Cross Currents (26 page)

“Like what?”

“I . . . I wouldn't be sitting here . . . not moving. I'd be showing you how I feel, not telling you how I feel.”

She closed her eyes for a moment. “What else are you thinking?”

Somewhere in the distance a child laughed. Patch recalled the many things that had occupied his mind over the past few minutes—how her promise to help made him feel safe, how her presence brought a smile to his face as quickly as one of Suchin's jokes, how he wondered whether the skin beneath her eyes was as soft as it looked.

“I'm still wishing . . . that we'd met a few years ago,” he finally replied. “When things were simpler.”

“My life hasn't been simple for a long time.”

A candle blew out, and he lifted it from a crook in a branch and relit it on another flame. “Why would you help me with the boat?”

“Because you shouldn't have to lose so much for one mistake. I don't think life should be so . . . intolerable.”

“But—”

“And I don't know you very well . . . but I believe in you.”

“Ryan will be mad.”

She shrugged. “We're finished, so his getting upset is just water under the bridge. At least to me. I'm sure it's different for you.”

“It is,” he said, then sipped his beer. “But still, thanks for sticking up for me.”

“Of course.”

“You know something else?”

“What?”

“You remind me . . . of me. Except that you're smarter . . . and prettier.”

She smiled, shifting on the beam. “I'm neither. But how do you think we're the same?”

“You're up here, in a tree. You're an adventurer. And though you have some regrets, they don't rule you, and they never will.”

“They tried.”

“It's like . . . when I was ten, I broke my arm, and the doctor told me that my bone would heal, would grow back stronger than ever. I've never forgotten that. And I think you're like that. You had that break. But you're stronger than ever.”

The beep of a nearby tree frog sounded. Brooke looked for the creature but saw nothing. “My break didn't mend that way. I'm not stronger than ever. I'm only what I want you to see. I'm an illusionist.”

“I don't believe that.”

“It's true.”

“Why didn't it work with my brother? I don't understand why it didn't work.”

A pair of backpackers walked down Patch's path toward the restaurant. Brooke watched them disappear into the open-air structure, which flickered with hundreds of holiday lights. “I was too hard on him,” she finally replied. “Too unforgiving.”

“How so?”

“He's got a lot of endearing qualities. A ton of them, actually. Buried down, deep inside him. But instead of thinking about them, I focused on his shortcomings.”

“Why?”

She turned away. “I don't want to say anything negative about Ryan.”

“But why did you focus on his shortcomings?”

“Because I felt like . . . I was going backward with him. And that's not where I need to go. That's not where I'll thrive.”

He nodded but didn't reply, relighting a candle once again. The sky was finally bereft of color. Yet stars were being born, awakening as they had for millions of years. In the distance, the pulse of reggae music continued to thump. The scent of burning wood lingered in the air. Crickets called out to one another in the darkness, their chirps incessant and comforting.

“Happy birthday,” Patch said, moving closer to her on the beam.

“Thank you.”

“No, I mean it. It's your day. I want it to be special . . . because you're special.” He held up his beer. “Here's to going forward.”

Their bottles touched and they drank. She watched him, awash in the candlelight, his face aglow. She was aware of how he leaned toward her, of his desire. She could see it written in his expressions, voiced in the pauses between his words. If she hadn't felt the same way, perhaps she wouldn't have recognized his yearning, and she asked herself why she felt so strongly about him. She was falling toward him and longed for him to catch her, to lift her as she'd never been lifted.

Is it because he thinks of me as being whole? she wondered. No, it's more than that. It's the way he looks at me, as if he sees me and nothing else, like I'm all that matters. Ryan never looked at me like that. No one ever has.

“Did you spike these beers with whiskey?” she asked, smiling.

“No. Why?”

“Because they've gone straight to my head.”

“That's what birthday beers do.”

“Really? I'll have to remember that.”

“Should we . . . should we get another? I could go get another.”

His uncertainty about how to proceed was as obvious to her as the gyrating candle flames. She knew he hoped to continue their talk. He wanted to cross the bridge between them, just as she did. He wanted to feel her touch, to confirm his suspicions and hopes. But he was reluctant to cross that bridge because of his brother. And she wasn't sure whether he should.

Still, she needed to touch him, to let him know that her thoughts mirrored his. So she reached out, brushing away a few grains of sand from his knee. She squeezed his knee once, thanked him for her birthday present, and then climbed down the ladder, moving away from the light of the candles, from the sound and sight of him, from the place where she longed to be.

FRIDAY, DECEMBER 24

It was her fingernails that woke Ryan, digging into his forearms, leaving welts. He'd been dreaming about Dao, about being shipwrecked with her on a tropical island. But as Brooke thrashed in her sleep beside him, Dao's voice fled, replaced by the hum of the ceiling fan and Brooke's gasps. He gathered her in his arms and held her tight, telling her to open her eyes. Finally she did, flinching beside him, glancing from corner to corner as if she were a trapped animal that sought escape.

“Everything's all right,” he whispered, remembering the two other occasions when nightmares had gripped her. She struggled against him. “Brooke, it's me. It's Ryan. You just had a dream. A bad dream.”

“No.”

“Shhh. It's okay. You're safe.”

She looked up at him, and her grip on his arms relaxed. Nodding, she closed her eyes and ran the back of her hand across her sweaty brow. The dream, which was really a memory, came back to her then. She saw herself open the door, the stranger step inside, forcing her backward, a knife flashing in his hand. “Stop, stop, stop,” she muttered, sitting up in bed, twisting the sheet. Tears fell to her cheeks and she wiped them away, the aches and miseries of that distant day suddenly flooding into her. “I have to get up.”

“Sure. Let's get up.”

“Hurry.”

Ryan slipped out of bed, wearing his boxers and a T-shirt. He put on running shorts and sandals. Brooke, still in her light cotton pajamas, stepped outside. Dawn had just broken and the sky was somewhere between blue and black. Without glancing behind her, Brooke walked to the beach and sat down near the waterline. She wanted to kick and punch and scream but did nothing except stare across the flat water. An image of the stranger materialized and she forced it away, shaking her head, telling herself that he was gone forever, that Patch was right and the stranger hadn't stolen any part of her soul.

After giving her enough time to gather herself, Ryan sat down beside her. At first he didn't speak—letting her get used to his presence, unsure whether she wanted him there or not. Finally, he asked, “Are you okay?”

She nodded.

“Do you need anything?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

Somewhere in the distance a rooster announced the sun's looming arrival. The sound was helpful to Brooke, pulling her from the past into the present. She wiped her eyes and turned to Ryan. “Did I . . . scratch you?”

The undersides of his wrists were still red and gouged from where her nails had dug into them. He showed her the backs of his hands that were fine. “Not a bit.”

“Sorry.”

“Don't be.”

A miniature crab emerged from a hole near her feet. She watched it scurry toward the water, then vanish into a diminutive wave, reappearing when the wave retreated. Breathing deeply, Brooke smelled the sea and the damp sand. Her heartbeat slowed to its normal rhythm. She wondered why the dream had come. Maybe because the night before she had wanted to get her own bungalow but was afraid of being alone, and had convinced herself that a few more nights with Ryan wouldn't hurt anything. He'd apologized for forgetting her birthday and she had accepted his words. And yet they hadn't touched or spoken affectionately. Those moments, it seemed, were gone.

“I should have gotten my own place,” she said, moving her feet in the sand. “Then I wouldn't have woken you up.”

“I was already awake.”

“You were?”

“Yeah. So don't worry.”

She sighed, her feet once again resting still. “Thanks, Ry.”

“You're welcome.”

“I think . . . I think tonight maybe I'll get my own room. It probably makes sense at this point.”

“You're sure?”

She nodded, determined to face her fears, not to let the stranger win. “There are so many empty bungalows. I might as well rent one. I'm sure it would make Patch's friends happy.”

“Whatever you want.”

Hoping to change the subject, she recalled their conversation before going to sleep, wondering why he had seemed so pleased. “Last night, you kept smiling,” she said, her toes moving again in the sand.

“I did?”

“While you spoke, there was this little smile on your face. And I heard it in your voice too.”

“You could hear my smile?”

“What made you so happy?”

He watched a distant jogger, wondering whether Brooke should know about Dao. “I met a girl,” he finally replied. “A woman. She gave me a massage . . . and . . . we talked and laughed.”

Brooke turned toward Ryan, her brow furrowing. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Yesterday?”

“The other day, actually. And then again yesterday.”

“And . . . and you laughed with her? About what?”

He smiled. “She calls me King Kong. Teases me. Stuff like that.”

“And that's what you were thinking about last night?”

“I'm sorry about your birthday. I didn't—”

“I don't care about that. Tell me about her. How did she make you smile?”

Ryan shifted on the sand. “She's . . . spunky.”

“Spunky? That's it?”

“She makes me laugh. I don't know how or why, but she does.”

“Is she beautiful?”

“I don't know. The room's dark. I'm on my stomach most of the time.”

“So, she's spunky and beautiful. Anything else?”

As Ryan, with some reluctance, spoke more about Dao, Brooke nodded and asked questions. To her surprise, she wasn't jealous. She was glad that the woman knew how to make him smile, glad that he was happy, and that he was being honest about the situation. And if she was honest with herself, she knew Ryan's obvious infatuation with the woman was a good thing for all of them.

Brooke could now spend more time with Patch and not feel guilty about it. She could help him with his tree house, help him leave the country. And later, if she wanted to, she could find him in America. They could sit and talk all night. They could touch.

As long as Patch escaped safely, time was on their side. If her instincts were right, if she fell for him as she thought she might, time would give them the chance to be happy together.

Still smiling, Brooke continued to ask Ryan about the woman, believing that he had fallen for her, glad that the morning had gone from a place of pain to one of promise.