Page 39 of Whiskey Splash

Holy shit! I know it’s gravity that’s pulling me down the line, but I feel weightless.

Free. Unbound.

Air rips through me, is part of me, the wildness and speed blasting through my skin— gasping for me. I yell out, not in fear, but in triumph, releasing the knots of anxiety twisted in my stomach. The zip of air bolts through my extremities, wind and sky underneath me, above me, on every side.

The rush.

The speed.

My head is light and without thinking I let go of the strap at my navel, unwrapping my clenched-white knuckles. The ache in my fingers is blasted with wind, and I feel the resistance of the sky, as if it has surface and texture and I could paint upon it if I tried.

I hear hooting to my left and Desmond is beside me—arms wide, soaking in the blaze of the sun. Desmond’s howling becomes part of the air, part of the wild pressure that has my legs soaring and my cheeks sore from smiling so wide.

This is what a bird must feel like, a bullet, a current of storm slicing through the weightless azure.

Reckless.

Free.

Alive.

I laugh, adjusting in my seat and pull myself upright with the center strap. The new position cuts through the air differently, the air finding a new flow against the resistance of my body.

“I knew you could do it!” I hear Desmond yell, and for the first time in my life I feel like I could do anything—that I’m not bound by the rules of the world, that I am an agent of change and significance, that I have all the power to ask for and receive whatever I want.

My eyes soar over the evergreen canopy, a bristling commotion of colorful leaves, and to my right is Desmond flying. He’s the wild risk that scares me and lights me on fire, the match I want to strike so it burns me to the ground and consumes me like this wild ravage of air.

He’s that one tiny step into something wild and dangerous, and then—

Free fall.

Chapter Eleven

Idig my bare feet into the sand, my strappy silver heels in my tote bag. I sit across from Desmond on a remote part of the island at a restaurant that feels more like someone’s backyard and private beach than a certified establishment.

A tiny two-person table is set on the beach a few feet from the water’s edge with a path in the sand leading back up to the restaurant’s patio. The sand of the path is raked with swirls like a tiny Zen garden and holes have been dug on both sides of the path—each of the holes filled with flickering candles. If that wasn’t romantic enough, the Mediterranean style restaurant has a courtyard fence that wraps around the back patio and the white stucco is covered in pink bougainvillea vines. Above it, we can see the tops of palm trees leafing out in all directions making it so no one can see us on the beach.

It’s secluded and romantic and makes it feel like we’re alone. And to top it off, a Moroccan lantern is suspended from an iron pole above us—bathing us in golden light—with delicate streamers tied to the lantern’s bottom which toss and braid in the lilting wind.

A mouthwatering ceviche sits at the center of the table, the fresh fish melting in my mouth in a sauce of lime butter, sprinkled with the perfect chili powder bite to leave my lips humming. My sister would be jealous.

Desmond sits casually opposite me in jeans and a blue button up, the type of thing you’d see a model wearing while lounging on a yacht. Preppy-hot. Casual-hot. I-roll-out-of-bed-looking-this-good-all-the-time hot.

Desmond’s been nursing a glass of whiskey and seducing me with his eyes, dancing them over my skin like he can’t get enough of the dress I’m wearing. It’s a sundress, all white, with tiny polka dots on it that have to shine in the light for you to see them. The dress hugs in all the right places, then flares out with the type of thin fabric the wind loves to play with. It has capped sleeves for romance and a row of pearl buttons stringing up front. The neckline is, well, provocative, depending on how many buttons you want to leave open. And it’s the same situation with the leg slit, open buttons mean more thigh for Desmond’s eyes to dance on. I’ve left it deliciously enticing on both ends, this being a dress I actually feel sexy in, unlike Arie’s gold-fringe stripper outfit.

We’ve covered all manner of topics from growing up in Southern California (both of us are So Cal natives it turns out) to massage school, favorite bands, and preferred masturbation positions. Because, yes, this is me, and there’s no way I can have a conversation without the conversation inevitably turning to something embarrassing and dirty.

“You ever think about leaving Hawaii and coming back to So Cal?” Desmond asks, and the little flutter in my stomach wonders if he’s asking because that’s where he lives. Of course, I push the thought away, knowing I’m getting way too far ahead of myself. One kiss and a sexy dinner doesn’t mean he wants me moving to his side of the Pacific. Heck, I haven’t even decided if I like him that much.

“I don’t know,” I say, twisting my lavender hair. “I’ve never really thought about where I wanted to be long term. To be honest, I’ve always gone wherever Arie is.”

“Really? What about college?”

I dab my mouth with a napkin. “I found a massage school in the same city where Arie was learning the culinary trade. Wow, when I say this out loud, that sounds really lame. It’s just she’sthe one who always had the ambition and drive. She’s the one with the need for a restaurant and to be semi-famous. I, on the other hand, I …” I trail off, not sure what to say.

Desmond waits, watching me quietly and I scoop up my glass of wine and stare out at the ocean. Everything is purple and singing with twilight. The sun is down, but the last hints of color are still glazing the horizon. Far off, beyond Desmond’s shoulder, I can see dark clouds rolling in, flashes of lightning popping the clouds with brightness like flashbulbs going off.

“There’s a storm coming,” I say, nodding to the darkness, but he doesn’t turn to look at it.

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