Page 159 of The Love Haters

But there was nothing I could do.

Nothing except apologize.

The people who hurt us in life almost never apologize. But she deserved it. And if nothing else, before she disappeared, I wanted her to know that.

I should have loved all of my everything. Because it was mine.

As the roof surface tilted another few degrees, I stroked the tummy that I’d always wished had been flatter, and I said, out loud: “You’re soft, and welcoming, and lovely. I couldn’t see it before. I’m sorry.”

I kept going, moving down to my thighs, patting them the way you would a child who needed comfort. “You are velvety and tender,” I said, again, out loud, “and I never should have forbidden you to touch each other.”

I worked my way around back to my haunch. “You spent a full morning with Hutch,” I said, “and I didn’t even let you enjoy it.”

And on, and on. I apologized to my boobs for all the contraptions I had smushed them into. To my calves for insisting all those years that they were the wrong shape. To my butt for my lifelong, daily assessments that it wastoo round, of all things—when it had been just the perfect amount of round all along. To my pie piece—and just my irises in general—for looking at them so many times without ever really seeing them.

I worked my way around every inch, from arches to collarbones, apologizing, sincerely.

“This is the last chance I have to say it,” I said, “and I know it’s not enough. But I bullied you. I picked on you like the meanest mean girl in the world. I made you hate yourself. I sucked the joy out of everything—walking down the street, or eating a BLT, or just sitting in the sun. I should have taken you swimming and let you float in the water. I should have let you relax. I should have stood up for you. Ishould have admired you, and enjoyed you, and kept you company, and celebrated you. I know it’s too late,” I said. “But I’m so impossibly sorry.”

I WAS ALLcried out by the time I finally heard it.

Far and distant and faint, but unmistakable. The sound of air being chopped.

And I suddenly remembered what hope felt like.

My head lifted at the sound, and then I was craning upward, searching the sky. The helicopter looked black at first—backlit by the sun—and I felt this sting of worry that maybe it wasn’t the Coast Guard, after all. Maybe it was just some random helicopter flying by. Some irritating billionaire out for a pleasure ride to enjoy the catastrophe.

But then it got closer, and the light shifted: orange.

Orange!

Chromophobiacured.

My new favorite color from now until forever. I’d be buying nothing but orange throw pillows for the rest of my life.

“It’s them,” I told George Bailey, sitting up a bit. “It’s definitely them. It’s one hundred percent, absolutely,holy-shit-we’re-rescuedthem!”

Then, just as I said it, as if to confirm… the one waterlogged pontoon with the gash that had been slowly filling with water gave up its struggle to stay afloat. One whole side of theRue the Daywent under, and the boat shifted until it was fully on its side.

George Bailey and I slid off the deck and landed in the water.

The flare gun slid off, too—never to be seen again.

I felt a flash of panic before remembering that these guys didn’t need a flare. They knew what to look for. And even if most of the boat was submerged, from up there, they could see down into the water. Hutch had told me that. In the clear waters of the keys, they could sometimes see the ocean floor.

They’d find us. They would.

After the houseboat finished shifting, the only thing holding us up was the second—and last—pontoon. Which wasn’t really built to do thewhole job by itself. It was only a matter of time before the weight of the water pulled the whole boat under, but, for now, one side of it remained sticking straight up out of the water like an iceberg. I found a piece of railing to hold on to, and then I braced one leg against the submerged hull to pin George Bailey next to me.

He sat politely on my thigh, like it was a bench, but the fall had popped his cut open, and now he was bleeding again.

When the helicopter got closer, I started waving and yelling, more like a reflex than for any good reason. Then, as they moved into place to hover above us, I had a bunch of crazy thoughts all at once: What if the rescue swimmer turned out to be Hutch? I mean, it wouldn’t be him. Itcouldn’tbe—of course.

But what if it was?

Even if he still hated me for, ya know, my collusion in atragic web of lies, he’d still have to rescue me, right? The Coast Guard couldn’t just selectively rescue only the people they liked. And this was Hutch, after all. No matter how angry he was, he wouldn’t just let me drown in the ocean. He wasn’t a fair-weather hero.

Plus, I had his dog. We were kind of a package deal at this point.

---