Page 49 of Swept Away

It takes us a while—the last dregs of water are trickiest to get rid of, but when we’ve finally dried the shower base, it’s obvious we’re right about the issue. The boat dips slightly and as it tips back, a little slosh of seawater comes over the edge of the drain.

Lexi lunges for the water with the corner of a towel, as if she’s swatting an insect, then she hesitates, leaving the towel there.

“Can we block it?” she asks.

“Cut-up fabric, maybe,” I say, already moving away to head for the bedroom.

“Tarp on top,” she calls after me. “It won’t soak through that so easily.”

In the end, stuffing the hole is the easy part—the hard part’s fixing the tarp in place. We end up using clothing tape—tit tape, Lexi calls it—from her makeup bag.

“Iknewsomething in here would come in handy,” she saystriumphantly, smoothing the last piece down. “This won’t hold for long, but…”

I don’t say anything. I don’t have to. Lexi saw that light blinking on the tank system monitor yesterday—she knows we’ve already used three-quarters of the fresh water we have on this houseboat. She knowswewon’t hold for long, either.

Dayeight

Lexi

Zeke’s hair isofficially long enough for a topknot—well, a half one. He was complaining about missing the band he usually wears to keep his hair back from his forehead when he’s working, so I used a black scrunchie from my makeup bag to create him a little half bun on the top of his head. Instead of looking comically cute, as I’d hoped, he actually just looks like he’s starting a trend. Put anything near that face and somehow it turns out stylish.

“Like the new look, do you?” he says, smiling crookedly at me from the kitchen.

He’s making something undoubtedly delicious from our remaining raw peppers and the pasta we boiled in seawater yesterday. I try to focus on the thought of the food, not how desperately I want a drink. It is taking at least fifty percent of my energy not to notice how thirsty I am right now.

“I actually do,” I say. “You look…”

He looks relaxed. Sun-kissed and sexy and tousled. And always, always, like he’s just slid out of bed.

“You look good,” I settle for. “It works with your style.”

He smiles slightly. “And what’s my style?”

“Oh, I don’t know, world-weary pop-star chic?”

He laughs, and I bite down on my smile.

“Not what you’re going for?”

He shrugs. “I just like playing around with clothes. Wearing whatIwant to wear.”

“Have you always been that way?”

I pull my bare feet closer and run a finger over the chipped polish on my toenails, trying not to think about the sunny Saturday afternoon I spent doing “nail art” with Mae the week before we got lost out here. She wanted hers polka-dotted—I messed them up, and Penny turned them into little flowers, and Mae had been so delighted. I close my eyes. I wouldkillto see her smile right now.

“Nah. I started doing a lot of things differently about six, maybe seven months ago,” Zeke says. “I guess that was when I changed my look a bit.”

He’s stopped talking, but I’ve got a lot better at telling when Zeke’s done talking and when he’s not. It is always worth letting him think for a moment, because whatever he says next is invariably extra interesting.

“It was when I started seeing a therapist about my sex life,” he says.

I knew it.Extrainteresting. I look up at him, open-mouthed. He laughs at me over his shoulder. I rearrange my expression, trying to look less gobsmacked.

“I’m not some kind of sexual deviant. Just…was having a lot of sex for a lot of unhealthy reasons.”

I am still staring. I’ve never known a man who goes to therapy, let alone one who goes to talk about hissexlife. He chops the peppers so fast his hands are a blur, and I am too distracted by this conversation even to worry about the proximity of the knife to his stomach. What is acceptable to ask him, here, without just being incredibly nosy?

“So the night we met,” I say eventually. “That was a regular day for you, then? A one-night stand with a woman you just met in a pub?”

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