Page 70 of The Best Worst Mistake
“No really, Si, I’m not going to need this, right?”
“Safety first, babe,” he says, absentmindedly before leaving the motor to hop up on the stern to pull a few more ropes, lengthening a long tether attached to what must be the boom.
Watching him, I can’t help but wonder what other women he’s brought out on this boat. And if he has, did they know how to sail like this?
Silas heaves a rope attached to a pulley system, bringing the enormous sail to life overhead. The glistening white fabric puffs out and snaps open in the wind. I immediately feel the weight of the boat lifted up beneath it. The wooden hull begins slicing through the water as if it were a hot knife cutting through butter. The water rushes along beside us, deep and dark and blue. I look back at the harbor, realizing that not only is it starting to get farther away, but it’s leaving us with the most gorgeous view of Cádiz from out on the open sea.
“We’re sailing!” I exclaim, watching Silas as he mans the entire ship himself.Wemight be a strong word here, I realize.
He hops from one platform to the next, securing a rope while uncoiling another. His brow is furrowed in concentration, studying the sail billowing in the wind. Then he takes theimpressive metal wheel in both hands and pushes it left, then straightens us out to the right.
It’s like he’s dancing with the ship in silent concentration. Just the two of them taking up all his thoughts right now, while I’m the outsider watching everything between them unfold. This side of him is serious and stern — something I rarely see in him.
Something, I realize, I want to see more of.
When the ship is finally on a course he seems to be pleased with, he relaxes a bit. His shoulders visibly uncurl beneath his jaw and he rocks his head from side to side, stretching out whatever tension the launch from the dock just caused. Finally, his eyes find mine watching him.
He smiles.
“Need help?” I ask, trying not to look embarrassed about the fact that I’ve just been caught staring at him.
“No,” he says, but his grin stretches wider across his face. His eyes squint into the sun behind his steel aviators. He takes them off for just a moment, lifting his face to feel the full heat of it. When he opens his eyes again, I can see the amber flecks of gold simmering in the sea of green, even from here.
I bite my lip and look out at the sea. The wind hits my face and I inhale into the sunlight, feeling a light spray of saltwater rise up in the air. What is it about this place? It’s like all my stress is melting away in the mist, floating off, as if carried by the breeze.
He was right.
This sailing thing would be too easy to fall in love with. Too easy to never want to return from.
“How do you ever leave this?” I sigh, watching him. “And how often do you get to come back?”
“Not enough,” he says simply, falling serious again. “Come on up here,” he adds, motioning for me to join him. He grasps the wheel with one hand while holding his other arm out to me.
As soon as I stand, he steps forward to cradle me between his elbow and palm, making sure I don’t misstep as the ship tilts to one side. I carefully make the few steps over to the wheel.
“Put your hands at ten and two,” he instructs, placing my hands on it, boxing me in from behind. “Feel that?”
It jerks hard beneath my hands and I grip it tighter, fighting the water churning around the rudder below.
“It’s pushing to the left,” I say, glad his hands are still hanging on to help right next to mine.
“So, pull it to the right,” he tells me, shifting his hands so mine disappear beneath his, guiding them gently but firmly. Together, we pull the ship to the right. It’s only a few inches, but the resistance of the water pulls harder than it did a moment ago.
I lean in and push. He lifts his hands so they’re hovering now just above mine, letting me do all the work myself while balancing on the deck behind me. We’re rushing across the surface of the sea, not touching in any way now, but just having him behind me makes me feel safe. And honestly, happy.
“You’re sailing,” he whispers in that same spot behind my ear, and I’m immediately transported to last night — his lips just below my jaw — right before we began to dance.
“And you’d better not go anywhere,” I say, turning over my shoulder, making sure I can feel his body behind me without having to tear my eyes off the view ahead. “Where are the brakes on this thing in case something jumps out?”
He laughs. “It’s just us out here,” he assures me. “And it’d take a lot to bring ol’Vividown, believe me, I’ve had enough time testing her out here to know.”
“Vivi?” I ask, wondering what music icon — or worse, what girlfriend from his past — must have influenced the name choice.
“Vivian, actually,” he says.
I search my memory for any girls we knew back in college or famous musicians named Vivian.
“Do you name everything you ride on after some random woman?” I ask, nearly shouting above the wind.
