
I sigh.
“Short. A year in, I was deployed to Afghanistan. A roadside bomb went off next to our convoy. I took shrapnel.”
The words come out so easily it scares me. I don’t know why I gave him this. This, of all things.
That day, I’d lost everything.
“You’re serious? Shit, I’m sorry, Yosh. I—” He clears his throat. “Are you okay now? I mean…”
“Yeah, yeah. Everything’s fine.” I wave it off. “It took a while to recover, but I’m fine now. I received a Purple Heart, got discharged. Everything is fine.”
I hear myself say it three times. A dead giveaway that nothing’s fine, and he knows it.
Before he can press further, I throw up a smokescreen, nodding toward a pile of notes on his nightstand.
“Have you been writing?”
He glances at the messy collection of papers, then back at me.
“Yeah. Lyrics, compositions. Just putting some raw inspiration on paper. It’s nothing.”
“I don’t believe that. Can I see?”
“No.”
That was abrupt. Is there some unspoken rule, like a magician never revealing his tricks or a chef guarding his recipes?
He must catch the wonder on my face because he grins, stands up, and sorts through the pile before pulling out a wad of paper.
“You know, I usually don’t share unfinished work. Bad luck.” He shrugs. “But fuck it. I’ll show you this draft I was about to throw away. I mean, it probably looks like a foreign language to you.”
I look at him, then at the crumpled paper he tosses onto the table.
I smooth out the wrinkles, and run my fingers over the notes.
It’s so easy for him to assume I can’t read sheet music, but the truth is, I can. This piece of paper he wants to throw away is a collection of complex notes, dynamics, articulations, tempo markings, and more—forming a masterpiece.
My eyes glide over the staves as I hum the melody in my mind. I want to tell him he can’t throw this away, that this composition is truly exceptional. But I don’t. Because I know for sure he won’t let go until I tell him where I learned, how I did, and what I play.
And I don’t want to go there. Not now. Not ever. So I play along, handing the paper back with a practiced smile.
“Looks complex. Maybe you should reconsider before throwing it away. Play it out loud, record and listen back. It might give you new insights.”
A grin spreads across his face as he snaps his fingers.
“See? You get it. That’s why I haven’t shredded it yet. I was supposed to go to Calvin’s this weekend to work on it in his studio, but he’s spinning at some EDM festival in Miami. I guess it’s another weekend in paradise jail for me.”
He sighs. I know I shouldn’t, but how on earth am I supposed to ignore those sad sapphire-blue puppy eyes?
I tap my fingers on the table, imagining all the worst-case scenarios in my head.
What I’m about to do is highly unconventional.
There are even rules for this. What if I just bend them a little?
No one needs to know. And if they do, I’ll come up with something.
“Want to catch some waves tomorrow?”
He flares up.
“As in…surfing? You surf? Of course you do.”
What the hell is that supposed to mean?
“Only if you feel like it.”
“Yeah, I would love that.”
His smile stretches wide, and I find myself counting freckles instead of dealing with what I’m feeling when he looks at me like that.
It warms places in me that usually stay cold.
Okay, Yosh. Let’s focus on the practical part.
I do think a change of scenery will help him, that part’s true, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t invite him for selfish reasons too.
He’s like a magnet. I want to spend time with him. And I wouldn’t be putting so much on the line if it didn’t mean something, right?
This feels different from Deep Diver and all the others. And maybe now that I felt his soft lips on my skin—which, on second thought, I know for sure I did—maybe he isn’t so straight after all.
There’s only one way to find out without breaking the ice beneath my feet.
Waiting. I’ll be patient and see how this plays out. I won’t initiate.
Outside, the storm seems to be settling down. That means the waves will be perfect tomorrow.
We do the dishes, and that done, I remove the bandages from Tom’s hands to check his wounds. They’re healing well, and I don’t think they will cause any trouble tomorrow.
Afterward, Tom leads me outside and I’m relieved to see the rain has stopped.
As I walk along the limestone gravel path leading to the pool terrace, I turn around one last time.
“Meet me at the front desk at nine. Bring your swimwear, a towel, and the water shoes you received at check-in. You’ll need them.”
He leans against the doorway, arms folded in a way that shows a mix of tease and arrogance.
“Nine o’clock. Got it, doc.”
As I turn to leave, I hear him clear his throat, making me look back once more.
“Yosh, you look good in my shirt.”
Then he coughs, twice. Fake.
“I’m sorry, I mean, my shirt looks good on you. Keep it.”
His eyes glint with something dangerous. He knows exactly what he’s doing.
A shiver creeps down my spine. I hold his stare just long enough to make it seem like I’m unaffected, then force the faintest smile onto my lips before turning away.
Don’t rush. Don’t give him the satisfaction.
One step, then another. Steady steps. Casual steady steps.
I round the corner and stumble against the wall.
My hand flies to my mouth, muffling the laugh and a helpless, squeaky gasp that tries to escape.
Tom McKenna makes me feel like a love-drunk teenager all over again, and this is bad. Really bad.