Page 88 of The Cruiser
Enjoy the peace while I can.
On our way back to the yacht for an early dinner, Morgan stops and treads water, squinting at the horizon with a frown.
“What do you see?” I ask.
“That one boat’s been close all day.”
“Do you recognize it?” From here, it looks like your average yacht; white, mid-sized with no distinctive features.
“No,” he says. “And I know most of the boats.”
I pinch his bare bottom. “Maybe it’s time to put some shorts on.”
He smiles distractedly. “Never.”
Our meal will go down as one in my top five list, for sure. Sablefish and Niçoise salad and lemon soufflé served on the beach club deck, sparkling waves right at our feet. Sunbaked and thirsty, the wine goes down too easy and Morgan slips upstairs to grab another bottle. Left with my thoughts, ten different emotions swirl and try to land. This life. His life. It’s almost too perfect to be real.
But I could live this life, no problem.
He asked the questions.
Now it’s up to me to figure out the answers.
“Vandana!” Morgan’s voice bursts with excitement, carrying down from the top deck. I swivel my head as he bounds down the stairs, breaking stride to scoop me out of the dining chair.
“Woah! What? Tell me.”
“Hold on,” he says and leaps off the deck, me shrieking in his arms. Airborne for what feels like an eternity, we cannonball into the sea with a gigantic splash.
I break the surface, sputtering air and shock. As big as Florida, Morgan’s smile could warm the entire state if the sun went missing. “Khaled just texted,” he says. “We did it. We got the commission.”
“Oh my god. That’s amazing!” Our kiss is big and sloppy, technique out the window. “I can’t believe he came to a decision so quickly. How’s his mother?”
“Recovering well. Khaled sends his thanks again. You have to decide on a gift. He refuses to let the matter go.”
“What do you think I should ask for?”
His eyes are bright, the sun turning his golden skin into a luminous canvas. “An apartment next to mine?” he suggests.
“I'm being serious. I need your guidance. I don't know what's right." I'm treading water with effort, arms tired from the long swim and too many glasses of Pinot Gris.
“Wrap your legs around my waist,” Morgan says. “I’ll keep us afloat.”
I do as he asks and become weightless in the water. We wrap our arms around each other while his powerful legs churn underneath us. How crazy is it to be a mediocre swimmer in the middle of the sea and somehow feel so safe?
I hug him tight and Morgan whispers into my ear, “This is what’s right. Anything else is gravy.”
