Float Plan(51)

“What about the Paralympics?”

“There’s a guy who’s been after me to get my citizenship and join the US team, but I’ve always felt like it would be admitting I’m not capable of racing against able sailors,” he says. “Which is an ableist thing to believe, but that’s the ugly truth of it.”

“Okay, so … what if you assembled a team of sailors with disabilities and compete against able crews?” I suggest. “If you can’t join them, beat them.”

He regards me silently before the corner of his mouth kicks up in a wry grin. “I’d need a boat.”

“So we’ll get sponsors.”

“We?”

“Do you think I trust you to do this by yourself?” I say. “Besides, you’ll need someone to handle the operations while you’re off racing—and I don’t have a job.”

Keane laughs. “I’ll need three references and a letter of recommendation.”

“Can I use your brother as a reference?”

“Not if you want the job.”

“The first person you should probably contact is Jackson Kemp,” I say. “A little guilt money to get things started.”

This could all be for nothing, but talking keeps our minds off an unknown future, gives us something to plan, and late into the night we discuss building a nonprofit organization. And when the clock strikes the end of the year, Keane and I have filled his little notebook with possibilities.

To the west, fireworks paint the distant sky, which rules out St. Kitts as a destination. Maybe Keane is taking us to Nevis. Maybe Antigua or Guadeloupe or Dominica. It doesn’t really matter, because we’re together.

“It’s midnight.” He says the words as I’m thinking them, and my stomach twists itself into a knot. “Happy New Year, Anna.”

“Happy New Year.”

He kisses my forehead with his eyes closed, as if he can find the way without a map. His lips are feather-soft, and then gone. He touches my face, trailing his thumb from the corner of my mouth to a spot just below my ear, and tiny earthquakes explode in its wake. His eyes are open now, met with mine, and I can hardly breathe because what happens next will change everything. I am not in love with Keane Sullivan, but I could be. All it would take is accepting the heart he wears on his sleeve and promising not to break it. He leans in, his smile a spark that sets my nerve endings on fire.

And he is kissing me.

Slowly.

His fingers never leave my face.

There is no frantic clutching of clothes. No wild clash of tongues. This is not kissing as a precursor; this is him kissing me as if I am first, last, and everything in between. It feels so damn good, I can’t help but smile and his reply is a soft laugh that I catch in my mouth. The line between love and not-love is so very thin. Minutes pass. Hours. Decades. Lifetimes. His lips come away slowly, then he kisses the top of my nose and shifts his arm so I can tuck up against him. It’s not so very different from the way we always sit, except my mouth is filled with sweetness. His fingers move gently in my hair. And my heart is beating him, him, him.

“That was…” I trail off, unable to find the right word amid the thoughts piling up in my brain. I kissed Ben so many times, but kissing Keane is somehow … better. I don’t know how to process that.

“Better than calling Jackson Kemp an arse?”

I laugh, grateful for the way Keane always seems to know how to defuse the emotional bombs in my head. “Almost.”

“So, you know, I wasn’t plotting it,” he says. “But the opportunity arose, and you didn’t seem to mind, so I—”

“Stop talking.”

This time I kiss him, giving in to the pleasure of sinking my fingers into the softness of his hair. Paying attention to the sounds that teach me what he likes. I am not ready for more than this—not yet—but this is good. It is enough.





today is a doorway (25)





I wake when the sun comes through the open hatch in the V-berth and I hear the soft slap of water against a hull that isn’t sailing. Through the companionway I see Keane on deck, making up lines. Wherever we were going in the night, we’ve arrived. I climb out of bed and slip into the bathroom to brush my teeth because kissing him has become a distinct possibility and I don’t want morning breath. When I finish, he’s in the cabin, about to start brewing a pot of coffee.

“Good morning,” he says.

“Hi.” My cheeks are warm. I feel shy and I wonder if I’m the only one who can feel the undercurrent of bashfulness. “Did you sail all night?”

The cabin feels smaller than ever as I move toward him, not knowing how this works. Are we more than friends today? Or was last night a New Year’s Eve one-off?

“I did,” Keane says. “I had enough energy last night to power a city.”

“Thanks for letting me sleep.”

He reaches out, hands gentle on my hips as he pulls me in. My arms fit up around his neck and when our lips come together, there’s a hint of toothpaste in his mouth too. The first kiss is tentative and soft. In the space before the next kiss—no more than a heartbeat—need crashes over me like a wave. My hips roll against him and his hands move lower, pressing me closer until it’s hard to tell where I end and he begins. Unlike last night, today is a doorway. We just have to step through.