waist as the waves bounce us up and down, dousing my heat with their cool spray. We’re skin-to-skin, two bodies melded together as one. I’ve forgotten about swimming out too far, or what I should have known. Everything is right now.
I don’t want this to end.
I want to stay where I am with him, in the water, forever.
“I’ve never been on a board before,” I whisper in his ear. “It’s fun.”
He glances back at me and a hint of a smile crosses his face. He stops paddling and we sit as the waves carry us up and shoot us down, again and again, each time propelling me against him.
We’re connected now
And I’m in overdrive. Is this sane?
“I used to be afraid of the water.” Why did I tell him?
“And now?”
“Not anymore.”
“You should be.”
I didn’t expect that, not from him. “Are you?”
“It’s more awe than fear. It’s the power that draws me. But it’s an unfair contest.”
“Ocean worship? It sounds like a religion.”
“Yes,” he says with a smile. “The water is my god.”
Then I want to enter your church.
But I don’t say that.
We sit there together and time passes. Seconds? Minutes? I can’t tell. I’m a giddy kid on a rocket ship ride, thrusting forward and back, up and down with the waves, until our precious time together runs out. How much longer do we have left, just the two of us, in our water world apart from the shore?
My lips nearly touch the back of his neck. His hair blows back, against my face, covering my eyes. I’m blind to everything but him. I cling to waist inhaling his warm, coconut scent, my breath coming faster and harder than it should. Is this what making love feels like? How can he not sense my aching attraction, the sweet, intoxicating chemistry, the way the air is ignited between us?
I exhale against him in total surrender. He doesn’t bruise, but does he shiver? Does he feel? Respond? I have to know, only what do I ask? As if in answer, he arches back against me, his cheek grazing mine.
“Sirena,” he whispers.
twenty-one
A t close to ten that night my dad calls. I’m on the window seat of my great ocean liner staring out at the crescent moon over the dark water. The ring startles me.
He sounds so alone. He’s not used to being on his own or cooking himself dinner. I remember his microwave meals, frozen on the inside, the nights my mom had to go somewhere and he was in charge.
I also remember other things now, things that I tried to forget. The phone calls I heard, but weren’t supposed to when I walked into his study without warning. The way his voice changed in a heartbeat, from low and intimate to cool and businesslike.
From wrong to right.
I block that from my head now.
He’s staying at a friend’s apartment for a while. He went out for a hamburger and a beer or three, I’m guessing. He calls because it’s his time to call. Okay, not fair, but they switch off. On even days my mom calls. Odd days, my dad. That way neither of them can blame the other for forgetting.
My dad isn’t great on the phone. To him it’s just a tool to give information or get it. He doesn’t know how to fill up the conversation.
“So how’s my girl?”
“Good.”
“How’s Ellie treating you?”
“Good.”
There’s an uncomfortable pause and I work to fill it.
“How’s work?”
“Same old, same old.”
My dad’s a contractor and he spends six days a week fixing people’s homes and, as he says, “making their dreams come true.” That means remodeling big kitchens with islands and backyards with pools and spas. I think he’s happier with a hammer, nails, and a glue gun than with people. He knows what to expect with tools. If they’re treated the way they should be, there aren’t too many surprises. Even if he had problems though, he wouldn’t say. He’d think, what was the point? Pragmatic. That’s the vocab word that suits him.
“So how do you fill your day?”
I tell him about practicing swimming and how I’m
I don’t want this to end.
I want to stay where I am with him, in the water, forever.
“I’ve never been on a board before,” I whisper in his ear. “It’s fun.”
He glances back at me and a hint of a smile crosses his face. He stops paddling and we sit as the waves carry us up and shoot us down, again and again, each time propelling me against him.
We’re connected now
And I’m in overdrive. Is this sane?
“I used to be afraid of the water.” Why did I tell him?
“And now?”
“Not anymore.”
“You should be.”
I didn’t expect that, not from him. “Are you?”
“It’s more awe than fear. It’s the power that draws me. But it’s an unfair contest.”
“Ocean worship? It sounds like a religion.”
“Yes,” he says with a smile. “The water is my god.”
Then I want to enter your church.
But I don’t say that.
We sit there together and time passes. Seconds? Minutes? I can’t tell. I’m a giddy kid on a rocket ship ride, thrusting forward and back, up and down with the waves, until our precious time together runs out. How much longer do we have left, just the two of us, in our water world apart from the shore?
My lips nearly touch the back of his neck. His hair blows back, against my face, covering my eyes. I’m blind to everything but him. I cling to waist inhaling his warm, coconut scent, my breath coming faster and harder than it should. Is this what making love feels like? How can he not sense my aching attraction, the sweet, intoxicating chemistry, the way the air is ignited between us?
I exhale against him in total surrender. He doesn’t bruise, but does he shiver? Does he feel? Respond? I have to know, only what do I ask? As if in answer, he arches back against me, his cheek grazing mine.
“Sirena,” he whispers.
twenty-one
A t close to ten that night my dad calls. I’m on the window seat of my great ocean liner staring out at the crescent moon over the dark water. The ring startles me.
He sounds so alone. He’s not used to being on his own or cooking himself dinner. I remember his microwave meals, frozen on the inside, the nights my mom had to go somewhere and he was in charge.
I also remember other things now, things that I tried to forget. The phone calls I heard, but weren’t supposed to when I walked into his study without warning. The way his voice changed in a heartbeat, from low and intimate to cool and businesslike.
From wrong to right.
I block that from my head now.
He’s staying at a friend’s apartment for a while. He went out for a hamburger and a beer or three, I’m guessing. He calls because it’s his time to call. Okay, not fair, but they switch off. On even days my mom calls. Odd days, my dad. That way neither of them can blame the other for forgetting.
My dad isn’t great on the phone. To him it’s just a tool to give information or get it. He doesn’t know how to fill up the conversation.
“So how’s my girl?”
“Good.”
“How’s Ellie treating you?”
“Good.”
There’s an uncomfortable pause and I work to fill it.
“How’s work?”
“Same old, same old.”
My dad’s a contractor and he spends six days a week fixing people’s homes and, as he says, “making their dreams come true.” That means remodeling big kitchens with islands and backyards with pools and spas. I think he’s happier with a hammer, nails, and a glue gun than with people. He knows what to expect with tools. If they’re treated the way they should be, there aren’t too many surprises. Even if he had problems though, he wouldn’t say. He’d think, what was the point? Pragmatic. That’s the vocab word that suits him.
“So how do you fill your day?”
I tell him about practicing swimming and how I’m
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