Page 91 of Pick-Up
“Oh. OH!” I say.
He throws his free hand over his eyes. “Fuck. I’m so sorry.”
But I’m not. I mean, I am. ’Cause if he can’t think of something distracting, this is going to be embarrassing and it’s definitely myfault. I should have taken him seriously. But I’m also a little flattered, if I’m honest. At least now I know he’s definitely attracted to me, even sober. Not that I know what to do with that information.
I am a new kind of mystical creature—half horny, half hesitant.
“It’s okay,” I whisper. “No one can see. They’re far away.” I shift my leg mostly off him and edge backward a bit.“I can fix this! I’ll distract you. Think about benign things. Whatever comes to mind: um, rum punch, hamburgers, stars.”
He looks down at me, humor in his eyes even under the awkward circumstances. “Maybe something that doesn’t remind me of last night.”
“Right! Sorry. That was top of mind.” I rack my brain. “Custody agreements!”
He frowns.
“Did that work?”
“Maybe too well.”
Ten minutes later, when we climb out of the hammock, it should be uncomfortable, but it’s not. It’s like it got so awkward that the tension got diffused. He helps me up like it’s all okay, and then crosses the beach to Charlie to check in on the next location.
I watch him retreat as Stephanie jogs down the beach toward me. “Wait till you see those photos,” she says. “Charlie is a genius. They’re incredible!”
“Oh, I’m glad,” I say. And I am.
But then she fixes me with a wicked grin as we start toward the boat. “You guys looked pretty cozy canoodling in that thing.” She winks, hip-checking me.
And, suddenly, I am once again seeing all of this through other people’s eyes. This job is my chance to show what I’m capable of, and I’m spending it dry humping the person in charge.
Ugh. Why can’t I stay focused on work? What do I think I’m doing? That’s it. I need to exercise some serious willpower.
Only I am obviously not able to behave in Ethan’s presence. So, there’s only one other sure-fire tactic: avoidance.
Which will prove basically impossible.
On the boat ride, I sit at a distance and resist glancing over, though Ethan tries subtly to catch my eye. But even when I look down, his legs are in my view, and I can’t avoid noticing the masterpieces that are his calves. Someone could compose an opera about them. But not me. Because I am Professional Sasha, who doesn’t care about calves. And also I hate opera.
Eventually, I do manage to get distracted. Because this is an incredible ride. The wind is a microfiber blanket against my skin, the sun is a modulated heat lamp, the spray of the water is a mister, the boat rocks like a cradle. It’s heaven. I am lulled into a stupendous stupor. But the truly amazing part is what you can see below the water. As we skim along the surface, fish, stingrays and all manner of coral swirl beneath. Our captain is the pilot, Jimmy, from our small plane—apparently, there is nothing he can’t do. He has traded his captain’s hat for a floppy fisherman’s cap, and he acts as naturalist from under its brim, telling us what we’re seeing all around us. He says we might see sharks! And, with the exception of Jackie, who is dubious, and Peter, who is poised to leap lest our equipment fly out of the boat, we all want to be the A-plus student who sees one first, so our eyes are trained on the water.
No sharks. But, when we pull up to the island, we are all breathless. It is like no place I have ever seen before. It’s literally a sandbar with ellipsis-like archipelagos in the middle of the damn ocean, surrounded on all sides by shallow turquoise.
Our pilot helps us all out and, when I step from the boat and he releases my hand, I turn right around in the sand and absorb the view. We have traveled far enough from Citrine that we can see no other land at all. It is truly like we are marooned.
I feel humble and small.
The only objects breaking up the landscape are giant intact conch shells, the likes of which I have only ever seen shellacked in gift shops. These seem impossibly vibrant, a spiral of textured white and orange. A shock of pink. I walk over, pick one up and hold it to myear. Sure enough, I am treated to the sounds of the rushing ocean. Only there is no rushing in this sea. Only calm, collected water. This ocean takes its time.
But this is a swanky island resort, not someGilligan’s Islandfantasy (or nightmare). This is a shoot for an important glossy magazine. So someone—multiple someones—have been here first. I picture Michael and his uniformed friends on the staff stealing away back to the hotel before we spotted them.
There are eight bleached-out beach chairs with shaded overhangs immaculately aligned along one edge of the cay. The sharp lines feel alien here.
The boat has a secret compartment—probably secret only to me—out of which our pilot pulls coolers of cold beer, soda, coconut water and more of that lethal rum punch. I eye it like it might attack me. That rum and I cannot be trusted. A second cooler is stocked with sandwiches, fruit and cookies to sustain us while we play castaway.
Charlie is anxious to get started before the tides change dramatically. With the exception of his assistant, armed with a broom to smooth the sand, we all stay silent and out of the way, afraid our presence will blemish its flawless complexion. Even Stephanie goes quiet. Watching Charlie in this environment, with his pants cuffed up to his knees, as he dodges between shadows and tributaries streaming with water, is like witnessing some kind of performance art. He stands tall. Crouches low.
From a distance, Derek and Peter capture snippets of it on camera.
Sensing eyes on me, I turn and catch Ethan watching me watch Charlie. His expression is quizzical. For self-preservation, I quickly look away.
