Page 25 of Saltwater

There is no good response.None of us know what people are capable ofsounds like an accusation.None of us know one another’s secretssounds too close to the truth. So I say nothing, I don’t ask about the hoary details. But I know more about those these days than she does. They haven’t told her much.

I nearly tell her. About Stan. About what I’ve brought to givehim—tosellhim. Aboutwhy.The way women are sometimes inclined to go horror for horror, trauma for trauma. A race to the bottom that inevitably produces a winner. But I don’t.

“Anyway,” Helen says, “look at this place. Can you blame them for wanting to come back?”

I can’t.

There’s no easy way to ask about the letter in this moment. To find out if they’ve agreed to pay. And before I can, a boat approaches us. Just a dinghy, really, low and unsteady in the water. There are three men on it. Shirts off, music blaring. They’re Italian, I can tell. I will them to turn around. This is the only time we’ve had alone and there’s still so much to say, to organize. But then one of them calls out:“Ciao, signorini! Hai bisogno di un passagio?”

“Inglese,”Helen calls back.

“Are you looking for a ride?” the man calls again, this time turning down the speakers.

“Sì,”she calls back,“per favore.”

She splashes into the water and I follow.

“Sono Ciro,”the driver of the boat says as he extends a hand, helping us each onto the small vessel. The name familiar but impossible to place.Ciro.

And only when we’re on board, outnumbered by the men, do I remember Helen saying to me:Don’t worry, we don’t have to swim back.We may have left the shallows, but I have miscalculated how deep I really am.

Helen

Now

Lorna has been missing fortwelve hours when Freddy and I board the boat. It’s nearly four in the afternoon, the light two hours away from the perfect golden hour that makes even the worst realities bearable.

Lorna is gone.

Ciro helps me into the boat and I take his hand. I watch my balance, not his face. I don’t want Freddy to witness a look between us, as if our secrets might spill out and embarrass all three of us. There’s no room in any of this for the kind of mistakes Ciro and I have been known to make.

“Thanks for doing this, man. We really appreciate it,” Freddy says from the dock behind me.

“Just the two of you?” Ciro asks.

Does he ask it with too much urgency? Or idle curiosity? I can’t tell. I hate that I sometimes struggle to readhim,of all people.

“We haven’t heard from Lorna,” I say, slipping my hand from his.

“Probably still sleeping off last night somewhere,” Freddy says.

“That’s a shame,” Ciro says.

I can’t see his face when he says it—That’s a shame—because his back is to me while he unhitches the line. Out of everyone in my life, it’s Ciro I’ve trusted the most. Ciro I’ve known the longest. And he doesn’t seem worried. About us, about Lorna.

I remind myself this is a vacation; it should be fun.

“Might be better this way,” Freddy says, laughing. “Don’t fall in love with the tourists. Isn’t that what they say?”

He claps Ciro on the back when he returns to the wheel. He’s like this, I know, with everyone. Meet Freddy once and he’ll greet you forever as if you’re old friends. But it feels more pronounced with Ciro. Maybe it’s my guilt, amplifying.So sorry she can’t seem to decide what she wants, man. We’ll be out of your hair soon.

“Must have been a good one,” Ciro says.

I settle onto a banquette, smile at Freddy. Ciro pushes us off, his foot against the dock, his calf flexing at the effort, my stomach twisting.

It’s amazing how easy it is to untether yourself from solid ground.

Years of having to be so good in public have made me brazenly bad in private. When I think no one is looking, that’s when I do the thing that I know will hurt. Physical self-harm never appealed to me. But then, there are other ways to hurt yourself. I like to give myself something only to see it taken away. Because does anyone ever—honestly—enjoy a momentary pleasure? Can you have fun knowing you canneverexperience a joy or kindness again? I can’t.

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