Page 105 of Moti on the Water
Alex regarded me across the table after she was gone.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing.” But his mouth twitched like he was dying to say something.
“Spit it out,” I said as we left the tea shack and walked under the shady trees to our rental scooter. “You know you want to.”
He straddled the seat and leaned in, running his finger along my jaw. “Dude, you were named after a dog who thought he was a bird.”
I folded my arms and counted to five. Sure enough, the indent in his cheek deepened into a full-blown dimple. We’d met eight times over the last three years and each time that damned dimple made an appearance, my heart flipped for him all over again.
I mounted the scooter and wrapped my arms around his waist. “Dude, you named your restaurant after a girl, who was named after a dog, who thought he was a bird.”
Alex’s dream had turned into reality, in the same spot he’d taken me swimming for the first time in Folegandros. A hotel was being constructed across the bay then, but the deal had fallen through. When the property came up for sale, Alex snapped it up and opened his restaurant: Moti On The Water.
The name was a play on its meaning in Hindi—a pearl on the waters of the Aegean Sea.
Now it was about a dead poodle.
Alex’s laughter rippled through the air as we took off, along palm-fringed roads and endless rice paddies, the wind in our hair. Goa in the monsoon was gray and lush. Waterfalls trickled down emerald hills as we passed spice farms and sleepy fishing villages.
“Look.” Alex pulled over and pointed to the stretch of golden sand by the road. “Are those what I think they are?”
I squinted, but the sun was low in the horizon and directly in my eyes.
“I’ll be right back.” Alex took off for the beach and returned with a bright, diamond-shaped kite. “Come on. It’s not going to fly itself.”
I smiled, falling into step beside him. It was exactly the kind of thing Alex did—stop and take a great big bite out of life.
The beach was empty, except for a group of kids, with their eyes trained skyward.
“Did you take one of their kites?” I said.
“I paid good money for it.” Grinning, he handed me the spool, climbed on a rock, and held the kite up. “Ready?”
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d flown a kite. I took a step back when Alex let go, keeping the line taut between me and the kite. For a moment, it floundered, nose-diving toward the ground. Then the wind caught, and the spool unraveled.
Laughter floated from my throat as the kite soared upward. I pulled back on the line, keeping the tension and letting it climb until it was flying high. Jubilation engulfed me as I watched it turn and pull and dance.
I was connected to the sky, the wind, the soft light filtering through the clouds.
Alex hugged me from behind and I leaned into him, recalling the star-speckled night on his roof.
What’s your favorite childhood memory?he asked.
Flying a kite.
“You remembered,” I said.
“I’m always listening, Heart-Eyes.”
I laughed and kicked off my shoes, my heart soaring as high as the kite.
“Guess what?” I flew barefoot over the sand, letting the string out until the kite was nothing more than a tiny diamond in the sky. “I can swim, and now I can fly.”
“You and the poodle you were named after,” Alex called, as I ran along the water. “Both freaking delusional.”
He charged down the beach after me, our footprints melting into the waves as the sun dipped beyond the seam of the horizon.
THE END
