All That Jazz (Butler Cove #1)(60)

What I’d just done with Joey flashed through my mind, and I wished I could share that with him too. Even though I knew I wouldn’t have. What father would want to know that shit?

One day, I would arrange all these postcards in chronological order. Rows and rows. And I would track his movements around the world with a big world map. Maybe I would even follow in his footsteps. Maybe when I got to all these places I would understand the compulsion that kept him going and kept him away from me. It would all make sense when I put it together.

The boat rocked gently. I couldn’t feel anything anymore. My emotions had drained away. I was empty. I knew the entire day—the news and what I’d done—would hit me hard tomorrow morning and for bonus points, I’d be hung over too.

I fell asleep as the player hissed, and clicked, and turned endlessly, having reached the end of available revolutions on the record.





MY EYES SNAPPED open and I cringed at the blinding light. Even through the murky windows the sun was strong. Something had woken me. I’d lurched across the berth in my sleep, and there’d been a sound. A loud sound. Now, I heard voices shouting. My head throbbed and my mouth tasted like a pigeon vomit.

Thanks, vodka.

I slept with Joey last night. Oh my holy shit.

My dad. Oh my God. My dad. As soon as I thought about it, a cavern opened up inside me. An emptiness and a nothingness like nothing I’d ever felt before was at the center of every feeling. It was sucking everything, every part of me, in on itself.

My body curled up.

Grief?

Was this grief?

The shouts got louder. The boat lurched.

I groaned and clutched my head. I couldn’t clutch the empty pain inside my gut. Curling into a ball, I covered my head with my hands.

Daddy.

Daddy, this was a dream.

Please, Daddy.

You’re coming home.

I know you’re coming home.

There was another loud shout—a male voice close by. My bed tilted and I rolled. Oh shit. I opened my eyes. This was not a dream. There was water. Coming in down one side of the ladder I could see through the galley. My equilibrium told me we were leaning dangerously sideways. Thinking of the mast and the center of gravity of the hull, my heart exploded into a hurricane of fearful pounding. The boat was sinking. I was already moving. As I got upright, my head wanted to roll in pain off my neck but I shook it off, adrenaline surging through my veins.

A stack of postcards were floating in an inch of water, the ink bleeding all over the pace. A large guttural cry sounded and it was me. I made that sound.

I forgot trying to get to safety and tried to grab at the cards.

“There’s someone in there,” a male voice shouted in a desperate tone.

Before I could even think, I was in two feet of water. Everything was sideways. I was standing barefoot on the wood veneer sliding panel door that hid my cowgirl boot shoe box. The magazines holding my fathers pictures. Oh God. The magnitude of everything was too much. I watched in slow motion as the pile of vinyls slid off a shelf that was no longer a shelf hitting the water with a thud like a boulder.

The water gushed in. The boat was flipping.

I didn’t want to move. I could hear shouts getting frantic. And I watched as every memory I had of my father, every interaction, my entire relationship with him was swimming and sinking around me. I thought perhaps I should go with them.

Everything around me blurred, and I realized I was crying. Finally. I was crying. A face appeared in the drastically reduced opening.

A man.

He was yelling something at me.

I tried to engage my brain.

“We have to wait for the exit to submerge before you swim out okay?”

I stared at him.

“Okay?” he yelled.

I nodded.

Then the opening was closed off and the space filled so fast I could hardly take a moment to breathe. But somehow I did. I grabbed a final breath, sank and grabbed the hands in front of me. Salt stung my eyes. The water was cool but not cold. I let the hands pull me up and kicked to aid them. We were free of the boat. We popped above the surface and I spluttered, brushing the hair off my face and blinking against the burning salt.

Woody was in the water with me.

A big cheer sounded.

I looked around me, treading water, turning round and around. My father’s boat was gone. I let out a huge sob.

A boat I didn’t recognize bobbed nearby. A few men in preppy looking clothes and Nantucket red shorts, some on cell phones looking shell-shocked, were on board. There was a huge scratch on the hull of the big white boat. They’d hit my dad’s boat.

I turned my head and saw Harry’s boat too. He’d thrown a life ring and was pulling us in. We were moving through the water.





WOODY GOT ME onto the boat and they got me ashore. My body was shuddering. I was so cold. Even with the blankets around me. The EMT’s from the North End Fire Station looked me over. I was dehydrated, and they immediately stuck a drip into my arm. I didn’t even feel the needle as it went in. Big surprise as I was legit hungover and saltwater-logged. From my spot on an outside bench at Woody’s, I saw Sheriff Graves arresting one of the people on the other boat. Apparently they’d been drinking. Boating While Intoxicated carried a pretty harsh fine in our area.

My mother miraculously appeared from wherever she’d been. Perhaps Woody had called her. I wanted to want her. I wanted to need my parent. But the pain inside me seemed to have sprouted barbed needles that extended around me like a porcupine, and I couldn’t let her near me.