The Islanders (15 page)

 

Yes, I can describe my boyfriend.

First of all, his name is Lucas Cabral. I guess he's a little taller than average, but not basketball-playing tall. Just tall enough that when we're standing up and he kisses me, I have to tilt my head back a little.

He has blond hair that tends to fall down over his eyes sometimes, which is too bad because he has these great eyes that make you get sort of wobbly when he looks at you. I mean, that's what happens to me, anyway. I don't suppose his eyes have much effect at all on some people. Other guys, for example.

His body? Well, he's thin, which does not mean he doesn't have muscles; he does. They're just not those bunched-up, bulky, weight-lifting muscles like my previous boyfriend, Jake, had.

He has long legs, so he probably looks great in shorts or a bathing suit. I'm guessing, though, because I've never actually seen him in either. He's your basic Levis kind of guy.

I have imagined him in something other than Levis, though, like . . . Never mind.

What else? Okay, he has nice shoulders. And very nice hands, very gentle. Also, not that I have a lot of guys to
compare him with, but I think he has really, really great lips.

Really.

And that's all I can say. At this time.

Except one more thing: When he holds me in his arms or kisses me, I have this feeling that we're a perfect fit. Do you know what I mean? Like we were designed especially to go together. Now, that's really all I can say.

Nude Descending a Staircase

It's a famous abstract painting of a woman coming down the stairs, except the artist has painted it so that it's all about motion, not about one still picture.

That's Christopher Shupe. Not nude, obviously, but always in motion. Always on his way somewhere. Sometimes he's a sort of blur, appearing, disappearing, back and forth, hello, good-bye, gotta run.

As to his actual body, it's mostly legs. And when I say legs I mean all the way up to his lower back, if you see what I'm saying. Long, very muscular, very tight, on-the-move legs. If Bugs Bunny were African-American (and come to think of it, are you sure he's not?), he could play the role of Christopher in a movie.

Although Christopher is much more handsome than Bugs Bunny. In fact, the smallest touch from Christopher makes me start to rethink all the wise things my mother told me about not getting too involved with guys too soon.

And he kisses all the way down to your soul.

When he can stay in one place long enough.

I've had three major boyfriends in my life, so I do have some basis for comparison. First was Lucas. Yes, Zoey's Lucas. This was a long time ago, of course, but even then Lucas had this great sensual-yet-dangerous thing going. Picture Harry Styles, only nicer, and without the tattoos.

Then there was Benjamin. Benjamin isn't someone you can describe in terms of his body. Benjamin is all about intelligence and wit, although he's also major cute. It's just that you don't think of Benjamin as cute. He's too complicated to be cute.

My current boyfriend (he would not agree that's what he is, by the way) is Jake McRoyan. Yes, Zoey's former boyfriend. What can I say? As they say at Disneyland, it's a small world after all.

Jake is a person you can describe in physical terms. First of all, he's large. He's a football player and looks it. He's six two
and very muscular. Not “where's-his-neck?” muscular, just very solid, very hard. Chiseled out of marble that's warm to the touch. Very fun to look at, very fun to be close to.

He has dark, somewhat wiry hair, full lips, and gentle gray eyes that give away the fact that under the intimidating outer armor there's a very sweet guy. Nowhere in his face—or in his heart—will you find guile, or malice, or selfishness. He's the prototype of the nice guy, the loyal, duty-bond guy.

Which is why he would deny that he's my boyfriend at all.

This question is a little premature, actually. There's a chance that Benjamin Passmore will eventually become my official boyfriend. Or I'll become his official girlfriend. Or perhaps a mutual, simultaneous agreement that we are each other's boyfriend and/or girlfriend. Maybe we can get the UN to negotiate the details.

Anyway, what's he look like? It's sort of an ironic question since Benjamin's the only guy around who doesn't care much about looks. Yours, mine, his own; he couldn't care less.

He sounds enlightened, you say? Yes, he is. Also blind. Hasn't seen a thing in like seven years. He still thinks I look
like a little toothpick girl with braces and no boobs. When in fact I am often mistaken for leggy supermodel Karlie Kloss.

Right.

Okay. Benjamin. Hmm. In a way everything about him is medium. Medium height, medium weight, medium-length medium-brown hair. Only when you put it all together, and especially when you add in that voice, and that sense of humor, and that whole very cool I'm-in-control thing, he's not medium anything.

I've never really had a boyfriend, but if it works out with Benjamin, it will be like I started right at the top.

“THIS ISN'T WHAT YOU THINK,”
Christopher said.

“Not what I think. You mean that's not a very pretty girl sitting on the end of your bed?” Aisha Gray demanded. She was standing in the open doorway of his small rented room, trembling somewhere between anger and the hope that maybe, somehow, by some stretch of the imagination, it really
wasn't
what she thought. “Hello in there, by the way. My name's Aisha.”

The girl inside waved back, looking embarrassed and uncomfortable. “Angela Schwegel. Uh, nice to meet you.”

“She's . . . she's a friend, is all,” Christopher said, pointing to the girl, his voice unusually shrill. “We were just talking.”

Angela stood up, looking annoyed. She retrieved her purse and walked toward them.

Aisha waited rigidly, trying to suppress the sense of humiliation and the growing realization that the feelings already eating away at her insides were only going to get worse. She felt like
she was in free fall, weightless, knowing she would inevitably hit bottom.

“Christopher, you said you didn't have a girlfriend,” Angela muttered.

Christopher's eyes went wide, but then he tried to work up a semblance of anger. “Hey, no one ever said I couldn't see whoever I want,” he said to Aisha. “Not that it was like that. Not that I'm really
seeing
Angela.” Without a break, he shifted his attention to Angela. “I mean, we're not, Angela, not really. More like we were getting acquainted. Right?”

Aisha glanced at Angela. Better to know the truth, no matter how devastating. “Is that true, Angela?”

The girl hesitated only a moment. “Actually, no. We were making out. I met him at the mall a couple days ago—”

“I know,” Aisha interrupted. “I was there.”

“You were there?” Christopher demanded in a convincing portrayal of outrage. “You were
spying
on me?”

“He seemed like a nice guy, charming and ambitious and all,” Angela said regretfully. “I like guys who have goals, you know? Most guys don't.”

Aisha nodded mutely.
Yes. I was one goal. This pretty blond girl was another. Christopher has many goals.

“Anyway. I'm out of here,” Angela said, giving Christopher a disappointed shrug. She pushed past him, using the back of
her hand. “I don't like guys who screw around behind their girlfriend's back, Christopher. Sorry,” she said to Aisha. “I had a boyfriend like this once. My advice is lose him.”

“Wait!” Christopher yelled after Angela.

“I love your hair, by the way,” Aisha told the girl, for no particular reason except that none of this was Angela's fault. Aisha couldn't blame her for falling for Christopher's act. He could be very convincing. He'd convinced her, hadn't he?

Angela stopped halfway down the steps and scooped the long blond ponytail over her shoulder. It fell to the middle of her behind. “Thanks, but I'm thinking of cutting it. It attracts all the wrong kinds of guys.” She disappeared down the stairs, a clatter of sandals, and a moment later Aisha heard the front door of the rooming house close.

They were alone, face to face. If he would only apologize, explain that he would never deceive her again. If only he would give her some way to forgive him.

Aisha did not want to have to walk away alone.

“Now look what you did!” Christopher exploded. “I was going to . . . to do her parents' lawn. That's the only reason I was even . . . because, see, her parents have this big house with a huge garden and lawn and shrubs, and I was going to make a bid on, you know, on . . .” He seemed to run out of steam.

Aisha felt something collapse inside her. The first heat of
anger was gone from her now, replaced by growing sadness that seemed to rise around her like a flood. “You know, Christopher, as lame as that lie is, there's a part of me that wants to believe it. Which is really pathetic.”

“Look, Eesh, you know—” He reached to take her by the arms, but she drew back.

“No more b.s., all right? Just no more lies.”

“Fine, you want to do this?” His anger was back, blazing in his eyes. “I never said I was going to be faithful to you, Aisha. I never said that, all right? Do we agree on that?”

“You never said you weren't, either.”

“Okay, so I never promised you anything. So I have nothing to be ashamed of here. How could I know you were thinking it was
that
way? For all I know,
you've
been seeing other guys.”

Aisha felt weary. They were just going through the motions now, saying things that would not affect the final outcome. Trading futile arguments that were all beside the point. “If you have nothing to be ashamed of, then why did you lie to me about going to the mall where you met that girl? And why did you just now try to lie your way out of this?”

“I didn't want to rub your face in it,” Christopher said smoothly. “I mean, okay, maybe I go out with someone else; that doesn't mean I want to make a big thing out of it. It doesn't mean I don't want to be with you.”

“Nice try,” Aisha said flatly.

He reached for her again, and this time he was too quick. Or maybe she didn't really want to avoid his touch. Maybe she wanted Christopher to draw her to him. Maybe she wanted to feel the hardness of his chest, the muscles of his thighs against hers.

“I don't want this to mess up what we have,” Christopher said. “I don't think you do, either.” He bent over to kiss her. His lips were just millimeters from hers when she twisted her face away. With the palms of her hands she shoved at his chest, breaking his grip. She wasn't going to cry. At least she could salvage that much dignity.

“You lied to me, Christopher. You've been trying to get me into bed, you were trying to get that girl into bed. Probably others, too.” Aisha bit her lip to keep the tears at bay for a while longer. “I'm not some number. I don't get added to some big list you keep to make yourself feel like a man.”

“You have it all wrong.”

“Yes. I guess I did have it all wrong. I came here today wondering whether I would tell you that I . . .” Her voice broke and she gritted her teeth, fighting to regain control. “I was going to tell you that I was in love with you. I should have known better.”

“It doesn't have to end like this,” Christopher said in a low,
pleading voice. “We can work this out. We can still be together. I never cared about that girl or any girl the way I care about you, Eesh.”

“Now, see, if I really were a romantic, that's just the kind of thing that might move me,” Aisha said. “But it won't.”

She turned away and marched stiffly down the stairs, hurrying to get away before the sobs overtook her.

“‘A therapist once told me that we're born alone and we die alone.

“‘It's not true.

“‘We all have an extended family, people whom we recognize as our own as soon as we see them. The people closest to me have always been marked by a peculiar difference in their makeup. They're the walking wounded, the ones to whom a psychological injury was done that they will never be able to define, the ones—'”

“Let's stop there, if you don't mind,” Benjamin interrupted. He shifted on his bed, pulling a pillow from behind his back and tossing it aside.

“I thought you liked this book,” Nina Geiger said. She was kicked back in his swivel chair, Doc Martens propped on the edge of his rolltop desk. She took a drink from a glass of water. Reading to Benjamin always made her thirsty.

Benjamin seemed uncharacteristically edgy. His concentration had been wavering almost since they started. It wasn't hard for Nina to guess why, and immediately she felt self-conscious. She set the paperback down on his desk. Obviously, things weren't going to be quite as smooth as she had hoped. On the ferry ride home from school that day she had, in a moment of giddy daring, blurted out her long-hidden feelings for him. He'd responded by asking her to the homecoming dance. A couple of hours had gone by like nothing had happened, but now he must have begun to realize what he had let himself in for.

“Yeah, yeah, James Lee Burke is great; I'm just not up for anything great,” Benjamin said. “I'm not up for anything I have to pay attention to. I'm . . . distracted, I guess.”

“Oh.”

“It's not your fault,” he snapped. “I'm probably just hungry.”

“It
isn't
my fault?”

“No. Well, partly. Maybe. I mean, you kind of surprised me back there on the ferry. A
good
surprise; don't get me wrong,” he amended. He ran a hand through his hair and pushed the black Ray Bans up on his nose.

“You can back out if you want, Benjamin,” Nina said, trying to sound nonchalant. “Feel free to bail on the whole homecoming idea.” She might well have to kill him if he backed
out now, the jerk, but by the same token if he was just agreeing to go out with her from some sense of pity, well, that was no good, either.

Benjamin stood up, towering over her. “I don't want to back out.”

“You do, don't you?”

“No!” he nearly yelled. “No. I don't. The fact is, I'm looking forward to it. It's just unexpected. One minute we're, you know, like buds. We're Fred and Barney. Barney Rubble, not the dinosaur. Then suddenly I'm supposed to start thinking about you differently.
Very
differently. Have you told Claire?”

Nina sighed. So that was it. Claire. Her sister. What a surprise. “I haven't had time, Benjamin. You and I decided this only like two hours ago. And you know I don't talk to Claire unless it's absolutely necessary or I need her to pass the salt.”

“You want to go for a walk?” he asked suddenly.

“Should I bring the book?”

“No, let's just walk, all right? It's stuffy in here.”

“Sure,” Nina said. She stood back and let him pass. Here in his own home he moved as well as a sighted person as long as things weren't relocated too much and people didn't stand in his way.

He led the way through the house to the front door. From upstairs came the sound of an outraged feminine squeal—Zoey's,
of course—and a loud male laugh, presumably Lucas's.

They walked along South Street, through the tiny cobblestone-and-brick town of North Harbor, to Leeward, the road that followed the concave western coastline of Chatham Island.

“You'd better let me take your arm, if you don't mind,” Benjamin said. “I can't count steps very well on Leeward. There aren't enough cross streets.”

Nina let him find her arm and they set off over the sand-blown road, past small hotels and bed-and-breakfasts, mostly boarded up now that the tourist season was over and the slow fall season was well under way. The ocean crashed with gentle insistence on the beach, depositing green-black wreaths of seaweed and sending shorebirds skittering stiff-legged away from the surf. The sun was setting across the water behind the mainland city of Weymouth, blanking out the detail of the ten-story bank and insurance buildings, turning them into black building blocks piled before a red-and-orange backdrop.

“How's it look?”

“Nice sunset,” Nina said.

“Yeah?”

“A lot of orange and some pink. The clouds look like they're burning at the edges, you know what I mean?”

“I remember,” he said in a softer tone. “Nice image, though. Thanks.”

They walked on in silence. Nina knew he liked long periods when he could just listen to all the sounds she barely noticed, and smell the salt and the pine and the mouthwatering smoke of barbecues from the homes set back off the road.

“Sorry I got all tense on you,” he said after a while.

“I understand. I mean, you're a nice person and you know I've been going through some bad stuff in my own life. So, really, it was sweet of you to ask me to the dance and all. I mean, I know you don't feel, you know . . . You know, like
that
.”

“Oh, shut up, Nina.” He said it gently. “You don't know what I feel. I don't even know what I feel.”

“Sure I do. You still have it bad for Claire. I don't understand why—I think you're too nice for her. I think my sister is so cold she can poop ice cubes when she wants to, but if you're all in love with her . . .” She shrugged, unable to go on. Two hours of quiet pleasure had turned to dust. But at the same time, there was a feeling of relief. She wouldn't have to worry about whether she could deal with it or whether the internal demons of memory would ruin it all.

Benjamin grinned. “Poop ice cubes?” He laughed gleefully. “Now
that's
an image.”

“I have the actual photographs of her doing it. I'd show them to you, only you can't see.” Nina noticed a shape approaching rapidly from the south. “Hey, it's Aisha.”

Aisha rode up on her bike, her explosion of springy black curls planed and reshaped by the ocean breeze. At first she seemed reluctant to stop, but then she pulled over. “Hi, Nina, hi, Ben.”

“What's up, Eesh?” Nina asked.

“Nothing. Nothing. Well, I better get going. Um, is Zoey home?”

“She was when we left,” Benjamin said.

“Okay, bye,” Aisha said quickly. She got her bike going and rode swiftly away.

“What's with her?” Nina wondered.

“Christopher lives down that road, doesn't he?”

“Aha. You're right. Possible trouble. She looked kind of spacey.” Nina dug in her purse and found her pack of Lucky Strikes.

“Are you sucking on one of your unlit cigarettes?”

“No,” Nina lied, sticking a cigarette in her mouth.

“I can smell it.”

“Must be the ocean.”

“Uh-huh. Look, Nina. Of course I've thought about you,” Benjamin said, plowing back into their conversation with jarring suddenness.

Nina raised an eyebrow. “Thought about me? What does that mean?”