jog.
17
Alex rarely took his shirt off in public, aware most folks didn’t need to see his hairy, pasty, man boobs. But here the sun begged him to drink it in. His skin still tingled from the residue of Jemma’s touch. Every follicle of hair seemed to ache. The warm water helped.
Jemma sat on the beach, a black-clothed sulking ball. They’d spent the previous day going from boatman to boatman, asking for a ride to the island. Each man looked longingly at the wad of cash Alex offered and said no. Alex called Karen in the evening, and she coolly told him they sometimes take a day to fish for their families.
The barking motor of the Baby Roxanne shattered his enjoyment of the afternoon. Alex paddled in toward the shore. Jemma looked up, away from her book.
Mr. Lucky helped Terry into the knee-deep water, and he waded ashore.
Alex splashed over.
“Have you heard anything from the police?” he asked, then paused. Terry’s face was the color of cottage cheese. Red splotches stood out on his cheeks and the tip of his nose. His eyes were gray and watery.
“No.”
He gazed past Alex, at Jemma. Fixated on her for a moment. Then he moved away from Alex, and headed to shore.
“Why are you upset?” Alex asked.
“Please, I’m in a hurry.”
“I’ll walk with you. What’s up? Something upset you. Were you on the island?”
Terry stopped, wheeled around, and spat at Alex. “Please, leave me alone. This has been a most horrid day.” He wheeled around and resumed his splashing stride toward the resort.
“Does this have to do with your wife?”
Terry wheeled again. “If you ask me another question, you and your friend will find yourselves out on the street. Do you understand me?”
That sounded like a yes. Alex waved to Jemma. He needed her help.
Terry stormed past her, up to the bar.
“You have to touch him,” Alex said.
She stared at him for a moment.
“You must still be feeling pretty good from yesterday—”
“Fine. What do you hope to learn?”
“I don’t know.”
“Will I hurt him?”
“No. He’s a mess. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think it would help.”
Tears welled in Jemma’s eyes. She wiped them away with the back of her gloved hand.
“You’re sure?”
He was never sure. Could never be sure.
“I’m sure,” he said.
She nodded, and started up the stairs. She peeled her gloves off as she went, and handed them to him, one by one, and dropped them into his hands, careful not to let her pale skin touch his again.
Terry picked up a bottle of rum from the bar. His eyes were red.
“Not now. I can’t right now.”
Jemma turned to Alex. There wasn’t anyone else up here. Alex nodded to her.
He knew their skin brushing together could do it, but Jemma placed one hand on each of Terry’s cheeks. Both of their eyes widened, Jemma’s head flew back, and she began to moan, a lonely, agonized sound.
18
For a moment, Jemma felt her skin against Terry’s. Touch. Skin. Another human. Twice in three days. A new record.
Then pain racked her. Tore through her, lighting every nerve on fire. She took his pain as it slammed though her, touched all of her, wave after wave of blinding white agony. She knew what it felt like to be a piece of driftwood, slammed against the rocks. Intellectually she knew she could handle this. She’d not often touched people who hurt worse than she did. Usually she hurt them, like she had Alex. But sometimes it went this way.
She let go when she slumped to the floor. But she’d seen it all—Terry’s marriage, his wife’s cancer, and the bargain he’d made. She saw his guilt every day, and his questions about what to do.
Terry extended a hand to help her up.
“Don’t help her,” Alex said. Red tinged everything…a burst blood vessel in her eye?
“Her nose is bleeding,” Terry said. “What did she do?”
“She took your pain.”
“I know…I feel…lighter.”
“I need to get
17
Alex rarely took his shirt off in public, aware most folks didn’t need to see his hairy, pasty, man boobs. But here the sun begged him to drink it in. His skin still tingled from the residue of Jemma’s touch. Every follicle of hair seemed to ache. The warm water helped.
Jemma sat on the beach, a black-clothed sulking ball. They’d spent the previous day going from boatman to boatman, asking for a ride to the island. Each man looked longingly at the wad of cash Alex offered and said no. Alex called Karen in the evening, and she coolly told him they sometimes take a day to fish for their families.
The barking motor of the Baby Roxanne shattered his enjoyment of the afternoon. Alex paddled in toward the shore. Jemma looked up, away from her book.
Mr. Lucky helped Terry into the knee-deep water, and he waded ashore.
Alex splashed over.
“Have you heard anything from the police?” he asked, then paused. Terry’s face was the color of cottage cheese. Red splotches stood out on his cheeks and the tip of his nose. His eyes were gray and watery.
“No.”
He gazed past Alex, at Jemma. Fixated on her for a moment. Then he moved away from Alex, and headed to shore.
“Why are you upset?” Alex asked.
“Please, I’m in a hurry.”
“I’ll walk with you. What’s up? Something upset you. Were you on the island?”
Terry stopped, wheeled around, and spat at Alex. “Please, leave me alone. This has been a most horrid day.” He wheeled around and resumed his splashing stride toward the resort.
“Does this have to do with your wife?”
Terry wheeled again. “If you ask me another question, you and your friend will find yourselves out on the street. Do you understand me?”
That sounded like a yes. Alex waved to Jemma. He needed her help.
Terry stormed past her, up to the bar.
“You have to touch him,” Alex said.
She stared at him for a moment.
“You must still be feeling pretty good from yesterday—”
“Fine. What do you hope to learn?”
“I don’t know.”
“Will I hurt him?”
“No. He’s a mess. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think it would help.”
Tears welled in Jemma’s eyes. She wiped them away with the back of her gloved hand.
“You’re sure?”
He was never sure. Could never be sure.
“I’m sure,” he said.
She nodded, and started up the stairs. She peeled her gloves off as she went, and handed them to him, one by one, and dropped them into his hands, careful not to let her pale skin touch his again.
Terry picked up a bottle of rum from the bar. His eyes were red.
“Not now. I can’t right now.”
Jemma turned to Alex. There wasn’t anyone else up here. Alex nodded to her.
He knew their skin brushing together could do it, but Jemma placed one hand on each of Terry’s cheeks. Both of their eyes widened, Jemma’s head flew back, and she began to moan, a lonely, agonized sound.
18
For a moment, Jemma felt her skin against Terry’s. Touch. Skin. Another human. Twice in three days. A new record.
Then pain racked her. Tore through her, lighting every nerve on fire. She took his pain as it slammed though her, touched all of her, wave after wave of blinding white agony. She knew what it felt like to be a piece of driftwood, slammed against the rocks. Intellectually she knew she could handle this. She’d not often touched people who hurt worse than she did. Usually she hurt them, like she had Alex. But sometimes it went this way.
She let go when she slumped to the floor. But she’d seen it all—Terry’s marriage, his wife’s cancer, and the bargain he’d made. She saw his guilt every day, and his questions about what to do.
Terry extended a hand to help her up.
“Don’t help her,” Alex said. Red tinged everything…a burst blood vessel in her eye?
“Her nose is bleeding,” Terry said. “What did she do?”
“She took your pain.”
“I know…I feel…lighter.”
“I need to get
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