Eliza #2
I cover my face with my hands, wanting to die as my breaths saw in and out and the tears pour free. Grayson curses again, and the water around me shifts as he hops in and wades toward me.
No. No. No.
I want a whale to swallow me whole. For an underwater sinkhole to pull me down. For a waterspout to whisk me away. I cannot believe I’m doing this, but I can’t stop it, the stress and disappointment and—
“Hey. Hey. Are you hurt?” There’s no more amusement in his tone.
Two big hands land on my shoulders and carefully pat down my arms, which I’m holding awkwardly above the water to keep my phone and bandage dry.
When he doesn’t find anything, he moves to my face, his hands folding over mine and gently tugging. “Eliza? You swallow some water?”
Sniffling, I shake my head, giving him the answer he needs so he won’t remove my hands. My face is a giant, blotchy mess, and if he sees it, I won’t have a shred of dignity left.
He releases my hands, but his touch stays, fingers smoothing back over my hair, pulling the soaked strands away from my forehead. “Let’s head back to the dock.”
My body wants to melt into that low, soothing timbre. But I shake my head. “It’s f-fine. Y-you can finish up here. It’s just water.”
It’s not at all fine. I’m a pathetic disaster. But I can handle it, once my lungs stop spasming and my eyes stop leaking.
No one’s dead. No one’s threatening me. It’s just my fucking brain.
One of his hands settles softly on the side of my face, while his other skates down to my shoulder. “You’re out of your mind if you think we’re going to keep going.”
“Y-you told me l-last week that if I get wet—” a sniffle— “we’re not turning back until y-you’re done.”
“I meant splashed with water. Not you falling in on a cold morning.”
“You d-didn’t specify.”
His soft exhale mingles with the breeze. “Well, I am now.” He lets go of me, only to place a hand between my shoulders and nudge me forward. I go, dragging my hands across my cheeks as the tears begin to slow.
He leads me to the skiff and hovers behind me as I drag myself up.
The chill starts immediately, the breeze freezing every piece of wet fabric sticking to my skin, despite it basically being July.
I huddle in on myself, slinking to the bench seat and twisting away from him, out toward the water.
With any luck, the wind will ice out my tears.
“Take off the sweatshirt,” Grayson says, rounding on me.
My face is a swollen, puffy balloon as I shake my head. “It’s not bad. I’m used to swimming in this.”
Rustling fabric has me spinning around to see Grayson lifting his sweatshirt. Even in this state, I can’t help but notice how his biceps flex under his short-sleeve shirt as he peels the layer off.
Guess my hormones don’t feel as defeated as the rest of me.
He looks at me expectantly, the fabric bunched in his hands. “Put my sweatshirt on, Eliza.”
Eliza. Not Boston.
The three syllables rumble out of his chest in a way that makes me want to grab his sweatshirt—and shove it in my face and inhale.
Because you haven’t embarrassed yourself enough.
“Really, I’m fine,” I insist, grateful the tears have stopped.
Grayson doesn’t budge. “My ship, my rules.”
“Ship? This is a toy boat.”
His lips compress. “Eliza.”
That’s the third time he’s said it. I think I want a fourth. Just as much as I want to put on his warm sweatshirt.
My own sweatshirt feels like it weighs ten pounds as I lower the straps of my bibs and pull it off.
I reach for his, but Grayson’s already lowering it over my head.
Salt, detergent, and the warm notes of him surround me as my face pokes out of the soft fabric.
His hands linger as I thread my arms through, then he tugs the material down.
I don’t fight any of it, never mind that I look like a toddler who needs help putting on her PJs.
Or maybe you just look like a woman being cared for.
And Grayson…he’s good at the caring thing.
Good at knowing what I need before I do, and delivering it with confident hands and steady eyes. Almost as good as he is at raising my hackles and egging me on.
But he hasn’t done much of that lately.
Besides, does it count as “raising my hackles” if I enjoy it?
Grayson doesn’t say another word as he takes us back to the dock, pushing the pace. We wave to his team when we pass the sorting float and zoom by Amanda’s tour in the distance—a vision of styled bobs and lipstick.
All the while, shame sinks in, adding its name to the pile of this morning’s emotions.
When he ties off the skiff and cuts the engine, I say, “I wasn’t upset because of the water.”
That’s probably what it looked like. The prissy city girl fell in, got her hair wet, and threw a tantrum. But I need him to understand that isn’t me.
“Figured that, considering how much you swim.” Grayson leans casually against the steering console. “Do you want to talk about it?”
There’s no pressure in the question, and the last thing I want to do is linger on what just happened. But words tumble out anyway. “I had a bad weekend, followed by a bad morning. The fall just…put me over the edge.”
“Okay,” he says with simple acceptance. His eyes rove over my face, and I can only imagine the red marshmallow-y mess he’s seeing. “Why don’t you head home and get changed.”
A reasonable suggestion, except, “I don’t have any dry clothes.” When his forehead wrinkles in question, I explain, “I dropped all my clean laundry in the water this morning trying to bring it back to the boat.”
His lips twitch. “That does sound like an unfortunate morning.”
“I don’t cry over spilled laundry, Grayson,” I inform him, because that would be just as ridiculous as crying from an impromptu swim. “It was just one of several unfortunate events.”
“I know you don’t cry over spilled laundry.” He shrugs. “I didn’t even think you were crying at all. Thought some salt water flooded your retinas when you fell in.”
It doesn’t sound mocking. More earnest with a side of amusement, the way a friend tries to lighten the mood when your sky is falling down.
“Does that ever happen to you?”
“Nah. I know enough to close my eyes whenever I go face-first into the water.”
I’m surprised to feel my lips curl up, even if only a little. Another breeze washes in, slithering down my bibs and reminding me how sopping wet my leggings are.
As if he’s reminded, too, Grayson says, “Keep my sweatshirt for now, and take the rest of the day to do laundry and get sorted.”
I shake my head. “I’m not sick, and there’s stuff to do here. I’m working today.”
“Anything due tomorrow that you haven’t already done?”
“No, but I have some reports I need to send your brother for Wednesday, and content I need to shoot for the rest of the week.”
And if it isn’t early, it’s late. One of my parents’ mottos that has actually served me well over the years.
Grayson pivots easily. “Alright, then take an early lunch. Do your laundry, then come back this afternoon, and we can go out on the water then.”
“I don’t want to put you off-schedule.”
“You aren’t,” he argues. “That’s my new schedule.”
We both know that’s bullshit. He’d be going out of his way and moving his schedule to fit me in. But from his uncompromising expression, he’s not willing to budge.
And it makes things so much easier for me if he doesn’t—which he knows.
Finally, something other than disappointment, shame, or misery swells in my chest. It’s appreciation. Gratitude for this man who owes me nothing, who I’ve insulted more times than I can count, but who always seems to pick me up whenever I’ve face-planted.
Figuratively and literally.
Not once have I even had to ask. And not once has he shoved it back in my face, even when we’re dealing blows.
So I nod and accept, to which he smiles and says, “Now let me demonstrate how to step off a boat without falling in.”