Page 88 of Falling Overboard

“Isn’t that like, the sixth text from them this week?”

“Yes.”

He put his hands in his pockets as we continued our stroll back to the yacht. Hunter didn’t have to say anything. I knew what I needed to do. Put my foot down and tell them that they were adult women and needed to start paying their own bills.

“I’m scared of losing them,” I confessed. Another thing I’d never actually said aloud before. What was it about this man that made me want to share everything with him?

“They’re your sisters. The only family you have left. Do you really think that if you stopped giving them money, they would stop loving you?”

I was afraid of exactly that. Hot, unshed tears clouded my vision. I didn’t want to keep crying in front of him. I never did this. I had always had to be the strong one. The one who took care of everyone else and made Mom’s life easier. I didn’t get to fall apart. Ever.

But he made me feel like I could and then he’d be there to help me put myself back together again.

Somehow he alone seemed to be in possession of a key that could unlock this emotional side of me that I kept hidden from everyone else.

He wrapped his arm around my shoulders and squeezed me gently, to offer what comfort he could. He probably didn’t realize that he comforted and soothed me just by being here.

“What’s your favorite thing to bake?” he asked, and I realized that he was trying to distract me. That he somehow knew it was what I needed in this moment, to help me not fall apart.

“I don’t know if I have a favorite,” I said, trying not to sniffle. “There is one thing I can’t master no matter how many times I try. Sfogliatelle. It was my nonna’s signature item, but she didn’t leave the recipe behind. I’ve tried it a million different ways and they never turn out like hers.”

He considered this information while I noted that his arm was still around my shoulders. This was something friends did. Right?

I just loved how warm and safe it made me feel. Like he’d fight off every bad thing that came my way.

“What is sfogliatelle?”

“A Neapolitan dessert that kind of resembles a lobster’s tail but it’s made of these buttery, crispy, thin layers of pastry. Sometimes it has fillings like orange and vanilla-flavored ricotta, or almond paste or whipped cream. I’ve asked so many chefs for tips, including Andre, but no one can tell me anything that makes them taste right.”

“Is there anyone else who might know the recipe? Maybe before she came to America?”

“My nonna told me once that she worked in a bakery in Salerno owned by a married couple. Arturo and Giovanna Mascarelli.” She had loved them like family and had talked about them often while I was growing up. “I’m guessing they’ve passed on. Maybe their kids or grandkids took over? I don’t know. As far as I can tell, they aren’t on social media. It’s why I was bummed our original charter got canceled. We were supposed to have spent the whole trip on the western coast of Italy. At some point I was hoping to go into Naples. I could have talked to some of the bakers there. Maybe they’d be able to figure out what I’m doing wrong.”

“And you’d get to eat the pasta,” he added.

“I can’t even imagine,” I told him with a sigh. “I bet it’s like eating tiny bites of heaven.” I’d never been to Italy before.

He smiled at me and we walked along the docks, only a few steps behind the others now.

“You didn’t drink very much tonight,” he observed.

So I don’t launch myself at you.“Neither did you.”

Did it mean something that we were aware of each other’s alcoholic content? I couldn’t have said how many shots Thomas had taken or how many bottles of wine Georgia was personally responsible for demolishing.

“After Harper, I told you that I got out of control. That included a lot of blackout drinking. One time I fell and broke my foot, something I have no memory of. When I woke up in the hospital, all I could think about was my sister being in the same hospital and how terrible my decisions had been. It made me want to turn my life around. Plus, as my therapist was fond of pointing out, copious amounts of alcohol can interfere with my meds. And people with ADHD are more likely to become addicts because of how our brains are wired. It didn’t get to that point for me, but it’s better to be safe than sorry.”

“I don’t think anyone here shares your concern,” I said as Kai very nearly stumbled into the water, almost taking Emilie with him.

“Do you ever worry that our fellow crewmembers are a bunch of lushes?” he asked jokingly.

“Constantly. But then I worry about everything.”

He smiled. “I find life is better for me when I do things in moderation.”

That’s disappointing,my inner Georgia-esque voice said.

“This crew is allergic to moderation. They prefer to participate in stuff that ends with them being bailed out of jail.” I was about to climb up onto the passerelle when Thomas peered down at me from the deck with an unfocused grin.

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