Page 26 of A Christmas Harbor

David helped him crawl out of the berth, then led him to the aft end. “Do you prefer to be by the door or the wall?”

“No preference. You strike me as a sleep-near-the-door person.”

“I am.” David motioned for him to pass. “Switch on the electric blanket for us?”

“Sure, but we probably won’t need it,” Paul said as he climbed into the berth, nearly bonking his head on the low ceiling.

David unplugged the living room space heater but left on the outdoor display, in case anyone passing by needed a little light in their lives.

In the berth, Paul was stretched out atop the covers, illuminated by the reading light above David’s pillow. “This is way better than the triangle bed.”

“I agree.” David lay beside him, and for a long moment they just gazed at each other from the islands of their pillows.

Paul reached out and inserted his fingertips in the pocket of David’s undershirt. “I always wonder what we’re supposed to carry in these little pockets. Can’t fit a phone.”

“You can never have too many pockets.” The brush of fingers through the thin cotton was making David’s whole body tingle. “What else do you wonder about?”

“A lot of things.” Paul swept his palm over the plane of David’s pec, up over his shoulder. Then he slid his fingers under the sleeve of David’s undershirt and pushed it up. “To start with, I want to know what the rest of this tattoo looks like. And any others.”

“How do you know I have others?”

“I know three things about sailors: You drink, curse, and get tattoos. Then again, I also do those things, so it’s probably not determinative.”

The air was chilly against David’s back as he peeled off his shirt. He lay down again and angled his left shoulder forward to show the nautical star on his deltoid.

“A classic,” Paul said. “Original touch to put the waves cresting over it. Did you miss seeing the stars when you were underway?”

The old longing filled David’s chest. “I missed the stars more than the sun.”

Paul’s eyes softened. “You really are so goth.” His gaze traveled down to the submarine insignia tattoo over David’s heart. He traced the words beneath the dolphinfish, then said them aloud. “‘Silent Service.’ Gotta respect that. It’s not like you did it for the glory.”

A lump formed in David’s throat. Usually when people found out what he did, they’d practically recoil, thinking it either crazy or creepy or both.

“Your turn.” He tapped Paul’s left biceps, which featured a red bull head with red-tipped white horns. “Lifelong fan?”

“From birth to death. I used a fake ID to get this tattoo when I was sixteen, just after their last three-peat.” Paul made a pouty face. “Ever since then, they’ve never even made the finals.”

“And you think it’s your fault for getting the tattoo.”

Paul gasped. “I never thought of that! Thanks, now I hate myself.”

David booped the nose of the tattoo animal. “Do all your characters love the Chicago Bulls?”

“No. Most of them aren’t even into basketball.”

“Then you were wrong about there being nothingtoyou. Your fandom is something important you have all to yourself.”

Paul looked thoughtful. “You know, you’re right. I was a Bulls fan way before I became a writer, though not before I started making up stories in my head.”

“What kind of stories?”

“Like Michael Jordan being my best friend. We would rob banks together. Never got caught.”

“Amazing.” David touched Paul’s inner right arm, just below the elbow, where a tattoo of a Greek comedy mask lay—notably without its usual tragedy counterpart. “Did you forget the other half, or was it too painful to finish?”

“Neither, though that is a pretty sensitive spot. The plan was to get a tattoo to symbolize each of my published books. This is forSeriously, Though.”

“The one about the comedian.”

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