Page 84 of Holding On

Chapter Twenty

Maya Hamilton

It’s Saturday—the first day everyone trusts me to go off the compound, which is what I’m calling The Inn at Echo Bay slash C. Russo Veterinary Clinic slash Memorial Family Garden. And then there’s the extension units: Chloe and Bryce’s bungalow on Rock Island, Devon and Luke’s place above Weaver’s, and Mateus and Laurel’s cottage up the mountain.

Finn lets us take the Water Falcon out to one of the smaller, uninhabited islands. The Inn was streaming with guests and both Travis and I just wanted out.

There’s a deeper, natural slip Travis maneuvers the craft into. He ties it off, and our legs get soaked walking onto shore. The inlet is on the quiet side, so there are no waves. That was the deal Finn made with me: go someplace quiet where I wouldn’t get hurt. For a moment, I had a flash of what it might feel like to have a big brother.

After a short walk through some pines, Travis takes me to the smallest quarry I’ve ever seen.

“A starter quarry,” says Travis, pointing between two trees.

It’s more like a giant hot tub, only probably not so hot. Even though it’s made of large squarish pieces of granite, the water is a clear blue-green with little plant life. With no overhanging trees, no debris falls in, and there’s not enough dirt to support plants.

“You want to go skinny-dipping?” he says.

“No. Why would I want to do a thing like that, you bad boy?”

I’m still stiff from last week, but he helps me take my shirt off, and I try not to look at his lower chest, where bruises have spread and deepened.

We agreed not to talk about what happened. Everyone wants to unpack what happened and talk about it, and it’s too much. Devon’s had an upset stomach the last two days, and George actually slammed a door when we told him we were going out on the Water Falcon.

Travis had to follow him out onto the balcony above the clinic and calm him down. When Travis put a hand on George’s shoulder and the older man gave him a hug, I quit darting glances at the glass door and went to grab my sweatshirt.

Today’s going to be compartmentalization day, where we just compartmentalize the hell out of our lives.

As I slip into the water, I’m amazed at how warm it is.

“Oh my God, this is like a bath.”

“Trapped solar heat,” he says, sliding in next to me.

It seems like it’s not such a good idea to submerge the bright blue tape that stretches in lines across the lower part of his ribs and back. When I point this out, he shrugs.

“I have to go in Monday and let them wrap me again anyway. I say, let it peel off.”

I watch his body as he slides into the water next to me. In a few moments, he’s stripped all the tape off and he grins at me.

Then I have to turn away.

My ability to think my way out of a problem is legendary. It’s why I’m in law school. It’s how I kept my family together despite Katrina’s constant crises. It’s how I function.

But I can’t think my way out of this logistical problem and I know why. For the first time, my future is wrapped up in my heart.

***

We’re lying on the only stretch of sandy beach between two tumbled fingers of granite. Travis brought two blankets so our dinner picnic would be on soft ground. I’m stuffed. It’s probably the most I’ve eaten since—well, since what happened with Barr. We’re waiting for the tide to come back in so we can head home.

We’re lying close together, two empty beers cans in the sand and our stomachs full of crab meat, guacamole, and tortilla chips. It’s the first alcohol I’ve had since my concussion, and there’s a welcome buzz. I’m happy, warm, and holding hands with the man I love—truly love—not wondering if I love him or if he loves me. The stars twinkle above, and twice now, we’ve seen a shooting star. He’s talking about a piece he loves by Jamie Wyeth, with crushed pearls stirred into the paint.

He lifts my hand and kisses the top of it twice and then points to a third shooting star.

We’re in our clothes, and a small fire burns bright a few yards away, crackling in the night. Tendrils of heat float ethereally toward us, curling around a cheek, a leg, my stomach, and then they disappear in the cool evening.

“I miss my mom,” I say.

“I thought we were compartmentalizing,” he says, but he doesn’t let go of my hand.