Chapter 7
ARAVIND
I was pretty sure I was born to be a boat person. And not the WASPy, here’s my mini-yacht sort of person. That was gross.
No, there was just something profoundly soothing about being out in the open, still waters of the summer Atlantic.
It was a sort of blue-green, dark in spots under the occasional cloud, and barely a ripple from the ferry as we crossed from the mainland to the little island where my dad had decided to settle in his off time.
We’d had the beach house for years, and while we avoided it the first few summers after my mom died, eventually, he went back on his own to grieve her. And then I followed. Then a couple of his sisters dropped in to make sure we were feeding ourselves properly.
And when the aunties deemed we were not taking care of ourselves, they made sure to tell the rest of the family—both blood and community—and now we only ever had a week or two of peace before they descended.
This year, it was Soma, my dad’s cousin, and her best friend, Ankita. They were only a decade older than I was, but Soma liked to describe herself as a floral cat lady in training, and she was just slowly aging into being allowed to wear mumus or oversized salwar kameez.
Ankita was a little more wild and a little more fun.
She was my favorite auntie when I was a kid and my parents were attempting to control what they thought was me acting out.
She was also the person who was the most vocal in support of my parents’ marriage, considering they wanted my dad to marry someone Indian, and my mom’s family wanted her to marry someone, if not Pakistani, at least devout Muslim.
Which my father was not.
My mom rarely saw her family. They came for the funeral and kept apart from both me and my dad. At the time, I didn’t give much of a shit because the only thing that mattered was learning to live with the pain of being without her. And maybe trying to live a life that would make her proud.
But I started to become more grateful for family who loved me for me and who understood just how much my parents adored each other. The judgment was hard to swallow, but there was no point in fighting it. It would be like fighting the tide, and I didn’t have the time or the fucks to try.
Pressing my hands to the ferry railing, I stared down at the row of cars. I could see mine near the front—a strategic move on my part after getting to the dock almost three hours early and batting my eyelashes at the entry guard who didn’t know what to do with all the flirting besides wave me in.
And now I had three and a half hours before I could drive off to our little beach house and take an entire week to myself without people asking me left, right, and center to do them favors or give them attention.
I booked myself a private nook, splurging with some of the money my dad insisted I take, though I hadn’t done more than drop my bags off behind the curtain before coming out to look at the water.
There was a sense of peace out here, one that I hoped would follow me as I got to the cottage.
There were no articles to write, no problems to solve, no looking over my shoulder to make sure I wasn’t going to run into my ex, or a friend who wanted to go out until three am getting shit-faced, or some hockey player from the NHL who was trying to get in good with my dad.
Or some hockey player from the PPHL who was pissed at me because I ran my mouth and my typing fingers about Tiago like an ableist jackass and never tried to make it better.
But it wasn’t like I was going back to Boston. Maybe. Probably. I still had no idea where to go from here, and I wasn’t going to figure it out on a boat ride.
Taking a deep breath, I braced myself to let go of the railing when a tall, bulky body stepped up beside me, his elbow knocking into me.
“Whoa, what the fuck,” I started, then froze.
The man beside me was tall, broad, and wearing a long-sleeve Henley and jeans, which were cinched around his right leg with a big, heavy knee brace.
His eyes—the eyes I knew a little too well—were shaded by dark glasses, and he was holding a white cane in his hand.
Tiago held it up. “Sorry. I couldn’t see you.”
I was at a crossroads. I had no idea if he could see me enough to recognize me, but it was unlikely, considering he would not have been polite or apologized if he knew who I was. So, I could scamper away and use his blindness to my advantage and avoid him.
Or I could be the better person and make myself known.
God, who or what did I piss off for this to be my life? What was Tiago even doing here? And why now?
Tiago scoffed. “It’s not catching, you know. Blindness isn’t contagious.”
“I know that,” I snapped without thinking. “I’m not a moron.”
And, well, that would do it. He froze, and horror melted over his face as he shoved his glasses up into his hair, squinted against the sun, then turned his head at an angle before freezing.
“Esti de marde! Why are you here?”
“I didn’t realize I needed to check in with you, Mr. Warden, sir.”
His lips pressed into a thin line. “Cute.”
“Oh, honey, I’ve known I’m cute for decades. You can work on other, more unique compliments.”
Watching his cheeks flush was like watching a living painting. He could be the most basic bitch I had ever met—like a reformed frat boy who learned to be humble because life kicked him in the balls a few too many times.
But he was also gorgeous. Not my usual type, but there was something about a jaw that could cut glass that kind of did it for me. He also looked nothing like Leon while also not being too baby-faced, and that helped.
And it also didn’t help because the last thing I needed was to fantasize about climbing this man like a tree.
Tiago said nothing, then turned and let out a small sigh as he tapped the tip of his cane on the ground. I’d never seen him using it before. The few times he had it with him at the arena, he was holding it folded in his hand or in his back pocket.
It was almost like an accessory.
Or maybe a security blanket.
But he was gripping it tightly now, and there was uncertainty on his face that was making my guts squirm.
“Do you want help inside—”
“No,” he snapped, cutting me off. Then his jaw tightened so hard I could see a vein pulsing in his temple. After a beat, he let out a breath. “I’ll just sit on one of the chairs.”
They were all unoccupied because in spite of the breeze coming off the water, there wasn’t any cloud coverage, and it was hot as balls and as humid as Satan’s ass crack.
I gave him a slow look up and down. “Yeah, I don’t think so.”
His brows shot up, and he turned his head toward me. “Sorry?”
I almost laughed. Fuck, I loved the way Canadians said sorry. From his background, I knew he didn’t grow up in Canada the way Micah and Jonah had, but there were bits and pieces still in his accent.
Clearing my throat, I took a shuffling step closer to him, and when he didn’t react, I could tell he couldn’t see me. “So, you’re Canadian.”
“Uh. Okay? Get to the fucking point, Aravind.”
God, why did the one person who used my full name properly have to be this man?
“You’re not going to survive in this heat. You’re pasty, Tiago. You’ll crisp.”
He snorted, then swiped his cane out until it thudded against one of the Adirondack chairs. Spinning, he took a seat and made a surprised face as he sank all the way back, but then he settled and smirked up at me.
“I’ll be fine.”
I doubted he’d be fine. It was hot for me, and I spent half my childhood summers either running in the streets of Bangladesh or in fucking Vegas when my dad was playing there. But I wasn’t going to attempt to steal his pride.
No. I’d wait a little while, until he was willing and ready to hand it over, then I’d walk his stubborn ass inside and take him to one of the cushy recliners and get him a damn water.
“See you.” I hesitated for a moment, and then he cleared his throat.
“I know you’re still there.”
Flushing, I turned and hurried off, letting the heavy entryway door slam behind me. Unfortunately, the first table I grabbed had the perfect view of the back of his head as he sat on his chair and roasted.
I could see wisps of black locks blowing in the breeze and the way his ears were slowly starting to turn red. He probably didn’t remember sunblock either.
Jackass.
Pressing my face into my hands, I took a deep breath and told myself I would wait ten more minutes.
I lasted five, and it was only five because that was how long it took for me to get an icy bottle of water from the cooler and pay the woman at the register, who was probably born in 1919. She gave me change with shaking, paper-thin fingers, then waved me off like she was desperate to see me go.
Making my way across the floor, I tried to move my body in time with the way the ferry was swaying, and I made it outside in time to see Tiago tipping his head forward.
The poor bastard was sweating from his temples, rivers of moisture running down the back of his neck.
“You look thirsty.”
He let out a long string of French Canadian swears before turning his head. He’d taken his sunglasses off and was rubbing at his eyes. “Are you going to be this much of a pain in the ass for the entire trip?”
“If you’re going to sit out here and literally cook yourself to death,” I said, leaning against the chair next to him, “yeah, probably.” I went quiet another second. “I brought you water.”
He tilted his gaze up, and I knew then he could see me. I wasn’t sure how much, but I was suddenly, extremely self-conscious.
Which was ridiculous, of course. A- I knew I was pretty as fuck. And B- I didn’t care if he thought I was pretty. I didn’t want him to think of me in any type of way…
…did I?
Clearing my throat, I leaned forward and touched the back of his hand with the bottle. He jumped, but he turned his palm and grabbed it, twisting off the cap and taking down half before sitting back and swiping his hand over his mouth.