Something New (30 page)

When Ben relaxes his grip and releases my hand, an arctic cold sweeps through me. He grasps the door handle and pushes the door open, stretches his long, lean leg toward the pavement. I watch him get out of the Lexus, my heart suddenly pounding in my ears.

Without saying good-bye, he closes the door and starts to walk away from me, toward the marina, toward
his
something new.

Before I can think twice, I swing open the driver’s door with such force I am afraid it will snap off its hinges, and I jump out of the car.

“I don’t have a wet suit,” I call to him.

Ben stops in his tracks and slowly turns to me, a grin spreading across his face like the genesis of a brush fire. He places his hands on his hips and cocks his head to the side.

“That’s okay. I brought a spare. Just in case.”

I stand in the public bathroom of Pier Three, staring into the full-length faux mirror which looks suspiciously like aluminum foil. My fun house–like reflection is not a pretty sight, as I strongly resemble a giant deformed penguin, shiny black middle protruding over short stumpy legs.

It was no easy feat squeezing myself into the wet suit, which clearly reads
Women’s Size 8
but must have been mismarked because, fuck, it’s tight. I had thought, while squishing down my upper thigh with one hand and yanking up the suit with the other, then sucking in my stomach until I almost passed out in order to coax the stubborn zipper over my abdomen, that the wet suit might have some kind of magical
slimming effect on me, that I might even want to invest in one of my own to wear as a kind of industrial Spanx. However, one look in the mirror, distorted as it may be, dispels me of such a ridiculous notion.

I have a sudden urge to flee but know it would be impossible. Ben had said he’d meet me right outside the bathroom after he finished getting his own wet suit on, and I can hear him already, on the other side of the door, humming an old Eagles tune softly to himself.

I glance behind me at the far end of the bathroom. Just past the last stall is a window, roughly five feet off the ground. Unfortunately, it is only twelve inches square. Perhaps if I slathered this goddamned wet suit with lard I could manage to squeeze through. But barring the whole grease-and-slide maneuver, I am pretty well stuck. Where the hell is a vat of Crisco when you need it?

Ah well
, I think, squaring my shoulders. Surely I don’t look as bad as the distorted image in front of me would suggest. And anyway, if Ben Campbell finds my body repulsive, it will probably be a blessing in disguise. If he finds me repulsive, he won’t want to touch me or sleep with me or be interested in me on any level. And then I won’t have to make a decision that could ruin my marriage and force me to take a good hard look at my own character.

God, I hope I don’t look
that
bad.

I grab my shoulder bag from where it hangs on the paper towel crank and pull the bathroom door open. Stepping out, I turn to my right and see Ben leaning against the building, one knee bent, the sole of his foot planted firmly on the wall, beach towel in hand. His wet suit is unzipped and folded over at his waist so that his entire upper body is naked as a newborn. When I say that the sight of this man’s torso causes me to take a step backward, I am not exaggerating.
And I am lucky it was only
one
step, otherwise, I would have ended up in the marina. His chest is golden brown and taut, with a smattering of curly hair that thins out as it makes its way down to those amazing six-pack abs, the ones his white T-shirt only hinted at the day we met.

At this moment, I wish I were a superhero with the ability to freeze time so that I could reach out and brush my fingertips along the ridges of his stomach, the slight swell of his chest, the ropy curve of his biceps. He is not ripped like a weight lifter, but perfectly proportioned, sinewy and strong, a man who is in shape because he chases bad guys and jumps out of planes, not because he spends hours in a gym. This fact makes him even more appealing.

Mia’s words ring in my ears.
Oh, girl. You in a world of trouble.

He turns to me, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses, and smiles inscrutably. I am painfully self-conscious as he inspects my decidedly unsinewy body.

“Nina Montrose would look a lot better in this,” I say, trying for humor to cover my insecurity.

He frowns at me as he pushes himself away from the wall. “If you like that kind of thing, I guess.” He reaches out and touches me on the shoulder, and I can feel the heat of his fingertips through the eighth of an inch of black neoprene. “You look great,” he says. “Come on.”

After pulling the wet suit over his arms and torso, he guides me back toward the parking lot, then down a sandy path to the kids’ beach, a small alcove of sheltered shore smack-dab in the middle of the marina, where children can play without worrying about waves. There are only about a dozen other people there: a young bronzed couple catching whatever rays the March sun has to offer; a Hispanic mom and dad holding a toddler by the hand between them, lowering
her inch by inch until her toes hit the water and she squeals with delight; some teenagers trying their hands, or feet, at stand-up paddleboarding, though they appear to have consumed a few too many beers to really make a go of it. From where I stand I can see that their teeth are chattering despite their wet suits. Not a good sign.

I follow Ben down the sand to the edge of the water that abuts the pier. There, a skinny, shaggy-haired youth stands waiting for us. He wears happy-face board shorts that ride low along his hips, revealing a striking tan line that makes me think of a black-and-white cookie. On the wooden planking next to him sit two oversized surfboards, one turquoise, the other white, each with a rectangular strip of rubber matting in the center. Leaning against an open crate filled with life preservers are a couple of long paddles.

“Eric,” Ben calls out as we approach. “This is Ellen.”

The kid, whom I expect to shrug and mumble
Dude
, stretches out his hand to me. “Nice to meet you, Ellen.”

“You, too,” I reply, shaking his hand.

“Have you ever paddle surfed before?” he asks.

“Uh, no.”

“You’re going to love it. It’s a good day for it, too.” He glances up at the sun, which is on its downward journey toward the horizon. “A little cool, but no wind at all.”

As I watch, the two men haul the boards from the pier to the shallow water. I drop my bag next to Ben’s beach towel and take a step forward, submerging my feet into the freezing surf.
Holy shit, it’s cold
, I think as I retreat to the safety of the dry sand.
No way. No way, no way.

Eric holds the white board steady against the lazy tide while Ben pushes the turquoise board in my direction. I shake my head slightly as Eric begins to explain the basic concept of paddleboarding.

“It’s easy peasy lemon-squeezy,” he says, and I can’t help but wonder how recently he graduated from kindergarten. “You just crouch down,” he continues, climbing onto the board to demonstrate, “get your bearings, then stand up.” He springs to his feet with minimal effort, maintaining a light grip on the long paddle as he does.

“I might have left my bearings at home,” I say, and receive a toothy grin from Ben. Eric looks confused, but he shrugs good-naturedly, then gives us a lesson on how to use the paddle to maneuver.

“Ladies first,” Ben says, gesturing to the turquoise board.

This time, there can be no mistaking my head shake, as I probably resemble one of those fembots from
The Six Million Dollar Man
when they malfunctioned and started to smoke.

“Maybe I’ll just watch you for a little while.”
Which would be even more fun if you pulled your wet suit back down!

“You don’t go, I don’t go,” he threatens, but I cross my arms over my chest, unconvinced.

“This is
your
thing,” I say defiantly. “Not mine.”

He regards me for a few seconds. “You really don’t want to try this.”

“I’ve been trying to tell you that all along,” I retort, but I am smiling. “Oh, for God’s sake!” I take a deep breath and stomp toward the turquoise board that Ben holds, ignoring the fact that the water feels like a Slurpee and my innate sense of balance has not been tested for three decades, since I placed second in the balance beam competition at the Grady Junior High Gymnastics Meet. I was so excited to have won a silver medal that I did a spontaneous back handspring into the wooden bleachers that lined the gymnasium and tore my rotator cuff. I didn’t even know what a rotator cuff was, aside from the fact that it hurt like a son of a bitch, but I did know
that it was the end of my dreams of becoming the next Nadia Comaneci, which was actually just fine with me because I was allowed to start eating dessert again.

The water reaches my knees as I drag the board away from Ben and set myself gingerly upon it. It rocks to one side, then the other before I can steady it. Not for the first time in the past five minutes, I wonder what the hell I am doing here. I could be home watching a movie on the big screen, or playing the Wii (I love the tennis game), or drinking a dirty vodka martini with the bleu cheese–stuffed olives I keep hidden in the outside fridge. Instead, I am lying on a polyurethane-and-fiberglass harbinger of doom, about to make an ass of myself.

Much to my relief, Ben is not watching me as I try to keep the board level enough to get into a crouch. He has waded over to his board and has begun the arduous process of getting to his own feet. And although he starts a few seconds after me, when I glance at him, he is already standing. I give myself a little pep talk, then manage to push myself to my feet. The board wobbles beneath me for a precarious moment, and I am certain I am about to plunge into the frigid sea, but I quickly compensate, and I realize that if I tighten my thighs, and glutes, and calves, and my feet and toes, I can keep the board static. (I won’t be able to walk tomorrow for all the stress I am putting on my legs, but at least I won’t freeze my ass off.) Carefully, I reach down and pick up the paddle, just as Ben makes his way over to me.

“Not too hard, huh?” he asks. The gleeful smile that radiates from his handsome face instantly erases the lines of tension around his eyes and mouth and makes him look about twelve.

“Not at all,” I reply.
As long as I keep every muscle from my ass to my toenails clenched tighter than a drum.

“Hey,” Eric calls to us. I turn my head and forget to stay
taut, causing my board to dip to the right. I immediately squeeze my butt cheeks together and regain control. But I don’t make the mistake of turning back to Eric again. He’ll just have to talk to the back of my head. Which he does.

“Don’t go past the buoys,” he instructs. “Not too many boats coming and going right now, but there’s a few. The wake’s not too good for beginners.”

Since I am not facing him, I can’t be sure, but it sounds like he is grinning when he says this. Once again, not a good sign.

I spend a few minutes getting the feel of the board and the paddle in my hands, slicing the oar through the water, first on my left, then on my right, noting that now my upper body is getting in on the action, from my hands all the way up my arms and to my chest. I won’t be able to move
at all
tomorrow, which is fine, because my kids’ closets can wait one more day. As I start to pick up speed, I discover that Eric was right. It is, indeed, easy peasy lemon-squeezy. Ben is a few yards ahead of me, looking as though he has been doing this his whole life, making powerful cuts in the water that thrust his board forward at a hasty clip. He turns back to me, smiling.

“This is good, right?” he says, and I laugh my response. Because it
is
good. I am doing something I have never dreamed of doing; I’m standing on a surfboard in the marina, my whole body straining, feeling wonderfully alive and in the moment. My thoughts have taken a breather, and the only work my brain is doing is sending messages to all of my muscle groups, telling them what they need to do to keep me upright and on the board. It is such a peaceful state, so Zen-like, and so unfamiliar to me that I want to bottle it and store it up for some future overthinking emergency.

Ben gestures with his head toward the other side of the
small cove, where the marina is lined with million-dollar houses built so close together that you can shake hands with your neighbor through your kitchen windows. I nod and follow him.

The board glides over the water, the sun shimmers on the surface, an ever-changing pattern of light on the dark turquoise quilt. My heart pounds and my muscles strain with each stroke. I am exhilarated. A single image flashes briefly across the blank canvas of my mind, of me gazing at my reflection this morning. I liked the woman I saw. And although, at this moment, I have no mirror to look into, I like her even more now.

Ten yards from the private docks on the far side of the cove, Ben stops paddling and waits for me to slide up beside him. I plunge my oar into the water and rotate it, expertly bringing my board to a stop. Feeling triumphant, I glance at Ben to find him watching me.

“You’re awesome,” he says, and I am excessively pleased by his praise.
Take
that,
Nina Montrose!

“This is actually pretty great,” I admit. It would be better in the Bahamas where the water temperature is like eighty-seven degrees, but as long as I stay afloat, I like it just fine.

“Race you back?” he asks, deftly swinging the nose of the board around with one fluid stroke of the paddle.

“Nah,” I answer, then follow his example, cranking the oar until I am facing Pier Three. I have no desire to compete with this man, and moreover, I don’t want to lose this sense of tranquillity by adding a challenge to the mix.

“Me either,” he says, as if he knows what I’m thinking, what I’m feeling. And maybe he does.

Our return journey is slow and languid and, for the most part, we remain side by side. We are able to chat, but do so
only minimally; occasionally one of us will point to a boat with a humorous name like
The Happy Hookers
(fisherman joke) or a house designed to look like it belongs in the Swiss Alps (why?) or a pelican dive-bombing for his afternoon snack. Pier Three grows larger as we approach, but it is not until I hear the rev of a boat engine that I realize we have drifted farther out than we should have. The buoys bob up and down a mere ten feet from where we are.