Float Plan - Trish Doller Page 0,19

your shoe,” he says. “And if I didn’t, you’d probably have brought me a cup of coffee too.”

“Maybe even a bagel.”

“Ouch. What exactly did I say?”

“That swimming with the pigs is a terrible idea.”

He takes a deep breath and blows it out slowly. “Well, to be truthful, it’s turned into a bit of a tourist trap, but I should have kept that opinion to myself. It’s not my place to question your decisions. You’re the boss.”

“You also said Ben—” I stop. Putting Keane on the spot will be embarrassing at best. At worst, he’ll be forced to admit something he might never have said while sober—something I don’t want to confront. “You said Ben was stupid for wanting to waste his time on pigs.”

“Christ.” He tips backward until he’s lying on the deck again. “I’m a useless bastard and you should probably put me off the boat immediately. I am so sorry, Anna. I reacted badly to some disappointing news and it was wrong of me to take it out on you. Can you forgive me?”

“We’re going to Pig Beach.”

“Yes, we are.”

“You should probably clean up,” I say as he slowly gets to his feet. “You’ve been wearing your leg all night.”

Keane returns from the shower dressed in an olive-green T-shirt and a pair of khaki shorts. He smells like sunscreen instead of whiskey. “I have one more errand before we go,” he says, dropping off his toiletry kit and a different prosthetic leg that has a web of white plastic. The socket is blue with a raindrop pattern that suggests this is some sort of waterproof leg. “Shouldn’t be more than fifteen or twenty minutes.”

True to his word, he’s back on time and carrying a small outboard motor on his shoulder. Just about the right size for a dinghy. “I’ll have to build a bracket for it”—he holds up a plastic shopping bag—“but now we won’t have to row.”

An outboard for the dinghy was another thing Ben never got around to buying. He could have afforded a brand-new motor, but one of his favorite games had been finding deals online, so I know how much outboards cost. “I can’t—I don’t have the money for that.”

“I know a guy,” Keane says. “And this one was a steal because it doesn’t run. Yet.”

I try not to smile, but I can’t help myself. It’s a thoughtful gesture and, although I don’t know him well, buying a broken engine as an apology seems like a very Keane Sullivan thing to do. “Are you sure you can fix it?”

He shrugs. “About eighty-two percent.”

A laugh escapes me. I can probably forgive him. “Thank you.”

“No, Anna, thank you.”

“Shut up,” I say. “Let’s get out of here.”

a small fire (8)

Nassau at our backs, the Alberg finds a six-knot groove and soars toward the Exumas. We return to deep water, rich blue and rolling, and the rush of waves along the length of the boat is music. Wind and water come together like a song. Pleasure and guilt weave a vine around my heart when I try to conjure Ben, but there’s nothing like this in our history. I will never create another new memory with him.

I escape into the cabin, trying to keep Keane from seeing me cry. I’m wiping my eyes on my T-shirt when I hear him say my name. “Bring the bucket when you come, will you?”

His tone is calm, so we’re not sinking. I don’t think there’s any need to panic, but I grab the bucket and quickly climb topside. Something shoots past my head and splashes back into the sea. Scattered around the deck are half a dozen flying fish, in various stages of death. Some of the little silver bodies are unmoving—dead on impact—while others heave, their gossamer wings spreading and fluttering as though trying to take off.

“Scoop them up,” Keane says as another fish flings itself into the cockpit. “We can have them for dinner.”

Flying fish are not a new phenomenon for me. Ben and I encountered them once, but keeping one was purely accidental. It flew right past us, through the open companionway, and we didn’t find it until we got back to the dock. I’m not sentimental about these little kamikazes, so I gather them into the bucket.

“The fillet knife is in my sailing bag,” Keane says. “You’ll want to gut them before you put them on ice.”

“Me?”

“Why not? This is the perfect opportunity to learn. I’ll talk you through it.”

The bucket wobbles in my hand as the