Page 71 of We Were Something
LOGAN
We’re silent for the last twenty minutes of our sailing to Santa Barbara Island, both of us just looking out to the brown, rocky, wave-cut cliffs of Arch Point, the northernmost tip.
I’ve been out here only one other time, years ago with my sailing teammates on a weekend excursion planned by our coach. It was a fairly fun trip, and we camped on the island, a group of rowdy teenage boys enjoying freedom from our parents.
Looking back, I remember it seeming larger. More dominant. More lush.
Maybe that’s the thing about looking backward; my eyes today are not the same eyes I had back then, the decades of experiences I’ve gained since providing me with a different vantage point from which to look at not only the island, but life in general.
Once we’ve sailed into Landing Cove, I drop the anchor when we’re still a few hundred yards out. There are a few other boats anchored here and there, but they’re all closed up, their owners likely having gone ashore to camp overnight.
My plan was always to stay on the boat, thinking this could be another opportunity to get to know Paige on a deeper level, and itdidcross my mind that things between us could become more intimate.
I might not be ready to make love just yet—I mean, we haven’t known each other for very long—but that doesn’t mean we can’t take the time to enjoy each other in new and unexpected ways.
I only had sex with two women before Jen, and both times I was kind of a bumbling mess. Then with Jen, things were always so…vanilla. Maybe that’s not the right word, exactly, but it felt like there was a routine about it. Nothing felt spontaneous or new. It was always lights off, missionary, with Jen wanting us both to be as quiet as possible. Which kind of made sense when I lived in an apartment with two other guys, but it continued once we got married and had our own place.
As a doctor, I didn’t necessarily mind that things had order. There was never any pressure to be creative, to perform when I was tired, to do anything outside the norm. It was straightforward. Simple. Structured. It was a means to an end.
But the physicality with Paige is like…finding a new world. Going to a Baskin-Robbins 31 Flavors when I’d only ever believed there was vanilla. Even though it made me nervous at first, that was just my own inexperience talking. I’d become so accustomed to the way thingswerethat I never really reveled in the way things could be.
Now, I’m excited at the prospect of whatmighthappen. Every moment feels like a possibility. Whether it’s sitting around, laughing about serial killers, or fingering her in the middle of my kitchen…it’s never boring. I feel like I’m being taken on an adventure, and for the first time in my life, I’m okay with not having some sort of checklist to go over before we leave.
Of course, now that things between us feel a little tense, I’m wondering what tonight mightactuallylook like. I’m accustomed to arguments. Jen was the master of the silent treatment, so I guess I’ll need to just ride this out and see what happens.
Part of me wishes we’d gotten here early enough to try to use the dock to go ashore. Exploring a bit might have distracted from the slight wrinkle between Paige’s brows that hasn’t gone away since I said she was a mooch. Not thatIsaid the words. Technically, that was her, but if I hadn’t thought to shut my mouth, I would have said something similar.
God. I wish I’d never even tried to touch on that topic. Even if I’ve had a few thoughts here and there, wondering what she’s done with her life over the past few years since leaving school. Even if I actuallydidthink she’s a mooch—which I don’t—I still shouldn’t have even taken the conversation in that direction.
I felt like I almost couldn’t help myself.
There are so many amazing qualities to Paige that I’ve been enamored with since day one, and other new ones that I’m learning about every day. But theonething that has sat at the back of my mind and taunted me—even more than her age—is the fact that I have no idea what matters to her in life.
Where is the direction? The goals? The dreams? What does she envision for her future? And how have we not talked about any of this yet?
My mom worked herself to the bone to take care of me, constantly picking up extra shifts and working long hours. Scraping together money for school field trips and sacrificing her own needs to make sure I was happy. And Jen was no trophy wife. She was a Yale grad in her own right, with several architecture degrees and awards under her belt. She was aiming to become a partner at the firm she’d been working at since we moved to Seattle.
Obviously, Jen’s life and my mom’s life are nowhere near similar, to each other or to Paige’s. But I can’t help comparing them, wondering what causes that internal drive and motivation. Or lack thereof.
I want to know these things about Paige, what makes her tick, the experiences that have helped to shape her interests. And sometimes, she seems open to me, like she could tell me her deepest, darkest secrets. Like she wants to be vulnerable.
But then other times, like when she looked me dead in the eye and gave me that line about having a lot to think about, I feel like she has a well inside of her that she’s never planning to reveal. A deep cavern of history and pain and life that won’t ever be shared. And ultimately, I’ll have to decide at some point whether or not to continue spending time with someone who doesn’t ever want to dig deeper.
“Alright, here’s what I think,” Paige says, dragging me out of my internal musings.
My head flies in her direction, and I watch as she gets to her feet and slips off her sandals, each of them falling with a slap to the wooden deck near the wheel.
“I think you’re a good man, Logan. A great man, actually. Hardworking and thoughtful and kind. And I have a hard time believing a kind man would intentionally say something to hurt my feelings.”
She lifts her sunglasses off her face and sets them on one of the seats, then puts her hands on her hips and looks at me.
“So whatever that conversation was earlier, whatever you were trying to say…I’m going to assume neither of us intended it to be what it became.”
I blink twice, my brow furrowing in surprise.
She’s just…moving on.
When Jen and I had an argument…god, it took weeks to recover. There was the intense silent treatment for what felt like days, but that came after the anger and yelling and stomping around. I would try to fix things for a little while, but eventually I usually gave up because it felt like nothing was reparable. Like if Jen didn’t get her way, nobody was going to enjoy themselves.
