Chapter 11: His Father's Boat

I did not go to the yard to ask about the truck.

I told myself that all the way down the gravel road, with the heater blowing on my knees.

Dalton had said a hateful thing in a hallway because he was cornered, and I was not going to let him get into my head.

Gabe was alone in the shed when I came in, kneeling under the hull of a wooden sailboat on a cradle, with a flashlight in his teeth.

He took it out when he saw me.

"Hey," he said. "How did it go?"

"I called in the loan. In front of his whole staff."

"And?"

"And Lydia stood up and told them she was pregnant and that I was a placeholder."

He sat back on his heels.

"Come here," he said.

I crossed the concrete floor, and he stood and I walked straight into his chest.

He held me.

He smelled of sawdust, and his heart was beating under my cheek.

"I want to say something stupid," I said into his shirt.

"Say it."

"I don't want to be alone today."

"You won't be."

"I want you to fuck me."

His arms tightened.

"Here?"

I looked up at the boat.

It was an old thirty-foot sloop with a varnished deck, and a hatch stood open at the stern.

"In that."

"It's my father's."

"Then it's the one place I want to be."

He looked at me for a long, quiet moment.

Then he took my hand and led me up the ladder, over the rail, and down the narrow companionway into the cabin.

It was small and cold, and it smelled of old rope and cedar, with two bunks and a brass lamp and a folded blanket.

He lit the lamp.

I pulled my sweater over my head in the yellow light.

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