Page 21 of The Weight of Your Wishes

“That’s not really necessary,” I cough and nearly drop the bottle to the floor.

His eyes harden, and the little wrinkles at the corners deepen. With the last dredges of my sanity and a heavy sigh, I hand the bottle over and turn in the seat, giving him full access to touch and rub all over my bare skin.

And he does. His rough hands smooth the cool sunscreen onto every square inch of my back in a quick, efficient manner, thankfully. That combined with the thought that I’m about to be mere feet away from alligators is the only thing keeping my dick from rising to the bait. When I spin back around though, he looks satisfied, and my stomach does a little flip.

Something dawns on me. “How are we going to get the boat into the water? Usually, boats are in the water before you get into them, right?”

He smirks. “That’s right, but airboats can skim across land too. The swamp is shallow—only a few feet at its deepest—so it’ll glide over a little land, too.” That… makes sense, I guess, but I’m still not convinced, and he can tell. He chuckles to himself and hands me a pair of noise-canceling headphones. “You’re gonna need these.”

I put them on as he ties his hair up in a knot. I rub at my eyes and nearly jolt from my seat as the damn engine starts up. Grant wastes no time hitting the accelerator, and the propeller behind our backs kicks on. The entire boat rumbles beneath us as we glide across the grass straight into the water. My heart nearly exploded from my chest for a minute there right before we hit the water, but now, we’re coasting.

The trail narrows into one just wide enough for the boat to glide through; tall amber and green sawgrass ripple out on either side of us as we pass by. The blaring propeller seems so out of place here, and distantly, I wonder if it frightens any of the animals. Maybe it’ll keep the snakes away, at the very least. On the way here, Grant told me there are about thirty different species of snakes out here, and the thought sends a shiver down my spine.

We come up on a turn, and I watch Grant pull the long steering rod that controls the rudders, but the boat doesn’t slow at all. We turn to the right at full speed, and I’m pretty sure the whole damn boat is about to flip. I clutch the bar in front of me with slippery palms, but nothing happens. We even out and coast onward again.

Adrenaline races through my veins as I will myself to relax.

I trust Grant—trust him to drive this death trap in the middle of this swamp. He knows what he's doing. I glance sideways at him; he’s perfectly calm and in control. His deeply tanned, tattooed skin glistens with a thin sheen of sweat as he rests casually in the seat, his left hand gripping the rod and one foot on the pedal.

His eyes meet mine for a moment, and he smiles a bit, just a small curve of his lips. I wonder if he gets to share this with anyone else. He clearly loves doing it. Maybe Veronica comes out with him sometimes. I imagine her, as beautiful as she is, sitting right here next to him, and my temple throbs.

He eases his foot from the pedal, and we slow down until we’re idling. We take off our headphones simultaneously, and I can’t help the way my hands shake as I do.

“How do you like it?” he asks, more eager than I’ve ever heard him—which still isn’tthateager.

I run a hand through my windswept hair. “I can see why people like doing this. It’s a little scary though. I mean, was it really necessary to go that fast on a turn? I thought we’d flip.”

“It is, actually. If you slow down while steering, then you can’t turn. Airboats are useless if the propellers aren’t going. It’s gotta be full throttle or nothing. There aren’t any brakes, and you can’t reverse either.”

I hadn’t even considered that. I peer over the edge of the boat into the murky looking water. It’s probably only one or two feet deep right here. Dark green sea grass sways with the slow-moving current just beneath the surface. Lily pads are sprinkled atop the water all around us, their stems disappearing in the water, little yellow flowers blooming from them.

This place is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. It goes on for miles, as far as the eye can see in each direction. There’s an entire world out here, and it’s peaceful somehow. Maybe it’s how everything sways gently with the water and the way the wind breezes over the sawgrass, sending ripples through it.

I look at Grant and find him observing me carefully. “I think I like it here,” I say, and I mean it.

“I thought you would. Knew you’d like the quiet out here. You’re a lot like me when I was younger.”

He’s right. My thoughts buzz in my head incessantly all the time. It’s hard for me to even grab on to one of them and just focus, but I think this is the kind of place that would make my brain slow down for a little while.

“Coming out here forces me to relax. All I ever do is work, and I can’t seem to stop moving when I’m home either.” His lids fall shut as he looks up toward the sun. I stare at the curve of his neck, his sharp jaw beneath his beard. I frown and look away. It’s too much. He’s too much and too close.

I wish more than anything that he’d touch me—drape a heavy arm around my shoulders or rest his hand on my thigh. I wish that he wanted me.

We fall back into easy silence for a while, and eventually, he navigates us back to land. This time, we pass by forests of mangroves. It’s eerie the way their spindly roots grow through the surface of the water like stilts on a house. This place has a wildness to it—almost lawless. It’s no wonder people party out here, and I bet it’s a crazy good time.

It occurs to me that I haven’t really missed the carefree partying lifestyle I had back at college. All I ever thought about there was when the next house party would be and whom I was going to hook up with. Alcohol, too. Even if I was at my mom’s for the summer like usual, I’d still be finding things to get into. It’s a good thing, yet a small voice in the back of my head tells me I should try to make a friend or two here. I bet Sky can help.

I brush off the thought.

Let’s not screw shit up so soon.

* * *

The next week flies by in a blur, and I’m exhausted. I worked the last three nights in a row, and last night was the first shift I did without Sky. Grant was there, of course, and he did come out of his office and help me multiple times, asking if I needed a smoke break. It was nowhere near as bad as my first shift. Each day, I feel more comfortable. No one’s going to deck me in the face if I give them the wrong drink, and luckily, there haven’t been any hate crimes since the last incident.

Grant even told me that he’s proud of me for sticking to it. It was that phrase that made me realize how much I seek his approval; it makes me want to go the extra mile. Maybe that’s why I drag my ass out of bed—even though he’s not here to make me—and start cleaning the house.

I blast some nineties rock music through the speakers in his living room and get started. His house is already pretty clean as is, so it’s not too much work. I dust the wooden furniture and clean out the fridge, tossing the few expired condiments and some leftovers. All the pots, pans, cups, and mugs are already organized into their respective places.

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