Ties (5 page)

5
HATTIE

Genevieve’s voice comes from the sleepy place right before a dream.

“Go. Your restlessness feels contagious, and I don’t want to catch it when I’m trying to nap. Go, explore.”

“Do you want some sunscreen?” I ask, looking at her long, caramel legs, exposed to the sun without a care or worry.

“I’m--” She pauses to yawn, not bothering to cover her mouth. “I’m Mexican, Hattie. I’ll be...toasty.”

I wait for her to say something else, but she snores very lightly instead, so I decide to walk only as far as the piers. I can still see her from there. Genevieve has this adorable idea that nothing bad ever happens to anyone, and she tells me she tucked her money, i.d., phone, and credit cards in her bikini bottoms.

She actually said she put them there for safekeeping with zero sense of irony.

“I’ll be back,” I say to sleeping Genevieve. She snores again.

The pier is largely deserted. A few older people lounge on the decks of massive yachts, calling to one another like they’ve been neighbors for decades. Maybe they have been. Gulls float on the breezes that flap hundreds of different flags and sails, making a snapping cacophony that sounds official and crisp.

Above the swell of the wind and the chatter of gulls is the low, mournful whistle of “Danny Boy.”

My maternal grandfather joined the navy just before World War II and got stationed with a bunch of Irish sailors who cemented his love for dark ale and melancholy ballads. I remember him singing me “Danny Boy” when he pushed me on the swings as a kid. The memory of that feeling--my feet swinging high above my head, my stomach catching and rushing up into my throat as Lolo’s strong hands pressed at my back, his gruff laugh tangled with my high, half-scared squeals--is all tied up with this tune.

At first I’m happy enough just to hear it, but then I get the urge to follow it too.

Maybe I swallowed too much seawater, because I go ahead and let myself get led by the haunting melody, apparently not concerned if the person whistling is someone who might abduct and murder a stupidly curious woman wandering a near-deserted pier.

I find the lips where the whistle is coming from and all thoughts of doom slide away.

They’re really good lips.

Lips that look soft and capable, set off by a strong jaw in a tanned face. The guy is probably my age, maybe a little older. He’s hunched over, scrubbing the deck of a boat like he’s a pirate king and this is his prized vessel. There’s a thin cotton shirt draped over the deck bannister, and his naked back glistens with sweat and moves in a complicated jigsaw of gorgeous muscles that pop out and recede as he stretches his long arms in one direction, then another.

The curve of his spine is like a bow, his arms are taut as strings, and I can see the promise of abs in the shadows curled under his body. He has dark messy hair, just overlong enough to fall into his eyes now and then and slightly matted like he’d been swimming in the ocean. I want to see his eye color. I want to listen to him whistle forever.

He finishes the song, sits back on his heels, wipes his brow, and looks my way, his face brightening suddenly. He puckers his lips again, and I bristle, waiting for a wolf whistle, but he whistles “Siúil a Rún” instead...the song my grandmother learned to sing for Lolo. It made him cry every time she belted it out.

“That’s a woman’s song,” I inform him.

He has to stop whistling because his smile breaks his pucker. “Is it?”

His eyes are a deep, clear blue-green.

“I mean that the song is from a woman’s point of view. She--the woman--sings it about her lover who’s gone off to war.”

I clamp my mouth closed and wish I’d put my cover-up on, but my suit was still wet, and I didn’t expect to run into anybody else. His eyes take a quick inventory. I appreciate the fact that he’d clearly like to run a longer examination but doesn’t.

“My mother would love you. She cried when she found out I dropped my Gaelic lessons.” His grin is very tempting, but I’m excellent at resisting temptation.

“My grandfather has a thing for Irish ballads.”

Correction: I’m excellent at resisting
some
temptations. I don’t come closer, I don’t return his smile. But I can’t help chatting.

“My mother cried when I told her I couldn’t remember how to speak her ‘weird talk’ anymore. I spoke nothing but Tagalog until I was three. Now I hardly know any of it.”

“Tagalog?” he asks.

“My mother’s family is from the Philippines.” 
Why
am I giving this guy so much personal information?

“No kidding. My parents honeymooned in Manila. My dad had all these plans to go back for one of their anniversaries.” He wipes his hands on his shorts and holds one out to me. “Ryan Byrne.”

I shake my head and pull back before I get myself any deeper in.

“I’m just passing through. I didn’t mean to bother you.”

“Wait a minute!” he calls as I walk away. I’m relieved he doesn’t attempt to follow.

“Sorry. No. I should have just kept going. Forget I stopped!” I call.

He throws his hands up and laughs. “So you ogle me and enjoy my whistle, but I don’t even get to know your name?”

I stop dead in my tracks and whirl around.

“Ogle you?” I stomp a few steps closer. “Listen,
Ryan Byrne
, I wasn’t
ogling
anyone. I’m sorry you feel the need to work half-naked and then entertain the delusion that everyone is drooling over your body. I was, in fact, only interested in the song you were whistling, which was my grandfather’s favorite. That’s it. Just some innocent childhood memories of my
lolo
singing Irish ballads to me. Please get over yourself.”

With my (totally lie-filled) monologue complete, I’m ready to head back to the beach, but Ryan Byrne has jumped up on the pier and is trailing me from a slightly uncomfortable distance.

“I’m over myself. I am, I swear. But I don’t know if I can get over you. How ‘bout just a name? Just a first initial? You can’t leave me hanging with absolutely nothing.”

“Actually I can. And will.” I walk carefully, because nothing would make this moment suck more than me losing my footing and face-planting in front of him. “This is exactly the reason smart girls don’t stop to talk to random whistling strangers.”

He stops closing the distance between us, but doesn’t stop following me.

“Fair. You have no idea if I’m a creep. In order to prove that I’m not, I’ll buy you a drink in a very public place. All I want is to talk. Or whistle. I know so many Irish ballads, it would blow your mind. Is your
lolo
still around? I can teach him some ear-singers.”

“My
lolo
is still around, and he’d tell you to stop embarrassing yourself by sniffing around his granddaughter when she’s clearly not interested.”

I look over my shoulder and wonder if he’s watching my ass as I walk. I figure that’s probably exactly what he’s doing. And I have to bite back a smile at the thought.

“He sounds like a standup guy. But any guy who loves ‘Danny Boy’ would also understand that a man will follow a woman to the ends of the earth if he thinks he’s got even a sliver of a chance.”

“What makes you think you have a sliver of a chance?” I ask as waves of hot and cold alternate blushes and goosebumps over my skin.

“The fact that you like my whistle.” He points when I duck my head to hide a smile. “I see your smile from back here! C’mon, just a name. Please?”

I shake my head back and forth and debate walking over to Genevieve. He seems harmless, nice even. But if he’s actually some kind of sly scam artist, I don’t want Gen involved.

“Hattie!” Genevieve calls, waving her arms and ruining any chance to remain neutral in this little development. “Who’s your friend?”

“Hattie,” he repeats, my name sliding hot and sweet off his tongue. “I like that. Kind of old fashioned.”

I look right into those blue-green eyes and say, “I was named after my grandmother.”

He’s the first person I’ve ever been able to share that detail with, and I have no idea why I choose to blurt it out when I keep insisting I want him gone.

I walk up to the beach blanket, and Ryan stays a good thirty feet away.

“Hello!” Genevieve says with a little wave. “Who are you?”

“Ryan Byrne.” He closes the distance between us, standing so close I can smell the sweaty, salty tang of his skin. And it makes my blood jump in my veins with molten desire. “Pleased to meet you...?”

“Genevieve Abramowitz.” She shakes his hand, and I feel a stab of envy that she dared to actually do what I only wanted to.

“You ladies look parched. There’s a fantastic smoothie place right up on that little main road. Very public,” he adds, winking at me. “Please. Let me buy you both something to drink.”

I’m primed to deny him one last time and send him on his way. I have full intentions of watching his very fine backside as he leaves, and basking in the glow of his attention long after he’s forgotten he ever whistled my way.

But Genevieve has other plans. “We’d love to. Let me just get our things.”

“Let me help,” Ryan offers.

He stoops down to pick up our plates and forks, handling everything with care, as if it were his mother’s fine china. He has the shirt that was slung over the railing on his shoulder, and when he’s done packing up, he stands and pulls it over his head. I try not to feel too sad about that.

Pathetic, I know, but I haven’t had a lot of male interaction. In fact the last date I’d been on was with Ashwin. Not that it was a date, per se. It was supposed to be a platonic thing, me asking questions that made use of his law knowledge, him helping me get to the bottom of my mysterious father’s whereabouts. But it was sushi, so of course we had sake, and after a few glasses, he put his hand over mine, looked deep into my eyes, and told me he’d break things off with his girlfriend if I would agree to try taking things between us seriously.

I told him ‘no.’ No questions ‘no.’ No wavering ‘no.’

But I keep
thinking
about it.

I’ve never once felt like I made a bad decision, but I keep wondering
why
I was so sure in that moment that perfect Ashwin was and is an absolute
no
for me.

Better yet, why haven’t I ever had that little voice in my gut and brain say
yes
?

So I think I’m just revved up on latent lady needs, and Ryan Byrne is a gorgeous specimen. Not my usual type, but I like to keep an open mind when it comes to basic attraction. It’s not like there’s any hope of it getting serious between us.

“Take a picture. It’ll last longer,” Genevieve whispers around a wicked grin.

“I would if I could get away with it,” I tell her.

“Aha!” She bites her lip and narrows her eyes.

“What?” I glance up and he’s watching us, those soft blue-green eyes drinking in the entire scene, but definitely focusing a lot of attention my way.

“I’m just working out the details,” she says as she folds the beach blanket into a messy square.

I take it from her hands, shake the sand out with a crisp snap, and fold it again, neatly. “What details?”

She stoops over to grab my cover-up and hands it to me. “The details of how I’ll drift into the distance while you and lover boy get better acquainted.”

I yank the cover-up from her and shake my head, adamant. “No. No way, Genevieve. Listen to me. I wanted to leave him by the pier.”

“Leave him by the pier?” Her mouth hangs open. “Him? Look, I know we just met, but I have never seen two people with such obvious unspoken chemistry. Don’t you believe in love at first sight?”

She sighs like she’s watching her own personal Lifetime original unfold right before her eyes.

“Love at first sight?” I scoff. “You can’t be serious, Genevieve. He could be a serial killer. Or a deranged lunatic. He followed me here, and I was planning on losing him. I never expected you to be so damn friendly,” I gripe.

“Do you know the statistical probability of running into a serial killer? Even in California?” Genevieve asks. “Did it ever occur to you that he’s just a nice, very hot guy who’d like to get to know you better? And has a boat. You have to have your shit together to have a boat, Hattie.”

“Boats are also great for dumping bodies into the ocean,” I mutter, but Ryan is walking over, so I smile. “Hey. So, I think I got a little too much sun, and I’d like to head back.”

Genevieve frowns at me, then shrugs like her shoulders have been deflated. I’m sorry to wreck her whole Romeo and Juliet fantasy, because she’s incredibly sweet. But she’s so delusional it hurts.

“Okay.” She glances at the waves. “There was a shark attack here three years ago, you know.”

Holy random segue.

“I heard about that.” Ryan furrows his brow and looks out at the waves like he might spot a roving dorsal fin at any second. “A kid got his toe bit clean off by a random nurse shark or something, right?”