scrub trail to the very tip. Separated from the bluff is a column of rock with an osprey nest at the top. We stand at the edge of the cliff. The drop is about fifty feet, straight down into crystalline turquoise water. In the distance a sailboat heads toward Puerto Rico—or maybe the Dominican Republic—and Keane’s smile is luminous. “This reminds me of my friend’s place on Martinique.”
“Want to jump?”
I didn’t think it was possible for his smile to get wider, but it does. “Are you sure?”
“No, but … yes.”
He laughs. “On three?”
“One … two … three…”
The wind rushes past me as I drop, my body straight as a pin. As far as jumps go, it’s not terribly daring, but the distance between the cliff and the water feels like forever. My feet slide first into the ocean and the force of impact wedges my bikini bottom into my ass crack. I knife through the water, deep enough that my toes graze the sandy bottom and I feel the depth pressure in my head. I propel myself upward toward a bright spot of sunlight. Keane’s treading water beside me when I come up. “How was it?”
“Terrifying and amazing.”
He nods. “Thank you for bringing me here, Anna.”
“Thanks for coming with me,” I say. “Here … and on this trip. Maybe I could have done it all by myself, but it’s better with company.”
We swim until we reach the pirate cove, where we lie on our backs in the sand, watching the puffy white clouds drift past. The sun is warm on my skin and I can’t remember the last time I felt so content.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Anything,” Keane says.
“What, um—what happened to your leg?”
“I was in Saint Barths for the New Year’s Eve Regatta,” he says. “It was a fast round-the-island race, just a bit of fun. Nothing serious. We finished in first place and the owner of the boat took the crew out for victory drinks. Outside the bar, I realized it had gone midnight in Ireland, so I paused to ring home and wish the family well. I was standing in the road between two parked cars when a Mercedes came around the corner and struck the first car, pinning me between the bumpers. Broke my left leg. Shattered the right.”
“Oh God. That’s terrible.”
“I woke in a hospital in Miami, where the doctors told me they’d have to take my right leg,” Keane continues. “But the last thing I could recall was being on the phone with my mother and I was too worried about her to understand what the doctors were saying.”
His story triggers the memory of coming home from work and finding Ben’s body on the kitchen floor. It wasn’t the tequila and pills that killed him. He’d choked on his own vomit. When I saw him, I fainted, and when I came to, I was convinced I was waking from a nightmare and was so relieved that Ben wasn’t really dead, until I saw him a second time.
“Anna, are you okay?”
Tears are pouring down my cheeks and snot trickles from my nose. I wipe my face with my hand, laughing a little. “Of course you’d be more worried about your mom than your leg.”
“She heard the whole thing as it happened.”
“You don’t have to explain,” I say, rolling onto my side to look at him. “I know what kind of man you are.”
When he turns to look at me, we are so close that I’d only have to lean forward to kiss him. His eyes are dark and inscrutable, and he licks his lower lip. I lean in, and I can hear the rush of blood in my head. I can hear the beat of my heart.
“Anna.” He lifts his hand and touches my cheek, the pad of his thumb against my lips. “Wait.”
I blink, confused. “You don’t—”
“Oh aye, I do,” he says. “Jesus, you have no idea. But before you go down this road, you need to be certain what you want. If anyone will do, you need to find someone else.”
His hand rests lightly on my face and it’s a wonder his hand hasn’t caught fire from the embarrassment pumping through my veins. I pull back and stand.
“Your pain is still too close to the surface,” Keane says. “I mean, just four days ago on Samana you were mourning for Ben. And even now I can’t tell if you’re crying for me or him. You can’t expect me to play rebound to a