Page 115 of The Anchor Holds

It wasn’t that I didn’t trust Elliot. I did. With my life. But there was a point where it stopped being about his competence on the ocean—which I was sure was excellent given it was his job and he was still alive.

“You don’t like the ocean.” He didn’t smile, though his eyes twinkled. “You’ve never been on a boat.” The way he said it was as if I’d said I’d never had a hot dog or driven a car.

“I’ve been onyachts,” I countered. I didn’t feel the need to mention that they were all anchored at the time.

Elliot seemed to call my bluff with nothing more than a quirk to his lip. “You’ve never been on a boat.” He folded his arms over his chest.

“I’m smart enough to respect something more powerful, infinitely older and much more pissed off than I could ever be.” I waved to the ocean.

He stared at me for a moment, smoky eyes still twinkling. “You think the ocean is pissed off?” His eyes skipped to the location in question, which was calm and mild, the sky blue, nothing but a gentle breeze in the air.

I nodded. “You’re a fisherman. You don’t think she’s a sentient being?”

He appeared thoughtful, running his hands through his hair. “And you think she’s a she?”

I rolled my eyes. “Any force in nature with enough power to ruin cities and bury men in watery graves is a woman.”

“Of course,” he responded seriously. The tightness of his mouth made me think he was trying very hard not to smile.

“And she’s pissed,” I continued, determined to get my point across. “Because we’ve been pillaging her resources, polluting her, sullying everything ancient and fierce inside of her for our food, for our cosmetics, for our tourism. I want no part in it.”

All of this was true. And it made me sound appropriately environmentally conscious. Mainly, I was afraid of the ocean, but no way would I admit that.

Elliot sucked his teeth, digesting my words while rapping his hands on the edge of the boat. “The ocean is my life, you know this.” The twinkle in his eye dimmed as we ventured into moreserious territory, the land of hard truths, or the ocean of it, if you wanted to stay on theme. I liked my heeled feet firmly on land, where I could control most variables. Elliot lived at the mercy of an entity we’d never control, who would surely rise to levels to destroy our cities. We were completely wrong for each other.

“I do.” I reached into my purse, grasping my flask and sipping my vodka so I could use that as the reason for the burn in my throat. “We’re like the reverse ofThe Little Mermaid.”

He smirked. “You consider me a mermaid? I definitely think I can measure up in the hair department.”

Though I wanted to smile despite the subject matter, I kept my lips pursed. Elliot wouldn’t be insulted or emasculated by the comparison toThe Little Mermaid.

“You are someone who the ocean would weigh and find worthy, she wouldn’t drown you in her endless depths. Me, on the other hand…” I put my hand to my chest. “I have a feeling the ocean may rightly take me as someone who deserves to be punished for my sins. Not recycling and such,” I teased.

He didn’t know the breadth of my sins, but he knew me.

“Do you trust me?” he asked.

“Yes,” I easily replied.

He extended his hand again. “Then trust that I know this being that I’ve grown up on. That I know there is no way you could be found lacking, or that I’d let you go anywhere near danger. Trust me to take care of you and show you something you just may like.” He winked at me. “Something bigger than you, something you can’t control, just surrender to. And if you’re a good girl, I’ll fuck you over the edge while we watch the sun set with nothing but water on the horizon.”

A hedonistic thrill swam through my veins in response to the sexual promise. But it was my jack-hammering heart that had me gripping his hand and letting him pull me onto the boat.

“We have not been swallowed into the ocean’s depths yet,” Elliot spoke into my hair, his arms around my waist, torso settling against my back.

My hands were on the well-worn hull of the boat. Even with fading paint, the wood was smooth, telling stories of years. Of memories, of lives lived at the mercy of the ocean, what she had to offer. My eyes wandered to the mounted contraptions on the boat, presumably used to haul the catch in.

We weren’t fishing today, but I could see Elliot, sleeves rolled up, hoisting in the fish, lobster. His father too.

The low splash of the waves against the boat was a pleasing sound, as was the gentle rock that thankfully didn’t have my stomach lurching as it had in the beginning.

Being sea sick would’ve been too ironic at that moment.

With my stomach settled, I enjoyed the way the salty air kissed my face. The beauty of the horizon that stretched endlessly in front of us.

My phone didn’t have service, and there was no one else around. No ex-boyfriends lurking in the shadows. No criminal employers. No unknown shooter to be hyper-vigilant of. Nothing to worry about. Nothing to do.

We could’ve been the last two people in the world.

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