Someone passed Marilyn a mug. The thin liquid scorched her mouth. She recoiled, sloshing coffee and soaking the leftover toast. Rand swung his head in her direction and grimaced. Sorry, she hissed, thinking mostly of her friend’s arms around her. She felt weak, robbed. Self-robbed—her ego had prevented her from partnering with Jane the whole trip instead of turning to her husband, who now was setting to work pulverizing a bacon strip.
The great Rand. The sway he held here. Across the table a ruddy-cheeked duo Marilyn sort of knew jointly refused to acknowledge her. Beside the taller of the two, Jason—compact and brown-skinned with close-cropped hair—grinned sheepishly at her before quickly cutting his eyes again at his hand-held. He was a meticulous guy, dedicated to training one small step at a time. Read up on every journal and discussion board. Was his previous regard for her on mute? Next to him was Matt, a shaggy ginger, precise where it counted, which at this moment entailed accurately measuring the waffle-to-egg ratio on his fork. He dependably crewed for Leo, the boat’s skipper, a smooth duck in his late twenties with silky, elegantly tousled fair hair. He was also scrolling through his handset, and only picking at his food.
She wondered if she should try to eat. She swigged her cooling coffee. She listened to people chew. Her stomach turned.
When Rand pushed back from the table everyone glanced up. He resettled in his chair, bumping her arm.
Sorry, she hissed again.
He cocked his head at Leo. There a plan? he said.
Her apology last night also hadn’t flown. He’d returned to the room late, undressed and showered and collapsed into bed. She remained on the sofa while a rising wind conked the trees outside. With any luck the whole rocky island would bust. What hadn’t she already lost, including her recent pride? She’d encountered a frightened fish or Rand’s overkill knock—what did it matter? In her panic she’d forgotten the drill. All there was to know. The cabin’s eaves creaked. He tossed in bed. Hours passed. I’m sorry, she finally said. Go to sleep, he snapped. Dead. I thought you were dead. You know? For the rest of the night she replayed his words. She did know. The terror and guilt of outliving. The sensation of falling out of life’s rotation into some cruel limbo. The pickled dread of what might come next—more dull life and then more. He’d lost his parents to a car wreck when he was a baby, too young for him to recall. But he did remember close friends who died while cave-and wreck-diving—men and women he’d sometimes name after lovemaking, his fingers afloat in her hair, chuckling at old, once-shared jokes. Instead of twisting alone in his own private versions of hell while she stewed in hers on the sofa. Did he sleep at all? When grey light soaked the edges of the drawn curtains she scuttled to dreamlessness like a slick pool. And when, drained and exhausted, she opened her eyes again, he’d already left.
Leo coughed, squared his shoulders and puffed his chest. He rapped his knuckles on the table. Okay, he announced. Here’s the situation. Marine forecast says twelve knots out of the northwest by ten. That’s a lot of rock and roll. I can get you freaks out there, but I doubt you can get down. Or get your sorry asses back on board.
Rand stared at him and she followed suit, noting as she often did Leo’s peculiarly elfin nose and jawline, the skin strangely unsullied by sun or windburn from the six or seven times a season she and Rand chartered his services. A leather bracelet and a chunky steel-banded dive watch adorned his slender wrists—the watch expensive-looking and impressive only to non-initiates since technical divers relied on computers. Now, under Rand’s steadfast gaze, Leo’s shoulders caved slightly. Okay, he said. So you can get down and back. But what about these pussies here?
Jason and Matt and rest of the guys snickered. Matt flipped Leo off. Pussies? one of the guys said. Bro, that is so unfair.
With a snicker Leo gave a wave of his long tapered fingers in her direction. Sorry Mare, he said. Don’t mind me. I’m just a pig.
Rand stretched then got to his feet. His acne scars had taken on a grey cast. Purple crescents rimmed his eyes. No rare blue today. We’re on, he said.
No please, she responded to Leo. Don’t mind me.
As if anyone was. Someone knocked her chair getting by and then someone else did. Guys. Guys in the morning. She could almost sniff the testosterone. Probably they’d all drown. Even Jane. Even her husband clearly not at his best, who couldn’t find it within himself to disappoint anyone, except his wife. Someone should stop them, insist they sit this one out. Not leave her stranded with the greasy dishes and crusts streaked with jam, tea-party leftovers from a social event held in honour of an imaginary friend invented by some suck.
15