After Clara leaves, Blake and I remain in the room in an awkward silence. Even though we have spent one night together, I still feel a distance from him. I cross over to his bed and stand beside him. I reach out to touch his hand, making sure to avoid the IV line.

“Blake, I am really sorry for what happened. I…”

“Like I said, don’t worry about it. I’m not too badly hurt. It wasn’t your fault.” He turns his head and looks at me with a raised eyebrow. “Why did you call out to me? I thought you were done with me.”

“Oh, I, uh…I just wanted to apologize. For what I said. I was upset and I was trying to be hurtful. I didn’t mean it.”

Again, he waves his hand, as if with a gesture he can just wipe away everything. It is reassuringly forgiving and maddeningly dismissive at the same time. I want him to acknowledge the gravity of what I said. I want to know that he felt it, that he possesses the capacity to be hurt by me. I mean, I saw a flash of it, I know I didn’t imagine it, but I need the explicit confirmation.

“Is that it? You just wave your hand and, boom, it’s done?”

“Is it not? You apologize, I forgive you, what need is there to dwell on it further?”

“Well, for one it would be nice for you to show some emotion.”

He smiles. Infuriating.

“Emma. You were upset, you said yourself that you didn’t mean it. Why should I stay hurt or angry at you for something you didn’t mean?”

“Aha! So you were hurt and angry!” I say, triumphantly.

Blake looks at me quizzically.

“Look, Emma, I like you. I want to get to know you better. Tell you what. Let’s start again, ok? I should be out of here tomorrow morning. Come by my office tomorrow afternoon and we can try again. What do you say? Give this another shot?”

I stand here quiet for a few moments. In truth, a part of me really wants to be with Blake again. That night at the auction was amazing, and I would love to replicate that. And there is something there, some connection that I can see in little flashes. Something that appears in little moments and glances. But at the same time, he seems to think he can just walk past standing me up. He seems to think I will be as easy-going and quick to forgive his transgressions as he was of mine. But there is hardly an equivalence between the two.

Still, I am curious. He has some making up to do and it might be worth my while to see what he has in mind. And if there is a chance that I’m right and that there is a chance for something more, if I’m not imagining what I saw in his eyes, then I owe it to myself to take it.

When I don’t answer immediately, he continues with a wry smile.

“Besides, you owe me a date for putting me in the hospital.”

“Ok. You get one chance. That’s it.”

“Deal. Four o’clock tomorrow. I will text you the address.”

I arrive at the address early. When I looked it up, I saw that it was at the marina, so I had some idea what to expect, but I wanted to take a little while to look around. I’m not exactly a boat person, but I have been out on the water a bit. But when I get there, I am shocked. The marina is private, I have to punch in a code to get into the parking lot. My car, a seven-year-old Toyota Corolla, looks distinctly out of place among the gleaming Mercedes, Aston Martins, Maseratis, and BMWs. I park and instinctively lock my car. As I’m walking away I think that it is extremely unlikely that anyone would be tempted to steal my car from this lot, but it is a good habit, I suppose.

Walking toward the water, the masts of the sailing yachts tower above the low buildings. I can see dark, bare shafts stretching to the sky, heavy wires on every side. I thought that a mast would be made of aluminum or something, but these look like carbon fiber. They must be ridiculously expensive. When I make it all the way to the water, the full scope of the fleet parked at this marina comes into view. Every single vessel is breathtaking. A mix of sailboats and powerboats, the smallest is at least fifty feet long. The dark water of the harbor dances in reflection against the glossy paint of the hulls. Even if I have been on boats before, I have definitely never been on one like these.

“Emma. You’re early.” Blake’s voice calls out from the dock.

I turn around to see him dressed casually, more casually than I would have expected. He has grease on his hands and a general air of grime. He looks like he has just come from a mechanic’s shop.

“Did you forget we had a date?” I ask, pointing to his oil-stained shorts.

“Not at all,” he says, smiling. “I was just getting a bit of work done. Had to make sure she was ship shape before we go out.”

I had figured that we would be going out on a boat when I saw I was meeting him at the marina, but to have it confirmed sends a little shiver through my body. I am excited, but also a little nervous.

“Give me a couple of minutes to clean up,” he says, walking toward the building behind him. He waves at me and then trots off. Watching him bounce away, my gaze lingers on his muscular legs. Even though I have seen him naked, seeing him in the bright sunshine, I realize how athletic he is. He seems to spring forward, running like a gazelle.

I turn and gaze out onto the marina as a light wind begins to build and ripple the water around the boats. The cool air off the water mixes with the warmth of the sunshine to confuse my skin about the temperature. Whenever the wind picks up, a patch of goose bumps form on my forearms and the little hairs start to stand on end. But then, just as soon as it drops off, the sun warms me again and I feel my skin relax.

“Ok, ready to go?” Blake asks from behind me. He has cleaned himself off and changed. Still in shorts, but a herringbone fabric instead of the basketball shorts he wore earlier. His shoes are classic canvas boat shoes, and he’s wearing a dark, tight-fitted t-shirt. Each hand carries a duffel bag.

“Are we going to be long?” I ask, curious about why we need luggage for a late afternoon sail.

“It can get a little chilly on the water, so I brought some extra clothes for us,” he answers obliquely. “Let’s get on the water. This way.”

And with that, he steps quickly onto the ramp leading to the floating docks. I follow along in his wake. Walking closer to the magnificent yachts, I feel my jaw dropping further and further. Blake keeps going until he reaches the last slip.

Nestled in there is a graceful, elegant looking vessel that looks to be well over fifty feet long. I crane my neck, nearly losing my balance as I run my eyes up the mast. The sides of the boat are tall, rising to my chest level above the water and are painted a dark, glossy blue. Blake hops lightly onto the deck from a little staircase set on the dock and tosses the duffel bags on board. Then he turns around and holds out his hand, beckoning me aboard. I step onto the stairs and reach my leg across, looking at the dark water between the boat and the dock. But it is an easy step and I am quickly on board. Blake doesn’t let go of my hand, but continues to hold it gently as he pulls me further along.

The deck is made of teak, the light brown wood contrasting with the dark blue of the hull and the black, carbon fiber mast. Unlike other boats I have been on, the whole deck is flat. There are seats raised in the back near the twin steering wheels.

“Why are there two steering wheels on the boat?” I ask, almost to myself.

“It makes it easier to steer when the boat is heeling, leaning over.” Blake makes a motion with his hand, indicating the boat turning partially on its side. I must have made a face because he quickly continues. “We won’t be doing any of that today. A nice, easy-going sail. I promise.”