Eliza #2
My brows slam together. “Well, duh, he’s an asshole. But I enabled him—”
“No.”
I stare at him. No?
“No, what?”
“No, you’re wrong. And no, I’m not gonna let you argue it with me.”
“I—”
He cuts me right off. “Boston, this conversation is just as ridiculous as the whole self-blame game you’re playing.”
“It isn’t a game. It’s reality. And playing victim won’t do me any favors moving forward, when I inevitably encounter more of his type.”
“So acknowledge the lessons you learned and bring them forward. But don’t absolve that piece of shit for what he did. And don’t let it beat you up. That kind of absurd thinking is shocking for someone with your GPA.” With that, he bends over to unlock the opening to the oyster basket between us.
I sputter on a come-back that won’t form. Grayson is being infuriatingly black-and-white. But he’s not the platitudes type, which means he’s also being honest, and that honesty feels a lot like the comfort I’ve been needing. Reassurance that I didn’t epically fail.
A thank you wants to tumble out, but I’m unsure if it should.
I never have to decide, either, because that is the exact moment a seagull swoops above and takes a giant shit on Grayson’s head.
His body freezes, hunched over the basket. My jaw pops open as the white blob dribbles from the crown of his baseball cap.
There’s…so much of it. I don’t think an ounce of the bird’s droppings missed.
Grayson’s giant, belabored sigh tells me he’s aware of what just happened.
And just in case he isn’t, the laughter that bursts from my chest makes it very, very clear.
I can’t help it. Completely uncontrollable giggles shake my body. The irony is Shakespearean. All the shitting he’s done on me, and now…
My fit only worsens when Grayson stiffly removes the hat from his head and observes the generous glob with utter disappointment.
“You think this is funny?” he asks slowly.
Trying to stifle my next string of laughter—and failing miserably—I shake my head.
He levels me with an annoyed look, sighs, and shakes the hat around in the water. It does nothing but make the fabric wet and encourage the droppings to spread further.
Another sigh. “Hilarious,” he mutters, sloshing it around again. The bill flicks when he forcibly pulls it out, sending a little splash of water toward me.
I jolt back a second too late. Grayson glances up at my jeans, splattered with water.
It was probably an innocent accident—a byproduct of his frustration and me standing a little too close.
But Grayson’s mouth hitches into a subtle smirk, and he says, without an ounce of apology, “Whoops.”
Whoops.
Whoops.
I take the only reasonable course of action.
Bending down, I scoop my hands into the water and send a wave cascading toward his face.
I couldn’t have aimed better if I tried. Water smacks his nose, sluicing over his hair.
Grayson doesn’t react right away. Just like when the bird imparted its gift, he freezes for a moment, eyes closed, like he’s processing whether this is reality. Whether I really just splashed his face like a five-year-old.
I guess…I did?
“You don’t know what you just started,” he states, straightening, amber eyes snapping up to mine. Danger, they scream. Get away.
“You’re the one who started it,” I defend weakly, taking a nervous step back.
“That was an accident.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
“Yes, it was.”
“No, it wasn’t. And besides, you’re wearing waterproo—"
I’m interrupted by a swoop of his arms. A wall of water slams into me, covering me from knee to chest.
For a moment, I stand there, shell-shocked. Then my chin tips down, and I take in the carnage.
He’s wearing waterproof waders up to his chest. I only got his face. But he just…he just soaked me.
And from the satisfied, humored grin spreading his cheeks, he’s freaking elated.
I drop all pretense, shove my hands in the water, and send him the best tsunami I can muster. It splatters unceremoniously against his waders, reminding me how sorry of a disadvantage I’m at without any gear.
Not that Grayson cares.
He lifts a brow. And that’s the last time the water between us stands still.
Like someone’s fired a starting pistol, we engage in an all-out splashing war. He soaks me with his stupid, giant hands as I fling water back at him. Rude. Splash. Overbearing. Splash. Jerk. Splash.
Salt stings my eyes, my arms aching as I try to wipe the shit-eating grin from his face. Except at some point, I start wearing a grin too.
I start laughing.
Because, I mean, this is ridiculous.
His next splash goes straight up my nose, and I sputter like an asthmatic pig. His assault pauses, and the rumble of his chuckle filters in above my gasping. Blinking water from eyes, I scoop low, come up with a pile of muddy sand, and chuck it at his face.
This one, he dodges. He comes back with a rigid finger pointed at me. “Now that was a dirty move.” His words are scolding, but his smile is amused, softening all the hard, rugged edges I’m used to.
His smile grows when he sees my eyes latch onto the giant mud-ball in his hand.
I falter.
These are my favorite jeans, and this Gold’s sweatshirt is new.
Water darkens his hair and spikes his eyelashes, making his irises glow brighter. Or maybe that’s the pure, vengeful glee lighting them up, because I am completely at his mercy, and we both know it.
“Apologize,” he demands.
“For what? You’re the one who started it.”
“Like I said, it was an accident.” When I remain silent, he cocks his hand back. Mud oozes between his fingers. “Admit I’m right and apologize, Boston.”
It doesn’t matter whether he’s right, because I’d rather spend hours scrubbing a stain out of my clothes than apologize to the guy who spent the last two weeks erecting a giant hill for me to climb.
Accepting my fate, I close my eyes and wait.
One second ticks by. Two, then three. Water laps gently and a soft breeze hums through the air.
Tentatively, I pop one eye open to find Grayson’s hand by his side, head shaking in exasperated wonder. Little droplets of water fling from his hair with each movement. “Jesus, you’re more stubborn than Anson.”
In this context, it sort of feels like a compliment.
“Are you going to do it?”
The Grayson I met two weeks ago would have already slung the muck at my face and taken a photo to hang like a trophy, then thrown darts at it all day.
But this Grayson just keeps shaking his head. “It’ll stain that sweatshirt, which means you’ll end up needing another one. And they’re supposed to be for paying customers, not freeloading employees.”
The sweatshirts are inexpensive to produce, and there are literally hundreds piled in the stockroom. Grayson’s too aware of the farm’s operations to not know this.
But he sticks to the weak excuse. Shaking the mud from his hand, he turns toward the boat, wet shirt glued to the muscles of his upper back and shoulders. “Come on. Before you get cold, Boston.”
I trudge behind him, tugging my useless, sopping sweatshirt over my head. The sun’s out, and the fabric was thick enough to save my black tee underneath from most of the water. Still, I can’t help but shiver a little in the sea breeze as I board the skiff.
“The bow,” Grayson says, as he shoves the boat off and jumps in with practiced ease. When I look over in question, he glances at my shirt, then my plastered-on jeans, a frown marring his scruffy mouth. “Sit on the floor at the bow. It’ll protect you from the wind.”
“The sun’s out. It isn’t bad.”
“Just sit at the bow.” His nostrils flare on an exhale. “Please.”
The sky must be falling, or I’m already hypothermic and hallucinating. Because there’s no way that six-letter word just came out of him.
But it did.
Just like his invitation to join today’s tour, despite the headache it caused. Just like his poorly worded conviction that I’m not at fault for my layoff.
So, for once, I don’t fight him, dutifully heading to the bow and hunkering down.
And he’s right. It does protect me.