Float Plan(31)

“Then I guess I’ll take you up on the offer.”

We unload the groceries, and I tuck my ID and some cash into the pocket of my skirt and tie my hair back in a ponytail. Keane hands me a business card with his cell phone number printed on it. “In case you need bail money.”

Having never driven on the left-hand side of the road, I spend the first mile feeling like a head-on collision waiting to happen. When I reach a roundabout, I sit too long, afraid to merge into the circle. The car behind me honks impatiently, then cuts around me. Eventually I work up the nerve and take the exit that leads me to the main highway. I drive until I come to a smaller road that runs along the Atlantic coastline—a more rustic version of A1A back home—and stop when I reach a waterfront restaurant called da Conch Shack.

On the beach, a couple of islanders crack open conchs and the scent of fried fish hangs in the air. The place is packed, inside and out, and a pitcher or two of sunset-pink rum punch anchors nearly every picnic table on the beach.

I grab an unoccupied seat at the end of a small bar and order a beer from a bartender named Leon, feeling a little guilty because Keane would enjoy this place. I feel worse when I realize the first person who came to mind was not Ben. Except Keane has been my constant companion for almost two weeks and it feels strange to be somewhere without him.

As I people-watch, the woman sitting beside me tilts her left hand to admire her wedding ring. She’s about my age. A newlywed. My thumb reflexively grazes the underside of my ring finger to adjust my ring, but it’s not there.

My engagement ring was a family heirloom and Ben gave it to me on a random Tuesday night while I was watching TV.

“So, there’s this secluded little beach in Trinidad called Scotland Bay,” he said from the other end of the couch. He’d almost finished charting the course through the Caribbean and was working on the last map. “And I was thinking that if we can make it through the entire Caribbean without you wanting to murder me … maybe we could get married on that beach.”

I pretended he was interrupting me, even though I loved the idea of marrying him on a secluded beach on a tropical island. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Hey!” He snatched the TV remote from my hand and replaced it with a small blue velvet box. It was old and some of the velvet at the corners was worn away. “I’m trying to propose to you.”

On our first date—the one at the lighthouse—he’d spread a blanket on the sand. As we lay on the ground, looking up at the stars, he’d asked me to marry him. I laughed because I’d known him for three days, but I said yes.

“You already proposed,” I reminded him. “I’ve already accepted.”

“Yeah, but now I’m being serious.”

“Are you telling me you weren’t serious then?” I nudged him with my elbow, then opened the box to find a ring—a sapphire set with a halo of small white diamonds and pale blue aquamarines. My breath rushed out in a soft oh. I hadn’t ever imagined the perfect engagement ring, but this was it.

Ben took the ring from the box. Slipped it on my finger. Before he kissed me, he said, “I was serious then. Now. Always.”

I look at my bare hand. Ben’s parents took the ring after Ben died. It belonged in the Braithwaite family, their lawyer told me, and there was nothing in Ben’s will that said otherwise. All that remains is a fading tan line around my finger where the ring used to sit.

Fuck this. I’m not going to sit here feeling terrible. And after ten months of isolating myself from well-meaning friends and family, I’m kind of over being alone. I flag down the bartender.

“Hey, Leon,” I say. “I need something fun to do this afternoon. Something off the beaten path. Something adventurous.”

“I know just the place.” He grabs a paper napkin and talks while he draws a map. “It’s called Osprey Rock and it’s quite remote, so you need to be careful. Do you have a car?”

“Yes, a Jeep.”

“Good. The road is very rough,” he says. “Out there is a cove you can explore that pirates used as a hideaway, and if you’re feeling brave, you can cliff jump at Split Rock, but I don’t recommend doing that alone.”

“This is perfect. Thank you.”

On my way to the Jeep, I text Keane.

What you need: towels, swim trunks, water leg, lunch food, booze. I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes.





already mine (16)





“Anna, you have to tell me where we’re going,” Keane says as Leon’s directions take us down miles of bumpy dirt road, past salt flats and through scrubby vegetation that make it seem like we’re hopelessly lost. “What if it’s dangerous for a disabled man like me? It’s irresponsible for you not to tell me.”

He’s been trying to pry the secret from me since I got back to the marina and told him we were going somewhere cool. I laugh. “You’ll be able to do this. Trust me.”

After about five or six miles, when it feels like we are as far from civilization as we can possibly get, we reach a dusty parking lot beside a small beach. I glance over at Keane, who grins. “Oh, this is grand.”

“It gets better.”

We lock our valuables in the glove compartment and follow the curve of the beach toward the cliff path marked on Leon’s napkin map. As we’re walking, I notice a small white-and-brown dog sitting on the sand. There’s no one else on the beach—not a soul for miles—and I wonder if the dog is lost. It stands, tail wagging as we pass, but doesn’t try to follow us.