The Rabbit
He takes her to a fort. A fort, for f*ck’s sake. Why can’t they just do something normal, like another restaurant or a beach?
There must be plenty of nice flat sandy stretches around Portsmouth, NH. But noooooo. This is William we’re talking about
here. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. This is a man who does polar bear plunges. And snowshoes and cross-country skis
and does Ironman triathlons, or used to, for fun. Of course he’s going to take Sam Vetiver to some abandoned rock pile hanging
over an ocean, only inches between them and empty air, only empty air between them and the slippery jagged rocks below.
Which I happen to know are extremely dangerous because I am currently inching over them like a sea snail, the right side of my body squashed against the base of the fort.
This is so much worse than the rocks along William’s causeway, where the worst thing that could happen is falling into a cold lake.
I am so not cut out for this kind of surveillance.
Did I mention I am a bookseller? My exercise comes from unloading books onto shelves.
Which is not nothing, but it’s not this.
For one thing, it’s safely indoors, whereas here spume sprays up into my face, and seaweed washes over and between the rocks I’m navigating like dead women’s hair, a reminder of what will happen should I lose my footing and fall.
Thanks, Mother Nature. I needed that. Nor are my sneakers optimal for navigating slimy boulders at high tide—when I go to William’s, I wear my Goodwill hiking boots, which have much better gription.
I did not expect this athletic bullsh*t today.
With each wave that crashes against the wall, with every placement of my feet, I close my eyes for a second and pray.
Physical hazards aside, it’s also extra risky for me to be here because I was already spotted once today. I’m not exactly
on game. If William did get photos of me at the Marriott and then he catches me here, that’s grounds for harassment at least.
I think. Which might carry stiffer penalties than stalking. So it was a little foolhardy to follow them in his car, to tail
them through the parking lot. And then, when I realized William was taking Sam Vetiver to the fort over the ocean like he
was acting out the I’m King of the World! scene in Titanic, to climb over these f*cking rocks so I can station myself beneath them and hear what they’re saying and doing.
Which I can’t, really. The crash and gurgle and suck of water prevents me from hearing anything but snatches of their conversation,
drifting down to me. But it will have to be enough. I already screwed up once today, because I was sloppy. Now I have to be
sure. What if Sam Vetiver is chasing William? What if the interest is only on her side? What if they just did some smooching
in a café booth but he sees her mostly as a new literary pal and nothing more? Unlikely, but it could be the case.
I have to know. I have to ascertain whether it’s reciprocal. Whether Sam Vetiver really is William’s next love interest. The
new chosen one.
I have to be 100 percent before I level up.
I flatten myself against the wall, feet wedged into a crack between rocks and palms uselessly pressing wet stone, and listen
with all my might.
“—rabbit,” I hear William say, and I cringe. Yes, I know he calls me this. Has he seen me? My foot, my shadow? For a terrible
second I’m overcome with vertigo, and I fear I might pitch forward and fall into the sea.
Then I hear Sam Vetiver say something in an interrogatory tone, and the deeper timbre of William’s voice as he answers. I
hear him laughing and know I’m safe. For now. I force myself to look at the horizon and breathe through my mouth, the way
you do when you’re seasick.
“—ugly women,” I hear as the wind carries his voice down, and I know he’s still talking about me. I squeeze my eyes shut.
“But you . . . Simone . . .”
Simone? Who the f*ck is Simone? Either they’re discussing Nina Simone, the jazz singer, who is one of William’s favorites, or it’s Sam Vetiver’s real name. I remind myself to check online. I can’t afford more than $10 on but it gets you a decent amount of information.
Then I hear noises that are not ocean, or gulls crying, or anything other than unmistakably what they are. William is putting
the moan in Simone. I don’t know how he is managing to balance on that walkway while he’s making that woman make those sounds,
with his bad knee yet, but he’s the athlete, not me. Well. At least now I know.
Now I’m sure.
Now there’s zero doubt about the nature of their involvement.
Now I know what I have to do.
While they are occupied, I start to slip away. Either it’s easier going back or I’ve gained some confidence from knowing William
and Sam Vetiver are too busy to see me. Once I’ve climbed up to level ground, I peek around the corner of the fort and see
exactly what he’s doing to her. It doesn’t look 100 percent safe for him to be kneeling on the ledge that way as she pushes
herself into his face with her pants around her ankles, but it explains why I heard only her, not him.
On the way back to my car, although I’ve eaten only that half a granola bar today, I detour and throw up in a National Parks
trash can.