Page 23 of That Fake Feeling
Istick out an oar to push us off the rocks and out of harm’s way, but it doesn’t quite reach.IfIjust lift the oar out of its squeaky housing and stretch a little bit,I’llbe able to…
Fuck.Thedamn rowboat wobbles,Ilose my grip, and the oar splashes into the water.
“Oh, shit,”Rosesays. “Willit sink?”
“Howthe hell wouldIknow?”
Partof me is tempted to leave it.Butwe can’t get back with one oar.Someonewould have to come out and bring us another one, or tow us, or something equally humiliating.AndIsure as hell don’t need the photographers turning this into another story about me being useless.
“It’sokay.IthinkIcan reach it.”Ilean over the side and just manage to brush my fingers over the end before the oar drifts further away.
Ilook over my shoulder atRose. “Grabthe other oar and steer us a bit closer.”
Shelooks at it likeI’vejust asked her to split an atom. “I’lltry.”
Theboat immediately starts to turn in the opposite direction.
Jesus.Ishould know better than to think someone who spends all their time with their nose stuck in a textbook could do something practical.
“Otherway,”Isnap.
“Okay, okay.I’venever driven a boat before.”
Ihold tight onto the side with one hand and lean over at full stretch, my feet braced against the opposite side of the boat.
Finally, she swings us back in the right direction.
“That’sbetter.Keepgoing.”
Theedge of the boat digs into my belly, but the gap between the end of my fingers and the oar is getting smaller.
“Almost.”
We’renow at the point where we’re in danger ofRosespinning us farther away again.Thismight be my last chance.
Ipush my feet back hard and make one last desperate grab.
ButImisjudge the force, and the boat tips down.Andkeeps going.
Arush of panic surges through me as it seems inevitable my face is about to splat into the water. “Whoa.”
“Oh,God,”Roseyells.
ThesideI’mleaning on almost goes under.
“No.Connor, no.”Hervoice is tight with fear.
Justas the balance of the boat is almost at the point of no return andI’mhaving visions of my feet flipping over my head,Iget my fingers around the oar.Irefuse to go down empty-handed.
ButthankGod, the boat lurches back in the opposite direction.Reliefwashes over me as we rock from side to side and regain our balance.Iscramble back to the seat and hold my prize in the air.
“Gotit.Victory.”
“Christ,Connor.”Roseholds out her hand to show me how much it’s trembling. “Whythe hell would you risk that?”
Iram the oar back into its housing while we drift back toward the rocky shore and the undergrowth.
“Canyou imagine the captions to these photos if someone had to come and help us? ‘Connorcan’t hold on to his profits or his oar,’ ‘It’sbeen a long time sinceConnormade a big splash,’ ‘Dashwood’sCentralParkoar-deal.’I’mnot giving the bastards the pleasure.”
