Page 42 of Savage Beauty

We walked into the water directly in front of our villa. The waves roll in smoothly on this section of the island, lapping the shore. There are sharp rocks partially submerged in the sandy ocean floor, but it’s easy enough to sidestep them thanks to the crystal-clear water.

The view of the undersea world through my mask mesmerizes me. Small fish scurry below, flitting near, then zipping away.

If Max is bored, he’s not letting on. He’s a diver, meaning he goes deep. I’m guessing he, like Sam, has all the diving certifications.

Sam once told me they nicknamed Navy SEALs “frogs.” Amphibians. He got a tattoo on his ribs of a frog with a gun and a dagger. It looked ridiculous. I told him. He ignored me. Or so I thought. About a year later, he had the strange tattoo removed.

A school of slender silver fish swims by, and I point. Max simply increases the pressure on my fingers. He can’t smile. The plastic mouthpiece prevents smiles. The skin inside my mouth is drying, but I don’t want to stop. The salty water coats my tongue, leaking in, probably because I’m not doing something right, but the sides of my mouth and around my lips need fresh water.

The black fins on our feet allow us to glide over the aquatic paradise with little effort. If it weren’t for the mouthpiece, I could do this all day. Of course, breathing through the snorkel is loud, as is the water sloshing near my ears. Loud noises often bother me, but this is oddly soothing and rhythmic.

Sage would enjoy snorkeling. There’s a meditative quality to passing over mounds of white sand, shaped in uniform patterns by current, and a sporadic thrill at a fish sighting.

Face down in the sea, it’s easy to forget the outside world. I suppose this is why people choose to vacation on islands.

Max tugs at my hand. He’s stopped. Standing.

The front of my fin sinks into the sand, and my knees buckle. Max’s arm slips around my side. His skin is warmer than the water, and I lean into him. I didn’t realize how cold I was getting. His mouthpiece dangles below his chin. He’s smiling.

“You okay there?” His other hand lifts the mask, and there are deep lines across his forehead and cheeks where the mask created an airtight seal around his eyes and nose. “We’re back.”

My fins stick in the sand, and it’s virtually impossible to straighten my legs, but next to him, I’m secure. His golden chest hair is slightly rough against my waterlogged skin, but it’s…nice. My knees give, and the full weight of my body presses against him, causing him to stumble back.

“Sorry,” I mumble through the mouthpiece.

Coordination is not a strength of mine. Sports and I are oil and water.

But he lifts me with one arm, supporting me with his strength. I’m tall, but he’s taller, and he lifts me until my fins dangle above the sand and the water swirls around them. I spit out the mouthpiece, and with one hand, he lifts my mask.

“Why’d we stop?”

“We’ve been out here for hours. Your shoulders are getting pink.”

I push away from him, not because he doesn’t feel good. He feels better than I would’ve expected. I rather like being manhandled in the sea, which is another result I would not have expected. But pink skin means I’m probably already sunburned.

I lathered on SPF 80, but you should reapply every two hours. It’s in the instructions. We’ve been out here for hours? How many? How?

Max moves gracefully through the water. It’s like the fins are a part of his body. His deeply muscled and toned cover model physique, while appealing, troubles me. He looks like an amateur body builder, and it’s conceivable he’s using steroids.

My bathing suit bottoms ride up the middle of my butt, halting my progress. As soon as I can easily stand and the water laps my calves, I remove the fins, one by one, using Max’s forearm as a brace. He didn’t need a brace. He’s an athlete. Possibly a doping athlete, but an athlete.

On the shore, I straighten my bottoms and adjust the small triangles that create the illusion of breasts. My skin prickles. It’s the strangest sensation. I stop fumbling with the wet suit to scan my body, searching for a jellyfish tentacle or telltale pink skin. I lift my gaze and meet Max’s.

He’s staring at me with an expression I recognize. He’s looking at me like he wants to have sex with me. But I’ve offered, and he’s turned me down, so no matter how much I enjoyed this little outing of ours, I’m not offering again. Besides, I’m probably reading him wrong. Interpreting other people’s intentions is not one of my strengths.

“Did you enjoy that?”

It’s obvious I enjoyed it. I wouldn’t have spent so long out there that I burned my skin if I didn’t. Does he want me to say thank you?

I’m barefoot and step carefully, an eye out for sharp shell pieces jutting through the sand. Most shell pieces on this cove are bleached white, but some are a striped gray. Many are smooth, but some are sharp and hurt.

“You said you’ve never done it before.”

“That was my first time.” We reach the villa, and there’s a spigot that’s knee high. I turn it on to wash the sand off my feet and ankles.

“You okay?”

I take stock as the water streams over my prune feet. Nothing burns or hurts yet. The spigot water is cold, but the sun’s heat overpowers the chill. I’m thirsty, but other than that, my muscles are relaxed, and a mild, tired sensation plagues my eyes. I haven’t had that much fun in years. If Sage were here, she would thank him. He had to have been bored.

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