Page 78 of Swept Away

Zeke’s organizing us a “date” for tonight. I head back to the room to get ready, digging my makeup bag out of my holdall. Putting on makeup with butterflies in my stomach makes me feel like I’ve thrown a line back in time to the Lexi who lives on land, and the moment of connection makes it so obvious how different I am now. That Lexi moved through life without looking. Now I’m scared and desperate and drained, but I’m also living so hard it’s like I’m doing it in Technicolor. If I survive this, I’ll look back on these days as the making of me, I know I will.

The outfit isn’t as special as I’d like, but at least it’s not something I’ve worn before. Zeke has seen every item of clothing I have, and worn a fair few of them himself, too. I’m going for an oversized, bright blue T-shirt that I found in the rig laundry room; I cut the sleeves and neckline, so it plunges in a raw-edged V, as low as it can go without showing the bow on the front of my bra. I wear it with my leather jacket and black boots, and use a thin, age-darkened rope as a belt.

As I fuss with my rope belt, I’m struck by the ridiculousness of this, how hard I’m trying for a man who’s seen me in sea-drenched, unwashed underwear, but caring about mascara instead of provisions feelssonice. I’m going to let myself have tonight.

Zeke doesn’t say anything as I step out into the corridor; he just breathes out slowly, taking me in for so long I start to twist inward, folding my arms.

“Don’t,” he says, reaching for me. “You are so beautiful.”

I shrug him off. “You with all the chat-up lines…”

He frowns, reaching for me again; this time I let him take my hands.

“I wish you’d listen when I say things like that. I wish you’d hear it.”

Actually, I do feel kind of beautiful today, with nobody to compare myself to except another version of myself, and Zeke’s warm eyes on me, and the knowledge of all that my body has done for me in the last week.

“What’s it about? Why can’t you take a compliment?” he asks softly.

I shrug, avoiding his eyes. “It just feels kind of wrong. Like it shouldn’t be about me.”

“What shouldn’t?”

“I don’t know. Anything?”

He’s quiet for too long. I risk a glance at his face. He looks very sad all of a sudden, and just as I’m starting to feel embarrassed, he says, “I think it’s amazing how you’re always there for other people—me, Penny, Mae. But being there for other people doesn’t have to mean…erasing yourself.”

“Is that what you think I do? What I’ve done?” I ask. I can’t decide whether that’s pissed me off.

“I think you deserve to be cherished,” he says, stretching out his hand to me. “And I can’t wait to show you what that looks like.”

My frown smooths away—it’s impossible to scowl at him when he says things like that.

“Come on,” he says, smiling. “Let me start by feeding you.”

I take his hand and follow him through the network of corridors, out into the duskiness before sunset. The breeze picks up my hair and shakes it loose; I’m glad of my leather jacket. The butterflies are still fluttering high in my stomach as we climb the steps tothe helipad. We skirt this afternoon’s painting—circling the word SOS scrawled in red paint should be a buzzkill, but it isn’t, it really isn’t. This is my life right now. My eyes are fixed instead on the nest of duvets and blankets set up in the very middle of the helicopter pad, on the central bar of that H.

Zeke has made us a picnic. I can see at least six bowls of different dishes, and even two wineglasses that I suspect have come up from the houseboat.

My eyes prick. This is so lovely. He didn’t have to do this. But he did, for me.

“OK?” he says, looking at me a little nervously.

“Perfect,” I manage, settling in on one side of the picnic.

He smiles, passing me a plate. I’m not entirely sure what any of this is, but I see macaroni, and thick dark sauce, and something flecked with bright green peas and the muted orange of tinned carrots. All of it looks incredible.

“Oh myGod,” I say through my first mouthful, and I watch his face brighten.

“You like that one? I used the last of the Worcester sauce, that’s where it gets the depth from, and…” He trails off, embarrassed. “Anyway.”

“Don’t stop,” I say, nudging his knee with mine. “I love it when you talk food. You get all…” I wave my fork at him. “Glowy.”

“Glowy?” he says, with a dubious eyebrow-raise, but one of his dimples is showing as he fights a smile.

“It’s very sexy,” I inform him, taking another forkful and letting out a moan as the flavor hits my tongue. It’s a zingy, peppery pasta dish, and I have no idea how it tastes this delicious. “How good is the food you make when you’renotworking with expired tins only?”

“I actually think expired tins might be my thing. Second dates, though…less so,” he says, voice as light as always, but he’s notlooking at me as he reaches for another bowl. “How am I doing with the picnic? Is that appropriate?”

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