Liquids

Chapter 19

THE WATERLINE

One week later, I open the door on a breezy but bright May morning in my PJs, and Rig is standing on my doorstep, sunglasses hooked into the front of his T-shirt, revealing a triangle of fur on his chest above the pale-blue cotton. How I don’t throw myself on him, I don’t know.

He smiles. “Hey, babe.”

I shuffle backward, not meeting his eyes. “Hey, how’re you doing? You want a coffee?”

He lifts up a bag from the convenience store that’s dangling by his side. I didn’t spot it before because I was too distracted by the chest hair.

“Thought we might recap on old times and have a cooked breakfast.”

I purse my lips, trying not to smile. “Didn’t you fuck me on the countertop last time we did that?” I say.

He leans right in, eyes narrowed but so fucking amused, and he smells like cold blue waves and coal tar soap. I want to press my nose into him. “You up for that?” he growls.

My body screams at me to take what he’s offering, but I shake my head. “We agreed we weren’t doing that anymore.”

“Shame,” he says with a smile, walking past me and retrieving a pan from a kitchen cabinet. “Sex is always amazing when I’ve just come off a rig.”

Oh God, I remember, and I don’t want to remember.

“A bacon sandwich would be great for me. I’m just going to shower and …”

“No, you’re not.”

“What?”

“You’re not showering when I can hear it and imagine … stuff I don’t fucking need to be imagining … or remembering what we did in that shower.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

I grin at him. His eyes roam over my face, and he runs a heavy hand down his face. “Fuck.”

He turns around and starts ripping open a packet of bacon. He waves a hand behind him toward the bedroom. “Go and put a big fucking sweater on.”

So I scoot off, a wild thrill taking over my whole body at having him back in the apartment with his battered hands and his wide shoulders and his crazy untamed hair.

I stop when I get to the closet, smiling to myself.

Gah. I step forward, rummaging through my drawers for my favorite sweater, hugging it to my chest. God, I love him.

Oh shit! I love him.

I sink down on the bed, my smile fading.

Oh, no. No. No. No. Not a smart idea, Carl.

That wasn’t supposed to happen. My love for Mark was like a living thing.

I can still feel the gritty carpet beneath my shoulder, still see his booted foot coming toward me, Dray laughing in the background saying, “Kick the bitch harder, Mark.”

I can’t do this. I really can’t do this. My hands flutter to my knees.

Rig is whistling as he cooks, and I close my eyes, then open them again and focus on the sunlight seeping around the edge of the blind. He’s whistling ... “Shake It Off”? I would not have pegged him as a Swiftie. I pull my sweater over my head and walk back to the kitchen.

“Taylor Swift?”

“What, babe?” he says, turning to look at me, and he groans. “Not that sweater.”

I glance down at myself. “Why? What’s wrong with it?”

He steps toward me, glowering. “I fucked you in that once when you were wearing nothing underneath.”

I look down at the pale-blue wool. Oh, shit. Yeah.

I race back to the bedroom and find another one in the back of my drawer that I’m sure he’s never seen before, and head back to the kitchen.

“The song was on in the helo on the way from the rig to shore. Very catchy,” he says, swinging his hips and grinning at me.

“You’re in a good mood.”

“Happy to be home. Safe and sound. Not standing in a howling gale. Where’s this drawing you were doing when we FaceTimed?”

I’ve done loads of him since the first one, mostly from memory. The one I sketched that night is probably the worst. I bring the sketchpad through and show him the picture I drew while he was on the call with me.

“It’s good, babe. I like it.” He wipes his hands on a dish towel that’s stuck in his waistband and takes the pad from me. “Take over the cooking, yeah?”

He sits down at the kitchen table and starts leafing through the pictures. “These are fucking awesome. You could sell these, no question.”

“Especially this.” He holds up a drawing I did from memory: a view of him from behind as he walks into the shower. I’ve drawn it close up and half out of the frame, his butt and back muscles in sharp focus.

I laugh. “You don’t mind if I sell naked drawings of you?”

He waves a hand. “If you make money out of it, be my guest. You gotta get something good out of this troublemaker who keeps turning up at your door.” He winks at me.

“I did get something good out of it,” I say before I can stop myself.

“Amazing sex, right?” he says and then closes his eyes.

I put the bacon and egg on the bread and bring it all over to the table, sinking into the seat opposite him.

“You were good to me,” I say.

His eyes roam over my face. “I’d like to carry on being good to you,” he says in a rough voice, and my heart aches.

“I understand that Rig, but …”

“I didn’t love Sadie,” he says suddenly.

“What?”

“Convinced myself at the time: What we had was okay, and she did a lot of stuff for me. I was grateful, but looking back, I don’t think … That’s not what love is.” He stares at me. “It isn’t gratitude. It’s loving someone so much they make your chest ache.”

Oh, God, does he know? Does he know that I love him? I clear my throat as he lifts his chin.

“Did you feel like that about Mark?” he says.

I sink my teeth into my sandwich and chew, thinking as I swallow. “It’s all twisted up inside. I can’t believe I did because I was so angry. I’m still so angry, really. But perhaps I did. Ugh. Can’t go there.” I take another bite and a sip of coffee. “I loved Charlie, though.”

Rig nods. “I saw that in the photo. The way you were holding him …”

My throat tightens unbearably, and I stare out of the window. A triangle of blue sky is visible between the clouds. “Different kind of love,” I say through the knot in my throat.

He reaches over and squeezes my hand. “You want to talk about it?”

I shake my head. And somehow, asking him about what Agnes and Marge said when he’s right in front of me feels almost impossible. I like seeing him all happy and relaxed, and I don’t want to spoil it. But I clear my throat, nonetheless.

“A little bird told me that Sadie tried to trap you.” It sounds almost silly when I say it out loud.

He scowls. “Yeah.” He blows out a long breath. “Said she was pregnant. Don’t understand why she thought I wouldn’t find out about that lie eventually.”

I swallow. “When she came to visit me, she said you told every woman about the house on the beach and did all this stuff for them and … all the women you’ve been with get the same treatment …”

He’s scowling ferociously now. “That’s bullshit.

” He wipes his hands on the dish towel. “Her dad threw her out because she’s a train wreck and she did a ton of goddamn crazy shit, but that’s a whole other fucking story I’m not getting into.

But she had nowhere to go, and she tried to worm her way into my mom’s place, then my fuckin’ trailer, so I helped her get a lease on an apartment.

Big mistake. And, babe, she knows about my dream of a beach house because everyone knows about my fuckin’ beach house dream.

Dave fucking knows about it.” He runs his hands up his face and through his mop of hair.

“I knew she was playing me with that apartment, but she was stuck, or so she said. Now I look back on it a bit different. And the pregnancy thing? She faked a test. Pulled it out of her bag. Don’t know how she did it.

Didn’t know it was fake at the time, so I told her we should get married.

She was over the goddamn moon, and now she’s bitter as all fuck.

What did she think would happen when I found out the truth?

” He takes another huge bite of his sandwich and chews.

“And doing stuff for people? I fucking help people, babe.” He skewers me with a gaze. “That’s me. I do shit. I fix problems.”

Okay then.

Rig carries on chewing, watching my face, and he blows out a long breath. “I want to apologize, babe.”

“What?” Why is he apologizing now?

“I said some bullshit to you I really regret.”

“You’ve apologized for that. I know you weren’t looking for anything permanent. After Sadie, I’m not surprised.”

“No, I don’t mean that. I made other comments about you not expecting anything better, about being at the bottom of the heap, like you didn’t deserve more. I said you were fucked up.”

I laugh at this and sweep my hand around. “I am at the bottom of the heap, Rig. I live in a dump and I drink too much. You didn’t say anything I didn’t already know.” I make a face. “I’ve got a terrible relationship with alcohol.”

Rig frowns at me.

“I’m an alcoholic.” It’s the first time I’ve ever admitted that to anyone except myself, and I stare down at my sandwich.

But his chest moves in my peripheral vision, and when I look up at him, he’s got a strange expression on his face.

“I don’t know, babe. You drink a lot and maybe you rely on it too much, and that’s a problem.

But you went through something terrible and used alcohol to deal with it.

I wouldn’t say you have any of the classic symptoms of an alcoholic: You don’t hide it, and you stop drinking for days on end and are more or less okay.

But I’m not a doc and it’s clearly complicated.

At worst, I’d say you use it as a prop, as a coping thing.

” He scratches at the stubble on his jaw.

“You’re pretty disciplined, babe, even when I first met you. ”

“What?” He must be joking.

“You get up early and go to work every day. You look after people, day in, day out. You made a promise to your son not to draw or paint and didn’t do it, for ten fucking years …

I don’t think you’re fucked up. Not now.

I said those things before I knew you. I read you one way, and it wasn’t the right way.

I said you were a good woman, but I didn’t know you were a great woman. ”

This is how he sees me? “Have you been taking happy pills?”

He rubs his hands up and down his face. “Don’t do that, babe. You have this light inside you that touches everything and everyone around you. I didn’t see it until I got to know you better. You asked me why I was happy earlier; I was happy to see you. It’s a fuckin’ delight being with you.”

“Definitely happy pills.”

But something soft and warm is washing through me. I don’t think anyone has ever said anything so nice to me, or even said they enjoyed my company.

He sighs, and I hold up a hand. “I get it, okay? It’s nice you think like that about me.”

“Everyone thinks that about you.”

I think of the girls bitching about me in the bathroom.

“Well,” he amends, “apart from the assholes.”

He got that right.

“Did all the other women put you off? Did Sadie?” He adds, looking like this whole conversation is like pulling teeth for him. “I haven’t been interested in getting involved with anyone for a long time.”

“Rig. You’ve always been straight with me …”

“Answer the fucking question,” he growls, and I laugh and realize in his gruff way he’s trying to be good to me, and maybe get some answers.

“I guess.” How can I make him understand?

“But it’s not just the women. It’s that a guy could dispose of someone like that from one week to the next, without thinking twice about it.

How would I trust somebody like you? I’d forever be waiting to come home and find your bag half packed on the bed, like I did when you stayed with me … ” I swallow and stare out the window.

“Babe, that’s my job. I go away for weeks or a month at a time. And I was already committed to you then. I said I was coming back.”

He was committed? My chest wobbles.

“And I did come back,” he adds. “Even though, when you picked me up, you were looking for a one-night stand yourself.”

“I don’t think Amanda or Sadie were after one night.”

“No, they wanted someone to leech off.”

“Leech off?”

“Yeah, you’ve met them.” He takes a slug of coffee.

“Sadie said you had a ton of money saved up. That you didn’t need to save to buy a beach house.”

He guffaws. “She always thought I magically had a ton of money. She has no idea what it takes to run a farm and get it operating properly. I look after my ma, babe. Most of the money I earn goes into the farm.” He eyes me over his mug, the frown returning to his face.

“You looking for starlight and flowers?” he adds.

I laugh. “No, I’m not that unrealistic. But you said I was a down-and-out who drank too much, and though it was true, I think every woman wants a man to meet her and have an epiphany that she’s the one.

And I know that’s not realistic: You get together with someone and the best you can hope for is that you muddle along okay with them. ”

He squints at me. “That’s bullshit; you gotta know that.

The first thing you feel? That’s all animal attraction.

And, babe, you and me have got great animal attraction; you know we do.

But you think something long-term is built on that shit?

No way. I’ve been down that road too many times and got my fingers burned.

” He shakes his head and shifts forward.

“I want to be surprised. Meet someone I’m not expecting, both in bed and in the conversation afterward.

That’s what happened to me with you. You surprised me in a good way, and that’s the highest compliment I can pay a woman. ”

My lips part as I stare at him. What do I say to that?

He leans right over, and his eyes are inches from mine. “I didn’t want this to end, babe, and I understand why you did it, but it’s not over for me. I want more from you.”

He shovels the rest of his bacon sandwich into his mouth, swigs it down with coffee, and raps his knuckles on the table as he stands up. Then he ruffles my hair and heads out the door, whistling, before I can come up with a sensible reply.