Page 53 of Rum Sips and Salty Lips

“But you are mad?” she asks.

“No, it’s been a rough day. I’m assuming same for you?”

“Yes.” She struggles to admit it. Like she’s never been able to admit she’s not okay.

“The water makes it better.” I reach for her hand and give it a quick squeeze, some assurance everything will be all right.

We arrive at the marina, and it doesn’t take us long to ready the boat for departure. She helps me where she can, and I comment that I’ll turn her into a sailor in no time.

She visibly relaxes. I don’t ask what was on her mind. I want to know, but I want her to stay this way. That has always been my goal, I think. Just to make her feel better. If that’s all I can have, I’ll take it.

I don’t want to talk about what’s on my mind. I might have started out annoyed at my clients. Now I’m aching that I can’t have her.

Once we make it out into the gulf, she disappears below for a moment. I don’t think anything of it. When she comes out to the deck again, she’s wearing one of the shirts I store on the boat. It’s a white short-sleeve polo shirt. It reaches down past her shorts, so it looks like she’s not wearing any. She’s also holding the collar and looking so content and satisfied, I almost wonder if she masturbated while she was changing.

“What are you doing?” I growl.

“Wearing clothes that don’t have my name on them.”

“Oh no, what if someone sees you?” I say in mock horror.

“Aren’t we in international waters or something? It doesn’t count.”

“No.” I should lecture her about international waters, but I don’t.

“It’s just you and me out here. I can relax,” she says.

That shouldn’t mean so much to me. I want to deny my world revolves around her. But I couldn’t even if I tried. Every part of my life here has been through her. I get how important it is thatwe stay in each other’s good graces. If this falls apart, I have far more to lose than she does.

A part of me doesn’t care. I’m fine with her being the center of my everything. It won’t be me that ruins it. I’ll do anything to hold on to her—I want to take the risk.

We pull out the sandwiches she packed, and eat while the sun sets behind us. She sits on the bench directly in front of the helm, like she did on that first sail. I watch her and the sails and the waves while I wait for her to tell me what’s on her mind, as patient as I can be. She’s come to me before and she’s here now. I hope I’ve proved to her that I am someone she can confide in.

I’m so much calmer now. The tightness in my chest is gone. No more racing heartbeat. It might be that I’m at sea, or it might be her. I think it’s both. She’s calmer too. Maybe this could be something we share—we both love the water. So this boat could beoursafe place.

“I had an investor call today,” she starts unexpectedly. “The same one as before. And even though I have ten years of data to show him, and an MBA, he shot down every idea I had.”

“Did he call you ‘little lady’?” I ask.

“No. He did call me ‘kid.’ He’s been investing longer than I have been working, but he doesn’t have any experience in clothing. Especially not athletic or athleisure. It doesn’t occur to him that I might be competent.”

People think owning a company means you don’t have a boss. It’s much more complicated. She reports to people as with any regular job.

“Will he force changes?” I ask.

“Not yet. He wants me to work closer with his protégé.” The way her face scrunches tells me she doesn’t like the person.

I want to ask about other investors, brainstorm ways she could cut this guy loose and survive. But she doesn’t need myhelp. She needs me to listen. So I take the opportunity to ask about something else.

“Do you do branded gear, by any chance?” She looks confused at my question. “My crew’s sun shirts and polos are terrible. I want to outfit them with new ones. I thought it could be your shirts and get them printed with our logo.”

“It would be expensive,” she says.

I shrug. “We can sell them in the gift shop too. People get to the dock all the time and realize they’ve forgotten something. Or they think they’ll use them back home.”

“I mean it, Orion. My margins are slim. I can’t give you a discount.” But she looks at me like she wants to. Or she wants something I can’t pinpoint.

“I wasn’t expecting you to. Okay, fine. If not yours, what’s another brand you’d recommend?” I ask.

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