I cling tightly to him as if I am lost at sea.
Each thrust of his hips sends both of us to a new height. I cry out his name in the great wide open. Soon, I clench around him and explode into a thousand little pieces. With a few deep grunts, he comes soon after me. His grunts coming from the dark animal deep within him.
We collapse into each other in the safety of the little boat. Our arms around each other and our lips locking.
Chapter 8
Fletcher
“Y’all took a while, sweethearts,” Aunt Beattie remarks with a wry smile as she receives the lobsters from my outstretched hands. She bobs them up and down in her hands and seems pleased with their weight, and then she passes them to her husband.
“There weren’t any in net,” I explain sheepishly. “So I caught these myself. Had to dive for them.”
“Not bad. Not bad.” Uncle Pete admires them before dropping them into the boiling pot. There is a loud hiss. I’m not sure if it’s the pot or the lobsters.
“My dear, you’re all wet! Did you go swimming, too?” Aunt Beattie examines Amelia’s dress closely. Damn it. I forget how sharp the old lady’s eyes are. I try to look as nonchalant as possible as she scrutinizes our faces. Aunt Beattie used to be a schoolteacher, and she could smell children’s lies from a mile away.
Amelia turns a bright red like the lobsters and stammers. “N—no, I, I just got splashed when he got back into the boat.” She tugs at her wet sundress to keep it from clinging tightly to the curves of her body. It is hard for me to look away from her. I want to take her back into the boat and claim her all over again.
“Well.” The older woman shakes her head. “Darling, let us get you something dry to wear, or you’ll catch a cold!”
“Fletcher’s clothes are wet, too.” She directs the attention away from herself like a child telling on a classmate on the playground. Aunt Beattie coaxes her into the small bedroom.
“So it’s not Mr. Payne anymore?” the older woman teases. She also gives me an appraising look and adds dryly, “He’ll be fine.”
Uncle Pete, oblivious of his wife’s suspicions, watches the sputtering pot with childish delight and sets the table for four. In a minute, Amelia emerges in a baggy T-shirt commemorating a Sunday school picnic and a modest, knee-length skirt. Both belong to Aunt Beattie. She might as well put the girl in a nun’s habit.
Soon the delicious smell of cooked lobster wafts from the stove and we sit down at the square dining table set for four. Aunt Beattie cuts and drops the chunks of lobster meat into toasted hotdog buns with home-made mayo on top. Dollops and dollops of mayo. The rolls are just as good as I remember, and I am pleased when Amelia wolfed down two of them. She’s famished. We’ve burned a lot of calories this afternoon.
“Sweetheart, have you ever gone lobster fishing before?” Aunt Beattie opens up the conversation with an inviting smile.
Amelia smiles back and tries to answer with a mouthful of food, “No, it was my first time.” Our eyes meet accidentally and she gets flustered. “It was nice on the water,” she adds quickly.
“Did you like being in the boat, Darling?”
I know that the same memory flashes in both of our minds and our eyes meet again. Amelia lowers her thick lashes and turns pink. “It’s a nice boat.”
“Isn’t it?” Aunt Beattie says cheerfully. “Not too big. Not too small.” I can’t tell if the old lady is teasing us or just making conversation. “Roomy. Perfect size for two people.” She stops emphatically.
“Of course it’s the perfect size! Fletcher’s dad and I built it by hand. We used to spend entire days in it,” Uncle Pete blurts out and his wife glares at him. “What? That’s what we made it for! Fishing.”
I fight back a chortle and keep the potato soup from squirting out of my nose. Amelia glares, too.
“So, are you from around here?” Aunt Beattie changes the subject as she passes around a bowl of coleslaw.
“We moved here five years ago.”
“Just you?”
“Me and my mom.”
“Oh, really? You must bring her here sometime. I’d love to meet her. It’s always nice to meet new people. Does she knit? I can invite her to our knitting club, too.”
She shakes her head. “Her health is not good, so she doesn’t leave the house much.”
“And you support the two of you?” Aunt Beattie raises her thick gray eyebrows. “All by yourself, Sweetheart?”
I had no idea, but it all makes sense: the crappy truck, the shitty cafe job, and the home address in the sketchy part of town.
Aunt Beattie moves the conversation along. She scoops some coleslaw into our plates and each scoop lands with a forceful “splat!” “And Darling, where did you grow up?”
“I grew up on the East Coast,” she answers. “Right outside of New York.” I realize how little I know about her. She didn’t just drop out of the sky yesterday. She has a past, just like me.
“New Jersey? Long Island? Connecticut?”
“New—New Jersey.” She stares down at her food and takes a small bite.
“Really? Where did you live in New Jersey?” I interrupt. I wonder if our paths have crossed in the past. Why she has never brought it up, all this time that she knows that I currently live in New York?
“Um, I mean, all over. We moved around a lot. I don’t really remember.” Her voice trails off at the end. It sounds like an obvious lie.
I say nothing. I’m sure there’s a reason that she doesn’t want to talk about it. An awkward silence falls on all of us. Uncle Pete clears his throat and turns to me. “So,
