Page 83 of Salt Kiss
“Breathe,” I command again, this time splaying my hand over her chest. “Here. Breathe here.”
Her skin is clammy under mine, but soft, so soft, and her eyes are shining in the dark as I feel her chest lift a fraction, and then all the way, shuddering into a noisy inhale and rushed exhale.
“That’s right,” I praise. “That’s exactly right. Just feel my hand. Right there.”
Another breath, still rushed and shaky, and I move my hand over the blanket to her stomach as I sit on the edge of the bed.
“Can you breathe here for me?” I ask. “Can you lift my hand with your breath?”
She gives a small nod, and this time her breath goes deeper, all the way in. I see the minute her brain finally registers how to breathe on its own again, when her body accepts she’s not in danger. Her lips part and her shoulders uncurl. Her eyes close.
“I’m sorry,” she says, still sounding breathless. “I have...bad dreams. Sometimes.”
I don’t move my hand from her stomach, even though I’m suddenly very aware of every quiver and lift as she breathes. I’m a living seismograph for Isolde Laurence’s inhales and exhales.
“I have bad dreams too,” I say. My words are quiet in the dark. “Keep breathing.”
She does, and the only sound in the room is her and the ocean outside. The occasional creak of the boat. My eyes are adjusted to the dark now, and I can see that she’s wearing a thin white tank top—expensive looking but not delicate or decorative—and I can see the furled tips of her breasts pressing against the fabric.
Heat rises in my groin, and I fight it back, lifting my hand from her belly and turning away.
“Better?” I ask, managing to sound normal.
“Better,” she says. She hesitates, and then adds, “I’m sorry I woke you. This is embarrassing.”
The admission is enough to make me turn and face her, even though a smarter man would have fled the room already. Her eyes are already on me, and her hair is liquid silver on her pillow. She could be a fairy-tale princess if not for her mornings spent slicing imaginary people apart with a honeysuckle knife.
“Don’t be embarrassed,” I tell her firmly. “I once had to have Mark do the exact same thing to me on an airplane.”
I don’t mention that he’s also been able to drive away my nightmares by using me as a human body pillow.
And then I add, “Do you want to talk about them? The bad dreams?” I do wonder what nightmares could possibly haunt someone like Isolde Laurence. Her life seems easy and charmed, as graceful as she is.
Isolde shakes her head on the pillow. “I’d rather not,” she says tightly, and I nod.
“I never want to talk about mine either.”
She breathes out, her eyes flicking up to the ceiling. “I’ve had them for years. But every time is like the first time.”
“Yes,” I say quietly. “I know.”
She looks at me. “I’m sorry that you know.”
“You might have to come into my room one of these nights,” I tell her with a small smile. “And help wake me up.”
There’s something like a smile back and then her eyes drop to my chest—which is bare. I’m wearing only loose pajama pants, and she’s in just a tank top and then whatever’s underneath the blankets, and we both realize at the same time how inappropriate it is, because her cheeks go dark and I scramble to my feet.
“Anyway,” I say too casually. “I’m just through there if you need me. Or if I need you,” I joke weakly, but it comes out sounding like it’s not at all about nightmares and more about something else.
Something wrong.
“Okay, Tristan,” she says softly, and I retreat to my room like a general abandoning the field.
Twenty-Eight
By the timeone of the Azores comes into view on the horizon, green and mountain-peaked, Isolde and I have created a little ocean routine.
In the mornings, I go to the dojo with her and do whatever she needs—hold her bag, wave a rubber knife or rubber gun while she practices disarming me, do push-ups and squats with her and cheerfully win whatever unspoken calisthenics competition we’re in (although not by much). Then we split off, and sometimes I treat myself to a massage and sometimes I go to the basketball court and sometimes I go to the library, which has the now-predictable shelves of poetry and murder mysteries about crime-solving cats and Edwardian Egyptologists and Lady Sherlocks with accompanying Mrs. Watsons. It also has all of my favorite fantasy novels—ones I read as a kid and forgot about and ones I’ve reread a million times, and it even has new books that are simply perfect for me.
