Page 52 of On The Beach

the bottomless truth

BELLE

Ilay in Mick's hammock, reading a clinical study on my iPad, which I'd managed to download despite the island's finicky 3G and Wi-Fi connections. The lead author was Dr. Michael Augustus.

Even though I had given up on finding the man who would allow me to run an experimental clinical trial, I was still hopeful that I'd find some way of saving the lives of those two little children with Sanfilippo Syndrome.

I'd leave the island the next morning, and, honestly, I had no regrets—except that I had to leave Mick. The thought of going back to my life, to a city filled with gray skies and deadlines, felt like a door closing on something I hadn't yet had the chance to understand.

In my inbox sat an email from the mother of one of the children with Sanfilippo Syndrome. I'd seen her name pop up a while back, and I could barely bring myself to open it now. The subject line was just one word:Hope.

Her message was short, filled with nothing but a raw, aching plea for an update on the trial. She wanted—needed—to know if there was a chance, anything at all, that we couldmove forward. It broke my heart to read it, to feel so close to a solution, yet have no way to give her the answer she deserved. I didn't reply to her message; I didn't know how to say that there would be no trial, there would be no chances, there was no fuckinghope.

I lay the iPad on my chest, and let the hammock rock me slowly, staring up at the stars, praying that somehow, some way, I'd find a way to make a difference.

Mick was out, he had a boat tour, which he'd almost ditched, but RiRi had warned she'd cut his dick off, in those exact words, if he didn't haul ass.

Feeling restive, I got out of the hammock and checked my suitcase. It was all but packed except for my toiletries. I went into Mick's bathroom, the one where the shower didn't work, but thankfully, the sink did and set all my stuff in a small travel toiletry bag. I wanted to put my foundation in a plastic bag to avoid ruining my makeup bag as I had several times before.

I went into the kitchen to see if there was anything resembling a plastic bag there. Mick had a trash can, so I figured I'd wrap my foundation in a trash bag.

The kitchen was…well, not really a kitchen, but a counter with some drawers and a two-burner stovetop. Mick had some cutlery, two plates, and a bowl, and that was about it. I marveled at how someone could live so simply.

I went through the drawers and smiled when I saw a wooden box. I wasn't a snooper, but it seemed incongruous to have an antique box in Mick's home. I opened it, and my smile widened when I saw a watch—a Rolex. I picked up the watch—a vintage piece, clearly cherished. The leather strap was worn but strong, and there was a small inscription on the back.

To my grandson, Nicholas Michael Patrick Augustus. May time always be on your side.

My heart stopped. Nicholas Augustus.

The name I'd been chasing for months, the scientist whose signature I needed, whose knowledge I respected, whose contribution was supposed to help save children. And it washim? Mick Bottom? The beach bum who joked about lizard races and lived in a hut with no locks?

No fucking way.

I closed my eyes and shook my head. It was definitely possible. I remembered our conversations and how he asked me how many diseases I'd cured, cruelly reminding me that I didn't have much to show for all the work I'd put in. Is that why he'd left? The fact that more than ninety percent of clinical trials fail was crushing—and scientists had to find ways to stay positive. I knew those who left found other ways to contribute and have a career because of burnout. And Mick had burned out. He'd told me as much.

A chill went through me as I set the watch back in the box and then the drawer.

They all knew. The realization hit me like a punch to the gut as I replayed the way everyone had dodged my questions about Dr. Augustus—RiRi, Cato, Franco… all of them. They knew who Mick was. They knew I was looking for him. A rush of anger surged through me, tangled with a deep, hollow ache. Was this some kind of sick joke? Sleep with the woman looking for Mick without ever telling her who he was? How could they—Mick, Cato, Franco, even RiRi—just stand by and let me wander around like some oblivious fool? I thought about every moment I'd trusted him, every time I'd opened up about my research, my struggles to get Dr. Augustus's signature. And all the while, he'd been right there, silently watching, letting me believe he was just a guy who loved sunsets and rum punch.

My throat tightened. Mick had let me believe I'd stumbled into something real with him, something simple and honest. I wanted to believe that the warmth between us had been authentic, but now it all felt like a joke like I was the naïve outsider toying with beach-town romance while they all had a good laugh.

I should've known. A man who looked like Mick,wasMick would never be interested in a nerd like me. A tear slipped down my cheek. I felt foolish, tricked—played by the very person I'd started to trust, the man I'd confessed my love to.

"Say you love me," Mick demanded.

I stilled, scared of letting him see what was inside me, and then because I wanted him to, I smiled and opened my heart. "I love you, Mick."

I wiped my eyes and took a deep breath. I wasn't sure what I'd say to him when I saw him now or if I'd even be able to look at him the same way again.

Why would he do this? Why couldn't he just say:hey, I'm the guy you're looking for, and fuck off, I won't be signing anything for you.

Why make me feel important to him? Why make me tell him I loved him? Was that just another way to humiliate me? I knew Dr. Augustus had left science, retired, and valued his privacy. Was this then my punishment for seeking him out?

God! How he must've laughed when I told him I was engagedto him?

I sat on the bed where we'd made love and dropped my face in my hands. I felt so stupid.

Here I was thinking of how we could have a long-distance relationship, somehow, even though I knew it wouldn't be possible, and Mick all along was going to…what?

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