Page 3 of Waters that Drown Us
She turns toward me, and suddenly I have more empathy for the seasick passengers on my cruise. Her smile is bright and sharp, and the sight of it makes my stomach drop unpleasantly.
“Hi there,” she says, lifting her sunglasses and pushing them into her hair. Her eyes drag up and down my body like she’s performing an assessment. “You work here?”
She’s pointing at the ticket booth, and I know I should answer, but it takes a moment to make my brain function properly. I’ve experienced attraction before, but it’s always been closely coupled with shame. As a girl, my peers would whisper and giggle about the kids in town they had crushes on, and I so desperately wanted to join them and feel that camaraderie. But it was too ingrained in me that attraction was unseemly for a girl of my position. I knew from a young age that my parents would choose a match for me when I was older, and any fleeting relationships between now and then would be fleeting and potentially embarrass my father. Crushes and childhood sweethearts would only make the inevitable arranged, political partnership I was destined for more difficult, I was told.
So I drowned those instincts. And each time they’ve bubbled up since I’ve left Russia, they’ve been accompanied by guilt and nausea, followed by regret that I can’t seem to strip those responses from my memory as easily as I have my accent and taste in music.
And none of these feelings are the fault or responsibility of the striking, slightly intimidating woman asking about my job.
“Yes,” I stutter, fishing my keys off my carabiner and unlocking the rolling window cover. “Did you need to buy tickets?”
She smiles wider at me, and I hide my blush by hustling behind the counter, shaking the computer awake. She taps her fingernails against the smooth wooden counter, drumming like she has to think about my question.
“No, but I thought someone who worked here might be able to help me,” she says, and when I force myself to look at her, her expression is pleading and a little guilty. “I’m here on a researchgrant to study the changing habitat of the Black Sea Nettle, but the service my program contracted to take me out on the water flaked. Do you know anyone who could help?”
I tried to school my features, hiding my surprise as she lays a photocopied nautical map on the counter. There are a few zones in the open ocean marked in faded yellow highlighter.
“Um…” I hesitate, staring at her sheet to avoid eye contact. “I guess it depends. When and how often are you going out? Do you need equipment? Dive gear?”
Without preamble, the woman pulls a black folder out of nowhere and slides it across to me. When I look up in surprise, I find her rolling her bottom lip between her teeth, exposing a positively vampiric incisor that, for some reason, makes me feel my pulse in my fingertips.
“All the details are in there, and of course I’m open to negotiation since I’m in a pinch. And no dive equipment needed. I’m actually a little afraid of the ocean, to be honest. Definitely not dive certified.”
Through the haze of whatever spell her perfume—actually, it might be cologne—has put over me, I feel my brow furrow.
“You’re researching marine life and you’re afraid of the ocean?” I ask, watching a brief blush dust over her cheeks.
She leans in closer to me, saying the words like they’re a secret we share, or like she’s teasing me. “I don’t mind the shoreline, but the deep water? Spooky.”
Her eyes are so pretty. Deep brown, with this hazy ring of gold around the edge. Sparkling like she knows the answers to all the silly questions I’ve ever asked myself.
I clear my throat and break her gaze, trying to fight the instincts beaten into me.I’m allowed to recognize when people are attractive. I’m no longer promised like a prize to whoever my father says.
“Well, the whale watching vessel is a Class III which is probably too big, and it’s usually booked all day during the summer,” I hedge, glancing behind me at the lock box mounted on the wall. “But my captain has a Class II boat that he might be willing to rent out to you.”
He’d be especially willing if she was willing to pay under the table. This whole town operates on non-reported income, which is one of the many reasons I felt so comfortable hiding here.
“I’d be willing to pay for a guide, too,” she says, excitement making her voice a little higher. “I have some basic sailing experience, but it would be helpful to have someone with me who knows the area.”
I can’t seem to look up at her again, but I flip open the folder she handed over and scan the details absently, absorbing almost nothing. Jimmy will probably send Allen, since he’s basically useless on the whale watching excursions. Poor girl.
“Okay, yeah, I’ll ask my boss if he can spare anyone…”
“Thank yousomuch,” she interrupts, putting her hands on top of mine, the touch like an electric shock. So few people touch me, other than the occasional handshake or high five after a trip, that it always short circuits my brain. “You have no idea how much you’d be saving my ass. Can I give you my number and you can text me or call me or whatever when your boss decides?”
I carefully slip my hands from beneath hers, needing the distance for my mouth to function again, and pull two faded business cards from the drawer next to the register.
“I don’t have a cell phone, but I can call you from here tomorrow morning, or you can call in sometime after three. That’s when we get back from our last whale-watching cruise,” I say, flipping one of the cards over and handing her a pen. Her lips quirk at the corners slightly as she pulls the cap off with her teeth.
“No cell phone, huh? I’m really not in Kansas anymore,” she mutters, scribbling her number on the cardstock.
“You study marine biology in Kansas?” I ask, bewildered. I’m not particularly familiar with the American midwest, but I’m pretty sure you can’t get further away from the ocean than Kansas.
“What? No, that’s not—” she shakes her head, laughing as she takes the second card with our phone number on the front. “It’s a saying. Let me guess, you didn’t grow up in the U.S.?”
My stomach clenches immediately, and I try to cover my fear with a laugh. I’ve perfected my accent, changed my style, and donesomuch research on American culture. But there will always be things I’ve missed, and those things might be what gets me fucking killed one day.
“Oh don’t worry, me either,” she reassures me, misreading my dread as embarrassment. “I was born in Italy, and I lived with my dad’s family in Argentina for a few years. Didn’t come to the States until college.”