Float Plan(49)

“A candle won’t stay lit in this breeze,” I say. “But I think you’re still allowed to make a wish.”

He squints one eye, as though considering, and nods. “Done.”

We share a fork and his last bottle of Guinness as we eat the entire cake in one sitting, licking the melty chocolate frosting from our fingers. The sun is a sliver of fire on the horizon. We sit in silence, watching it rise, watching the sky turn gold.

“I think—” I turn to look at Keane. In the new morning light, his skin is as gold as the sky and the words dry up in my mouth. We look at each other too long, and his jaw twitches; he knows it too. I look away first. “I think it’s going to be a good day.”

“In my experience, today is usually not.”

“Then you are very lucky I’m here.”

Our eyes meet again. “Yes. I am.”

I flee to the cabin with the excuse of needing to wash the dishes, but what I need is to escape the intensity of his gaze. Except I can’t control my body’s response to him. Can’t slow my racing heart. Can’t get beyond the thought that friends don’t look at each other the way we did.

Is it too soon to want someone else? What happens to my love for Ben? Where does it go? Is this even real, or is it proximity? I sit in the cabin and try to pull myself together. Keane has gone from stranger to sailing partner to friend. Anything more could be a disaster. Or it could be really fucking incredible.

“Anna,” he calls. “Come play Scrabble with me?”

“Only if you use actual words.”

He laughs. “I should have bought you a Scrabble dictionary for Christmas.”

The tiles are still locked in place from our last game when I unfold the board on the bench between us. “How convenient that you didn’t.”

“You are a sore loser.”

“You cheat.”

Laughing, he reaches over and pushes the bill of my Crabbers ball cap down over my face. We play Scrabble until we get hungry and Keane volunteers to make lunch. He prepares heaping turkey sandwiches and thick slices of mango from a tree back in Jost Van Dyke. I roll the ball on the foredeck for Queenie to chase, then take over while Keane snoozes in the sun. We are back to normal as we sail into night, but when the following day breaks and we get closer to the green hills and red-tiled roofs of Saint Barthélemy, Keane grows tense and quiet, and I wonder if we haven’t made a mistake by coming here.





loud and defiant (24)





Gustavia is a beautiful village with tidy buildings and clean streets, and the beach off which we are anchored is covered with more seashells than anyone could count in a lifetime. Yet everything about this place feels wrong. Keane is a walking thundercloud, and as we weave our way through the New Year’s Eve crowd on the Rue Jeanne d’Arc, I keep waiting for his past to ambush him.

And then it does.

“Sullivan?” A man with salt-and-pepper hair springs up from a table filled with young sailors wearing matching red crew shirts from the New Year’s Eve regatta. A massive gold watch shines on his wrist, glinting when he shakes Keane’s hand. “God, it’s good to see you, kid. I didn’t know you were in town. Were you out on the racecourse today?”

The muscle in Keane’s jaw flexes, but the man misses it as he flicks the ash from his cigar onto the sidewalk. “No. We arrived this morning from Jost Van Dyke.”

“Good for you, kid.” The man clamps the cigar between his teeth and talks around it. “We won, so come have a victory drink.”

Keane glances at me, his expression uneasy. I don’t like St. Barths. The harbor and the water along the coastline are swarmed with mega-yachts owned by Russian billionaires, American politicians, and rap moguls, and I feel as out of place on this island as I did at Barbara Braithwaite’s dinner table. And I don’t know whether Keane is looking for an excuse to leave or permission to stay, but I am not the boss. I shrug. “Why not?”

Over glasses of ti’ punch that are terrible and strong, I am introduced to Jackson Kemp, the founder of the biggest waste management company in the United States, and the owner of the boat Keane sailed aboard five years ago. The same man whose email rejection in Nassau pushed Keane into a drunken binge.

“You’re looking great, kid.” Jackson claps him on the shoulder. “They’re doing amazing things with prosthetics these days. Almost as good as the real thing.”

The dismissive way he calls Keane “kid” crawls up my spine and settles between my shoulders. I don’t like this man or his careless language. Keane shoves a hand up through his hair and I don’t understand why he would continue doing something that causes him so much pain … until I realize I do understand.

“Shame they haven’t found a way to replace insensitive assholes yet.” I mutter it into my drink, but apparently loud enough for Jackson Kemp to hear. Keane blinks at me as if I am someone he’s never seen before—and right now I am. Jackson’s eyes widen, and he unleashes a booming laugh.

“Guess I deserved that.”

“I guess.”

“Listen, I’m throwing a party tonight at my villa. Y’all should come.” He looks from me to Keane and back, offering what might be as close to an apology as Keane is going to get. “The champagne will be flowing, and we’ll have a prime view of the fireworks.”