Page 75 of Swept Away

Eugene left his box sometime yesterday afternoon—Zeke is convinced he tried to fly up and help us climb the tower, which is an adorably ridiculous idea, but I have to admit, I kind of like the thought that Eugene might have been one of the birds I heard on my way up the ladder. That healed-up seagull is so much more than just a bird—he’s proof that sometimes daft humanity can win out after all. I miss him already.

“My expertise stretches just about far enough for me to say, that isprobablya seagull,” I say, and Zeke laughs.

“It’s him,” he says. “I know it.”

We start walking again. Or strolling, as Zeke is insisting it shall be known.

“You’re right, you know. Thereisa kind of mindfulness to this. The near-death experience: your pathway to Zen,” I say.

Zeke laughs. His hair gets buffeted beneath his straw hat, catching against his beard; there’s a smear of dirt along his neck like a shadow.

“Shall we sell it?” I suggest. “A week absolutely shitting yourself in a decrepit houseboat? A weekend trying not to die on a rusty oil rig?”

His smile turns serious. I watch the little muscle beneath his ear that tenses and flickers when he’s hunting for what he wants to say. There is something about this man, his warmth, his depth. He is unlike anyone I’ve ever known.

“That’s not what you’d need to sell,” he says eventually, looking down at me. “That’s not why I feel lucky.”

I look away from him, but he turns my face back to his gently, with one finger on my jaw. We’ve come to a stop on a rusted walkway on the far side of the rig, the sea stretching out before us.

“It’s you,” he says, “by the way. It’s less cute if I spell it out, but I feel like if I don’t, you’ll tell yourself I’m talking about something else.”

He’s right: I’d tell myself,He doesn’t mean me. Nobody ever does. Except…maybe Zeke. Maybe this beautiful, gentle, extraordinary man really does look at me and feel lucky. The thought is so tempting I can hardly bear it.

“Come on,” I say, taking his hand. “Aren’t we meant to be strolling?”

Zeke

While Lexi playstinned-food roulette to decide the ingredients for our holiday lunch, I head back to the houseboat to check on the shower drain and fetch the spatula. In all the weird stuff left on this rig, there’s not a single spatula, and I just can’t cook without one. It’s like trying to cook left-handed. You can take my clothes and my good-for-curls conditioner, but I can’t survive without a spatula.

The water’s different here underneath the rig. Quieter, darker. And the houseboat’s sosmall. The little bench-sofa, the narrow kitchen cabinets, the ceiling barely an inch above my head. As I check my new makeshift drain plug—I found masking tape in the storeroom of the rig, which has been a game changer—I find myself thinking about showering in here as a kid, elbows tucked in, head ducked to fit under the spray.

Being alone changes how I see this place. Heading back out into the living space, I don’t look at that sofa and think of Lexi trying to get comfortable as she waits for dinner; I think of sitting there myself, age ten, knees drawn up to make room for Jeremy, watchingDad burning fish fingers on the hob. Penny’s not even changed the kitchen handles that Dad whittled and painted himself—small Rubik’s cubes in brown and white.

Without Lexi here, it really does feel like Dad’s houseboat, and he’s in my head, after reading those logbooks. He seemed different on the page—softer, almost, than I remember him. I think of Dad as so frustratingly hard to get through to, and I guess I felt he wasn’ttryingto connect with me, but the man in those logbooks was muddled and wistful, a bit lost. Never sure of anything but his puzzles. I wonder what would have happened if I’d opened up to him, just once, instead of pulling away. He wrote that I was a mystery he wanted to solve, and it was so weird to read that, because that’s exactly how I see him.

Lexi’s right: he was my dad. One way or another. And he died. And yeah, maybe there’s some biological dad out there who could fill that hole for me, but even if there is, who’s to say he’s going to be the father ten-year-old Zeke had wanted? I’d probably be better off if I could just say,I had a dad. He wasn’t perfect, but he was mine. Then he died, and just like that, I lost the chance to know him.

I blink away tears and look down at the floor, registering what I’ve failed to see as I’ve been standing here feeling sorry for myself.

The planks of the kitchen floor are shiny.

Shinier than they should be.

Wet.

I don’t tell Lexi.

It’s not that I want to deceive her—Ireallywant to tell her, because to be honest, I’m scared. If there’s water coming in from somewhere other than the shower drain, then there’s a real chanceThe Merry Dormousewill go down before the day’s out. I couldn’tfind the leak, but the water didn’t come back when I wiped it away, so I’m hoping it was some rogue rainwater that snuck in through a ceiling hole I missed.

The reality is, that houseboat’s our only escape route from here if a ship or helicopter doesn’t turn up. We found spaces around the rig where we’re sure there were lifeboats once, and there’re signs everywhere pointing to them, but no actual boats. Kind of terrifying to know that when they left this rig, they left it in a hurry, but we’ve always felt all right about it because if worst comes to worst, we’ve gotThe Merry Dormouse.

I’ll just keep checking on her. I’ll keep drying her out, then drying out the towels, then drying her out again. It takes a lot of water to sink a boat, right?

“What is it?” Lexi says, looking at me over her lunch—broad bean stew, not my best dish.

We’re sitting out on pillows on the concrete, facing each other, her back to the door we first entered through when we came to the rig. She’s looking better. Less…gaunt. Every time she clears another plate or drinks another glass of water, I relax a bit more. The weather’s pretty mild today, but we’re both in jumpers—it’s windier up here on the rig than it was down on the boat. Lexi’s jumper swamps her, its sleeves covering right up to the first knuckle on both hands. I like this look on her. It makes me want to spend lazy Sundays in bed together; it’s that kind of vibe.

“Nothing. It’s fine. I was just thinking how whenever I’m on holiday, I always do the big-picture thinking. What do I want from my life? All that stuff.”

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