I watch him vault easily up onto the boardwalk, biting my lip until it hurts. When he’s out of sight, I dissolve into barely muffled hysterical laughter, my hands covering my face.

Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit! I’m such a slut. Did I really just do that? I don’t even know the man. Yeah, sure, we’ve spent every moment of the last three days essentially attached at the hip, but . . . I wouldn’t know what to do here, without him. I’m not sure why I’m still here helping this relief effort in the first place, other than Jonny is still here, and because there’s just not space in the over-crowded hospital for me to sit with Ava like I really want to. I can’t leave her, can’t go back to Chicago, and with the city in ruins, I can’t just hang out somewhere because there’s nowhere to go, it’s all ruined or underwater or without power, or just shut down. And I feel . . . connected to Jonny. Bound to him through this shared experience.

But even for me, that was bold.

I can’t claim I was drunk, because obviously, I wasn’t. I can’t say I was half asleep and unaware of what I was doing, because I knew before I even opened my eyes what I was touching, and the state of it. I have absolutely no excuse for what I just did, other than I’m stupidly attracted to the man, and have absolutely zero percent control over my libido. Or my hands. Or my mouth.

Okay, shut up, I don’t mean it like that—I didn’t put my mouth on him—yet—just my hand. And only for a minute or two. Over his pants, for most of the time. And he didn’t even come, which is a downer, in my book, because I really wanted to see that.

I wonder if he’s a grunter when he comes. Or maybe he’s a silent type, who just breathes a little heavier; God, I hope not, those types are so boring, and it’s hard to tell if they liked it or not. I really hope Jonny is the vocal type, the kind of guy who makes sounds and talks to me while I’m making him come. I doubt it, though, since he’s fairly taciturn.

It was such an unexpected thing, you know? I sort of slowly drifted to awareness, waking up gradually, not really understanding where I was or where I’d fallen asleep, just that I’d slept really great and was super comfy and then . . . holy fuck, that’s his cock, and it’s hard, and I’m touching it. And things sort of progressed from there, mostly outside my—well, not control, exactly, but . . . God, I don’t know. I knew exactly what I was doing, and I could have stopped, as in, my self-control is perfectly functional, thank you. I just don’t possess much will to stop myself from doing something that feels good in the moment, even if I know, mentally, that it’s not the greatest of ideas.

But it’s a bad, bad plan to get involved with him, because . . . um.

Because I’m a single mom, number one.

Number two, he’s a nomad. We’ve talked about his travels quite a bit, and though he hasn’t come right out and said so, it’s clear he’s a vagabond, with no home and no family and no ties to anywhere.

Number three, I have two settings when it comes to men: Fuck-and-Flee, and Stage Five Clinger. Reason 3-A: it seems we’re both slated to be in the area for some time—Jonny because he owes some sort of duty to Chris to talk to Ava and give her some letters or something, and me because she’s my sister, and she’s alone and she lost her home and she’s hurt and her husband is missing, presumed dead—and pulling a fuck-and-flee with a guy I then run the risk of having to see again, perhaps frequently, is a bad idea. Reason 3-B: getting involved with a guy, who, per reason number two, is just going to leave and not come back, like . . . ever, and letting myself go all Stage Five Clinger on him is, clearly, the very height of stupidity.

Number four, he’s Christian’s best friend, and they’re clearly very close, and Ava is Christian’s wife, but they’re estranged, or they were. It is just a bad idea because it smacks of complication and entanglement.

Well, maybe number four might be a bit of a stretch but still, I have three good reasons.

But I really want to, and he’s hot, and he’s mysterious, and he’s forbidden in a weird sort of way, and he’s got a seriously beautiful penis.

God, this is complicated.

It was hot, though. Witty banter, a nice build up.

The fact is . . . I’m horny; that’s just the long and short of it. I could make a pros and cons list a mile long, but the fact is I’ve been on a dry spell lately, leaving me all kinds of worked up. Work has been crazy lately, and I had to replace the muffler on my car, get new calipers and pads, and fix the serpentine belt, all of which cost enough that I’ve had to work double shifts the last few weeks just to pay the credit card back down to a non-heart-attack-inducing level.

But none of that negates the fact that I am simply horny, and that does not portend good things in terms of my ability to resist a man like Jonny.

What do I do?

Hell if I know.

God, I do want him, though. And now that I’ve had my hand on him, I want him even more. But, for the reasons stated above, I’m going to get hurt. Generations of women before me have come to realize you can’t keep a man with the wanderlust bug chained at home in one place. Not without ruining his spirit.

I groan out loud and put the entire conundrum out of my head, because I’m going in circles—do I, don’t I?

Enough, Delta. Move on. Take things as they come. If you sleep with him, you sleep with him. Enjoy it, relish the time and the experience, and know you’ll have to let him go when it’s over. Understand you’re going to get hurt, accept it, prepare for it, and don’t hold it against him.

With those instructions firmly stamped on my brain, I stand up, brush the sand off my legs, fold the blanket, pile the supplies he’s gathered into a neat stack, and climb up the retaining wall to see where I can be put to work.

I spy Jonny and a group of ten other men standing on a pile of rubble, deep in the back corner of the partially-collapsed building next to Ava’s. Someone has brought one of those big yellow construction machines with the arm and the scooper—hell if I know what it’s called, though Alex would know and would tell you everything about in under a minute. They’ve driven it close to the building, extended the arm close to the men digging out the rubble. The men toss the brick and stones and pipes and various pieces of debris and detritus into the scoop and every once in a while, the machine pivots to dump the rubble into a pile off to one side and then pivots again to return to its original position. I wonder, at first, why they don’t just use the scooper to dig at the pile, but then I realize that if there are people alive under all that debris, the scooper might hurt them or dislodge things in such a way as to crush them, leaving the rescue workers with no option but to dig by hand.

I find a group of other women working under a makeshift tent. They’re sorting supplies brought in by some aid organization or another, and I spend the next several hours sorting through flats of bottled water, boxes of canned food, and crates of medical supplies. Every once in a while, I steal a glance over at Jonny working with the men; he’s tirelessly hauling at the debris, even directing others where to pick at so as not to dislodge the rubble. He’s filthy by now, streaked with dirt, his hair messy and filthy from his dirty hands scraping through it. He’s shirtless, his already dark Latin skin burned darker by endless hours in the sun at sea.

He’s a beast, is what he is.

I know he’s a few years older than me, with sexy hints of silver creeping in at the temples, and in the stubble that’s pretty much a beard by now. But damn, he’s in amazing shape. He’s not ripped and cut like an Instagram model, which is nice to look at of course, but doesn’t seem real. No, Jonny is the perfect real man, in my opinion. Solidly muscled, with thick pecs and toned, hard, round biceps, a trim waist and a hint of a six-pack, but there’s some evidence on his body that he enjoys life and loves food and likes to drink, but still takes care of himself.

His body is that of a man who has spent his whole life hauling at ropes and carrying supplies and doing hard physical work all day every day, keeping him naturally fit, rather than the carved-from-marble perfection of a man who spends all day in the gym.

Now, I’m lucky if I can keep even a so-so looking guy’s interest for more than a couple dates and a quick fuck or two in his dingy-ass apartment after drinks at the bar before going home to pick up Alex from Mrs. Allen’s apartment. And even that is getting old and unsatisfying. Although, really, that’s always been old and unsatisfying for me. I’ve always wanted more—shit, I still want more now, but I’m at the stage and the age where I’m beginning to despair I’ll ever find more with anyone. I mean, I’m thirty-eight, a single mother working dead-end jobs, no future, no meaningful career or accomplishments. Sure, I had a couple songs bought by some country music stars, but even that didn’t pan out.

A surprised shout from one of the men shakes me out of my thoughts, and everyone in the vicinity stops working to watch, or to hustle over and see how they can help. There’s a crowd on the pile, and Mike the police officer gently but firmly guides them back.

I find myself in that crowd, at the very front, standing precariously on a pile of broken cinderblocks nearby, watching as Jonny works feverishly. He’s on his hands and knees, picking gingerly at the debris, carefully removing cinderblocks and pipes and chunks of drywall and setting them aside. He leans farther into the hole he’s creating, until his entire upper half is bent forward into the hole, reaching back to hand chunks and bits to whomever is close enough to take them from him. And then, moving as slowly and carefully as if crossing thin, cracking ice, he lowers himself into the gaping maw in the rubble, vanishing completely.

The gathered crowd is utterly hushed and still.

I hear a noise from the hole, Jonny’s voice saying something I can’t make out, and one of the other men nearby reaches in and hauls out a form, a body. A still, limp, female. Her arms dangle, her feet trail listlessly. The man carries her with exquisite care, stepping down the pile with her in his arms. He’s mid-fifties, muscular but with a slight belly, grizzled and graying, wearing a sleeveless shirt with the logo of a construction company on it. His face is shut down, hard, solemn. His eyes are locked on the woman in his arms, who, as he passes me with her, I see is still alive, but only barely. Her eyes flit sluggishly, and one hand has something clutched in it, a photograph. She’s young, Hispanic, and beautiful. And very clearly slipping all too quickly into death. She has moments left. She’s been holding on, desperately. She abruptly jerks in her savior’s arms, twisting, moaning, reaching frantically, calling out names.

“He’s gettin’ ’em, honey, he’s getting ’em. Good ol’ Jonny’s gettin’ ’em, okay? Settle for me, settle. Calm, calm.” His voice is as rough and grizzled as he is, and it’s clear the woman doesn’t understand.

I turn back to look at the hole, and Jonny is handing up a second body, and a third. These are much, much smaller. Children. They’re alive, squirming, crying weakly, shielding their eyes from the bright Florida sun as men take them from Jonny and carry them down the pile of rubble. I think Jonny is going to emerge, but he doesn’t. He stays down for a long few moments, and then emerges slowly, a burden over one shoulder. He refuses to let anyone take the burden from him as he climbs out. The burden is another body. This one, like the woman, is an adult. A male. Totally limp, bent in half over Jonny’s shoulder, dangling, lifeless. The father. Young, Hispanic, and handsome.

Jonny carries him off the rubble pile. Joining him at the makeshift tent, I see that Jonny is . . . devastated. It is the only word I know for the expression on his face. He gently deposits the male form onto the ground, falling to his knees to allow the limp body to come rest on the grass. There’s no sign of serious injury, and it looks to me as if the man hasn’t been dead long, but he is very clearly gone now.

The woman, lying on a fold-out military surplus cot nearby, weakly lifts a hand toward the man, her husband. She’s weeping, or she would be if she weren’t utterly dehydrated. Her lips are cracked and shriveled, her skin papery and pale. She’s muttering in Spanish, and after laying the man onto the grass, Jonny scoots across to sit beside her. He takes her hand and whispers to her in Spanish, shaking his head. The woman is wracked with shuddering sobs, but she’s too weak even for that. She says something else to Jonny, who twists, spies the two children—a boy and a girl—being tended to by Red Cross volunteers. He points at them, talking to the woman. She reaches for them, tries to sit up, but can’t. Jonny scoops his hand under her head and helps her sit up so she can see her children, only a few feet away. They are both being fitted with an IV bag, as is the woman, while Jonny continues to whisper to her.

Not knowing what else to do, I sit beside Jonny on the ground beside the woman. He acknowledges me with a glance and a nod, and then returns his attention to the woman, speaking to her in Spanish. She mutters something every once in a while, and Jonny responds. He holds her hand. A doctor appears from somewhere, haggard looking, exhausted. I recognize him from the hospital, and it’s clear he’s been working nonstop like everyone else, with little food and less rest. He examines the woman briefly, but his expression is grave.

I overhear him speaking to the nurses. “Push IV fluids, but that’s about it, I’m afraid. Anyone’s guess, at this point. She may be too far gone, but if she’s a fighter, she may pull through. No injuries I can see, no trauma. Just severe dehydration, possibly some lung damage from inhaling debris dust. Push fluids, that’s all I can say.” He sighs heavily. “It’s in God’s hands now.”

And then he’s gone, checking the two little children.

I sit with Jonny for hours. I might be needed elsewhere, but there’s no chance of me leaving him, not now.

Jonny never moves. Never lets go of of the woman’s hand. Sometimes, he talks to her in Spanish, sometimes I think maybe he’s singing to her, but it’s too low for me to hear even sitting beside him. I doze off again, sitting up beside him.

I’m woken by a scuffed footstep and quiet voices. Jonny is asleep, sitting up, head lolled forward, still holding the woman’s hand. It’s a male Red Cross volunteer, a penlight in one hand, shielding the glow with his palm—he’s young, with a shaggy blond beard and world-weary blue eyes.

It’s the deep dark of past midnight, cool air stirring, stars shining beyond the tent. With so much of the city without power, there’s less light pollution, so the stars are more visible. The male nurse touches two fingers just beneath the woman’s nose, and his frown deepens. He touches the same two fingers to the side of her throat, holds them there a few moments, and then sighs sadly. He thumbs the switch to close the IV line and gently removes the needle.

I touch Jonny’s shoulder. “Hey. Jonny.”

He starts awake. “Que? Um—what?” He straightens, blinks at me, and then at the volunteer lifting the IV bag free of the hook. “What’re you . . . where are you taking that?” He sounds stubborn. Petulant, almost.

The volunteer doesn’t quite look at Jonny. “She’s gone, man. I’m sorry. The fluids are needed elsewhere, there’s not enough to go around.”

Jonny is silent a long moment. “She’s not gone.” He shifts, leans forward, touches fingers to her neck. “She’s not gone. Where’s the doctor?”

I wrap an arm around him. “Jonny. You did everything you could.”

He shakes me off. “No. No. I got her out. I got her kids out. He was . . . he was already dead when I got down there, but I got her out.”

I feel a hot lump in my throat. “You did everything you could, Jonny. No one could have done anything more. You’ve done more than . . . more than anyone.”

He shakes his head, murmuring in Spanish too low and too rapid for me to make out, and then louder in English. “She was—she needs the IV. The doctor, he said—he said to push fluids. She’ll—her babies—no, no.”

I wrap my arm around him again, try to pull him away. “Jonny, there wasn’t . . . there wasn’t anything anyone could have done.” I tug at him, but he’s immovable. “Jonny, come on. You’ve done enough for today. Come on.”

“Hours, I—I dug for hours. If—maybe if I’d dug faster, or started sooner, maybe they’d—they both might still be—” He shakes his head, making a keening sound in the back of his throat that is . . . it’s utterly heartbreaking. “I have to—I have to—” He lurches to his feet, staggering out of the tent and toward the ruined building.

I follow him at a run and catch up to him. I cut in front of him and stop with my hands on his chest. “Jonny, stop. Please, please, Jonny, please, just stop for a second.”

He blinks at me as if now realizing I’m here; he’s flashing back, I think, to some past trauma. “I have to go back. I have to help. I have to save them.”

I move slowly, unsure of his mental state at the moment, gathering him into a hug. He’s stiff, tensed, breathing heavily. Shaking his head. Hands fisted at his sides, eyes wild, now.

“Hush, Jonny. You’ve done so much. You’ve been here, digging for days. You’ve saved so many lives, Jonny.” I hold him, and he lets me, but he doesn’t move.

“I—I didn’t save them.”

“You tried.”

He shakes his head. “Mi hermana, mi madre. Mi sobrino . . .” he whispers. “No pude salvarlos . . .”

I’ve worked in enough restaurants and bars with Spanish-speakers to have picked up a little Spanish over the years to understand what he said—my sister, my mother. My nephew. I could not save them.

“You tried, Jonny. You did everything you could.”

He sucks in a deep, deep breath. Holds it. Lets it out slowly, with a broken shudder. “Never—it’s . . . it’s never enough.”

“Can we go to our spot on the beach, Jonny?” I pull him in that direction. “Let’s go sit down for a minute, okay?”

“Her babies.” He blinks, starting to come out of his thoughts. “I have to—I need to see them.”

“Okay, let’s go see them.”

So we go back to the tent, to a pair of cots that are much too big for the tiny, orphaned bodies in them. A four-year-old boy and a three-year-old girl. IV lines are taped to their forearms. They’re sleeping.

A female Red Cross volunteer nearby shushes us softly. “They’re exhausted, the poor things,” she whispers, ushering us away a few feet. “Poor, poor little dears.” She’s mid-forties, thin, efficient, and warm, a woman who has spent her whole life as a nurse.

“They’re going to be okay?” Jonny asks.

The nurse nods. “Yes. They’ll be just fine.” She glances at the now-empty cot. “Such a tragedy about their parents, though.”

“What will happen, now?” Jonny’s gaze stays on the children.

“Oh, social services will take them, eventually. Things are such a mess right now, though. Who knows when that will happen?”

“Until then?”

She shrugs. “We make sure they get fed. Someone will have to tell them about their parents. We will all stick together and help out.” Another shrug and a sigh. “That’s what we do when tragedies happen.”

“Look for the helpers,” I put in. “Mr. Rogers once said that as a kid, whenever something bad happened on TV, his mother would tell him to look for the helpers; there would always be people helping.”

The nurse nods. “Yes. Well, we’re all the helpers now, aren’t we?”

Jonny rubs his face. “I’ll talk to them when they wake up. I don’t think they speak any English.”

“I’ll personally come find you when they wake up, okay?” The nurse pats him on the shoulder. “Go rest, okay? You need it.”

Jonny trudges away, and I follow him. We go to our little nest—well, his little nest, which I’ve somehow turned into our little nest. I wonder if I should give him space or stay close? I don’t know. This is utterly uncharted territory for me, dealing with such raw, intense emotion. Jonny is clearly reliving some past horror, collating that with this current situation, and his placid and seemingly imperturbable demeanor is suddenly cracked, and I’m seeing through to the depth of the man behind it.

He slips off the boardwalk and collapses into the sand, sitting abruptly, as if he’s suddenly too weak to move. I sit beside him. Shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip.

“Jonny, I—” I break off with a sigh, unsure what I’m trying to say. “I’m here.”

He nods heavily, staring out at the rippling sea, the moon a bright disc painting a path on the water, stars infinite and scintillating. “Thank you.”

“Do you . . . do you still want my company? Or would you rather be alone?” I ask, my voice hesitant.

He digs his fingers into the sand, wiggling them deeper and deeper under until he’s buried up to the wrists. “Don’t go. Please.” He says this without looking at me.

“I just . . . I’ve sort of latched onto you since I got here, and—” I pause, hesitating, and then voice my deepest doubts. “I don’t want to . . . overwhelm you, or overstay my welcome with you. If you know what I mean.”

He shakes his head. “Having you around, the last few days—it’s . . . it’s been good. I’ve done this before, helped people after a hurricane. It’s never easy. But with Chris missing and Ava still in the hospital, I wouldn’t . . . it would be harder if I was alone. I’m usually happier being alone, but after what I’ve been through the last few weeks?” He shrugs, shakes his head again. “No, Delta, if I have to be here, doing this, I’m very, very glad to be here, doing it with you.”

I smile helplessly, my heart thrilling and lurching into my throat. “Same.” I pause. “This hurricane . . . I don’t know much about hurricanes in general, but it seems like this one came out of nowhere.”

He nods. “It did. This was a very powerful out-of-season storm, and it just cropped up out of nowhere and hit like a freight train. Me and Chris were on the outer edge of it as it was developing over across the Atlantic, off the southern coast of Africa. It was nice and clear, smooth sailing, and then . . . bam, it hit. We didn’t have a chance to try to get away from it or go back to port and ride it out. It overtook us, smacked us to shit, and . . . that was it. Chris went overboard, and I managed to stay with the boat until Dom rescued me, which was a miracle in and of itself, honestly.”

There’s another long silence between us.

He finally twists his head to look at me, and our faces are so close, too close. “About this morning, Delta . . .”

I interrupt him. “We don’t have to talk about it.”

He doesn’t look away, and I can’t either—I’m somehow just incapable of breaking the eye contact. “In a way, I’m glad of the interruption.”

I blink at him, surprised. “You . . . you are?” I’m not sure if I’m supposed to be hurt or insulted or just baffled, and I go with baffled. “Why? I mean, it can’t have been comfortable, getting stopped when you were obviously, you know, so close.”

He nods. “Well, yeah. That part sucked a little. But . . .” He pauses, his eyes searching mine. “That was a weird situation, and if something were to happen between you and me, Delta, I don’t want it be by accident, you know? Also, I feel like that would have been . . . one-sided. And that’s not how I do things.”

“I’m not the type of woman to keep count, Jonny,” I tell him. “I do what I want, what feels good. And I may not know much about you, but I get the sense you’re not the type of man who’d leave his partner wanting or frustrated.”

“Hell, no,” he says, and somehow we’ve shifted even closer to each other. “Never. That’s why I’m glad things happened like they did. Because I’m not sure how I would have given back what you were giving. We ain’t exactly in a private place, you know?”

I nod, sighing. “Yeah, I see what you’re saying.”

He eyes me, reading me. “But?”

“But . . .” I laugh ruefully. “I don’t like leaving things unfinished. And this morning, it may have started by accident, but . . . I was doing what I wanted to do, because I wanted to do it. Not with any expectation of getting something in return. So things just feel . . . I don’t know. Unfinished.”

He’s quiet for a while. “I hope you can understand this, Delta, but . . . I’m not in a place right now where I can . . .” He shrugs, and it’s obvious he’s deeply uncomfortable saying this. “I can’t go there. Not tonight. Not after”—he waves behind us, at the medical tent—“not after all that.”

I nod and look away. “I totally get that.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to, Delta.”

I smile at him, trying to seem reassuring, which is hard because the welter of emotions running through me certainly contains a strong note of disappointment. “I understand. Absolutely.”

He’s still so close to me, his body and mine touching all along one side. His face is near enough to mine that a tilt and a slight lean, and we could kiss.

Not that he’s going to do that.

I’m not either, obviously.

Kissing him? That’d be . . . ooh boy, that would certainly be a step in the direction of Stage Five Clinger territory, which as previously established, would be phenomenally stupid.

So, yeah, duh. Not kissing him.

And he’s not kissing me, because he’s not looking for a clinger. Shit, he may not even be looking for a hook-up, you know? I mean, maybe he’s the type who would have let me jerk him off, but because it was happening and not because he’d been looking for it, or had any intention of reciprocating, much less letting things progress into actual sex.

His eyes are flitting back and forth, searching mine. And his head is tilting. And he’s leaning.

He’s leaning.

What?

No, no, no—No! If he kisses me, I’m gonna freak out.

Holy shit, he’s kissing me.

Is this real? I think it is. He’s leaning in, his body is angling toward mine, and his lips are sliding softly against mine, and now his hand is cupping the side of my face, and I feel my eyes closing and I feel his mouth on mine, and I let myself indulge in this. Remind myself, mentally, that this doesn’t mean anything. He’s kissing me carefully, delving slowly into it. Which is even more confusing. Because if this had been one of those hard and urgent I just can’t help myself kind of blindingly passionate kisses, I would have just chalked it up to hormones and the intensity of the moment or something, but this kiss is . . . it’s intentional.

My heart is pounding, and my hands are shaking as I feel myself falling into the kiss. I can’t not kiss him back. God, I want this. I want him to be kissing me intentionally, and I want it to devolve into something more, because I just want him. All of him, as much as I can get. I’m anticipating being hurt, so I may as well get as much pleasure as I can out of things before that happens. Right?

But holy shit, his kiss is intoxicating. So slow. Warm. Gentle, but insistent. His mouth is firm, and damp. He’s leading this kiss, his hand is on my cheek and jaw and the back of my neck, and he’s leaning into me, and all I can do it kiss him back.

I’m breathless.

An ache begins, throbbing low in my core as his kiss intensifies and the heat rises between us, and I’m losing myself in it. I let myself just . . . enjoy it. I want him to lay me back in the sand, but I’m not going to push it. I bury a hand in his hair, and I feel his tongue trace my upper lip, and then his other hand, once bracing his weight in the sand, wraps around my lower back and pulls me closer. My breasts smash against his chest, and I hear a soft whimpering moan, and I realize it’s me making that sound.

It was a breathy, needy, erotic moan; do I really sound like that? I’m not sure I’ve ever made that noise before.

And the tingles. God, the tingles. It’s gone beyond mere tingling, now, though. It’s . . . a hum. A vibration, deep inside me, from the soul outward.

He breaks the kiss, finally, and I’m left gasping, and my lips are tingling, and I still have my hand in his silky black hair.

“Jonny, I—” I refuse to let go. I want more. “I’m even more confused, now.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“You said you weren’t in the right place for . . .” I shrug, wave a hand. “That.”

“I know. But I just . . . I had to kiss you.” He shakes his head, as if at a loss for words. “I don’t know. I just had to kiss you.”

I’m shaking all over. My core is throbbing. The kiss was . . . it was fucking intense, and I’m turned on now, and I don’t think he’s going to take it beyond that.

I’m upset, and I’m not sure why.

I’m frustrated, and I’m confused. He’s giving me all kinds of mixed signals. I don’t know what he wants, if he wants me, or if he doesn’t. The man is . . . opaque as a person. I cannot read him. Right now, he’s frowning slightly and his chest is rising and falling heavily as if that kiss left him as off-balance as it did me, but he’s not kissing me, and he didn’t try to further it, didn’t touch me, didn’t seem to be inviting anything more than just the kiss.

What are we, fourteen, when kisses are just kisses, and not a gateway into sex?

No one I’ve ever met an adult who just kisses someone except maybe on the first date, and they sure as hell wouldn’t kiss like that.

So . . . what the hell?

Also, I’m turned on, as in my sex drive is going haywire, and I fucking want Jonny, I want him to touch me, I want to feel his cock in my hand again, and I want to finish what I started. I want to make him come, and I want to feel his hands on me, or his mouth on me, and I want to come, and I want to fuck him. I’m so goddamn horny it’s stupid, and I don’t trust myself.

I’m sitting here on the beach in the middle of the night, trembling all over. I’m so worked up and turned on, and this man is just staring at me, one hand on my lower back, the other still on my face, and I’m gripping his hair at the back of his head like we’re still kissing, but we’re not, we’re just staring into each other’s eyes and somehow just completely failing to be able to read each other.

If I don’t get out of here, I’m going to do something stupid, like grab his dick and suck him off, and then, despite my earlier claim to not need or expect reciprocation, I’m going to shove his hand or his mouth between my thighs and make it abundantly clear I want him to give me an orgasm.

So, instead of doing any of that, I abruptly stand up. “I—I have to . . .” I turn away. Shaking, thighs quaking, frustration boiling through me, and need unraveling inside me. “I have to go. I have to go.”

And I run.

I’ve done a lot of running in my life. When emotions come into play, when things start turning into something that might mean something, I run. When life hands me a situation I don’t know to deal with, I deal with it by running. When it became clear music wasn’t happening in Nashville, I ran. When I found out I was pregnant, I took Tom’s money and I ran.

This is the first time, though, I’ve run away before sleeping with a man; usually, the running happens after. This is me running preemptively.

This time, though, I literally run. Which, I don’t really do, like ever. I do yoga, I lift weights, I do spin classes . . . I do not run. My tits are too big, for one thing. And I just hate it, for another. But this time . . . I run. I jog along the sand, my tits punching me in the face with each step, since I’m wearing that stupid push-up bra I wear at work since it gets me better tips. But the bra is a piece of shit and doesn’t do shit for support, so I’m flopping and bouncing like a Baywatch slow-mo shoot gone wrong. I run, because if I don’t, I’m going to give in and go Stage Five Clinger on Jonny, because he’s amazing and sexy and compassionate and deep and mysterious, and I’ve never met a man like him, one who moves my soul and my libido.

He obviously doesn’t want me, and I’m not going to embarrass myself any more than I have already. I could end up doing something desperate and idiotic, and if I want to retain any of my dignity, I have to get away from Jonny Nuñez.

I run down the beach, not sure where I’m going, just . . . away.

A glow down the beach lures me, the flickering orange of a bonfire. There’s music—a guitar, someone expertly using upturned buckets as drums, and it sounds like someone is playing a cello. It’s beautiful, impromptu, improvised music. It’s been so long since I played or sang around anyone else. I let the music pull me in and take me over, and I let the music breathe through my soul.

I’ve been Mommy for so long, I’ve been just surviving for so long . . .

But this . . . this draws me in.

I approach, slowing to a walk. It’s a massive bonfire, the flames flickering ten or twelve feet in the air, and there are about twenty or thirty people sitting around it, in pairs or in groups, talking, laughing. The musicians are all sitting together in a shallow semi-circle, well away from the fire, almost in the shadows, their backs to the sea. Informal, just a group of like-minded individuals making the most of the moment. The guitarist is a fit older man, early to mid sixties, with long salt-and-pepper hair tied back, and a graying black beard. He’s wearing a loud Hawaiian shirt and board shorts. He’s not exactly good-looking, but not unattractive, either. The cellist is a woman in her late twenties, reddish-blonde hair, pretty but plain. The percussionist is a young white man in his late teens or very early twenties, blond hair in long dreadlocks, a scraggly beard, wearing jeans cut raggedly just below the knee, no shirt, heavily tattooed. They are each phenomenal musicians, but together, they’re . . . just amazing. The melody they’re playing is a familiar one that I cannot quite place, mournful, haunting.

I hesitate on the outskirts of the ring of light, listening. Letting the music seep into my soul.

God, I miss music.

When I was young, music was literally everything to me. I believed in myself. I practiced obsessively. I wrote hundreds of songs. I did open mic nights all over Florida as a teenager, honing my craft by developing my guitar skills, my singing, and my song writing. I moved to Nashville within weeks of turning eighteen and busted my ass making ends meet while trying to make it as a singer-songwriter. I did everything I could to make it as a musician—including blowing a record producer once, which I’m not proud of, but hey, it was when I was beginning to realize a music career wasn’t going to happen for me, and it was a last ditch, desperate attempt to keep the dream alive.

I had fucking talent, too. I really did. But sometimes, talent, looks, and skill just aren’t enough. Sometimes, life just . . . bites you in the ass.

Then I had Alex, and I’ve been devoting myself into raising him, keeping him clothed and educated and fed and safe, and I haven’t had time to do anything except dick around with my guitar, alone, late at night, more out of boredom and loneliness and nostalgia than anything else.

But standing here on the beach with so much sadness inside me percolating and simmering from the days of caring for wounded people, from hearing someone weep at night because a loved one was found dead, and from watching people sort through the rubble of a community’s collective lives . . . yet the music is a salve.

I just stand on the edge of the light and close my eyes and listen, soaking it up.

The song ends, and there’s a moment of discussion, and then the guitarist starts in on “Jolene” by Dolly Parton. And I’m immediately thrown back twenty years to when I was a fresh young talent brand new to Nashville and full of dreams, taking on enormous songs like “Jolene” in the honky-tonks on Lower Broadway. God, I used to fucking slay this song.

I feel my fingers moving on my thigh, mimicking the chords.

The drummer picks up the beat, and they jam for a minute, the drummer and the guitarist, drawing out the intro. The cellist just listens for a while; I think she knows the song, but she’s figuring out how to join in. There she goes—she’s doing the violin part. Her playing lends the song a deeper sorrow and longing and gravitas.

The guitarist starts singing the verses, and his voice is rough and gravelly, but in tune and compelling. I can’t help but sing along. I try to keep quiet, knowing I’ve not been invited into this moment, but unable to help myself from joining in.

The guitarist hears me first, his gaze sweeping the darkness until it finds me, and he smiles encouragingly and jerks his head to indicate I should join in. So I do. I sit crosslegged between the guitarist and the cellist, and I find the harmony. It all comes rushing back, a torrent of memory. The music has me in its grip, and I sing that song with everything I’ve got.

There’s scattered applause when the music ends, and the guitarist smiles at me. “Well, damn, girl,” he says, in a slow southern drawl. “You’ve got a mighty fine voice.”

I smile and shrug. “Thanks.”

He introduces himself as Rob, the cellist is Elaine, and the drummer is Corey, and I offer them my first name, and receive a flurry of other names from the others around us, and suddenly everyone seems so genuine and friendly and welcoming, and my heart is thrilling and filling and swelling.

Rob flicks a finger at my hands, clutched in front of me. “Saw your hands as you were singing, looks like you know how to play.”

I shrug again. “I used to play. Still do, a little bit.”

He hands me his guitar. “Take it away, sugar.”

I take the guitar, and it settles into place perfectly. I stroke the strings, find a chord, and strum. God, the voice of this instrument is . . . it’s like honey. I note the maker’s name on the headstock: Martin. Shit, no wonder this guitar sounds so good. It’s very old, impeccably maintained, and probably worth a fortune.

I search inside myself for something to play, but nothing comes to mind, and I know myself well enough to know the only way I’ll find the right song is to let it emerge on its own. So I let my fingers do the talking. A chord, another, some idle strumming, learning the personality of this incredible guitar.

Soon enough, the melody to “The Sound of Silence” by Simon & Garfunkel emerges. My dad was big on the classics from when he was younger: Simon and Garfunkel, Dolly Parton, James Taylor, Cat Stevens, Carly Simon, that kind of thing. It was what we grew up on, because it was what he’d listen to all day every day. He’d be out in the garage, tinkering with his old Camaro, and he’d have a tape on, and I’d sit and listen to the music and watch him tinker. Ava never understood why I’d sit out there for so long, on that old stool by Dad’s cluttered workbench, watching him tinker and listening to the music. But I just loved it. I loved the music, the smell of the grease and the heat in the old garage, and the way Dad would sing along under his breath. Ava was always more interested in reading the latest book or magazine and going to the mall with her friends. Me? I just liked listening to music with Dad. Later, those songs I grew up listening to became my go-to cover songs, because I knew them all backward and forward. They were what I learned to play the guitar on, and when I did my first open mic night, it was “Cat’s in the Cradle” by Harry Chapin. When I booked my first paying gig, I started with a James Taylor song and ended with a Carly Simon song, and did everything I could think of in the hour and a half in between. I was booked for a return gig the next week based on that performance. Even after I had a full set list of my own original material, I’d still throw in covers of the songs I cut my teeth on.

Which is why Simon and Garfunkel is what comes out when I start playing. It’s a comfort song, that one. Dad’s favorite song. The first song I ever learned to play. I’m back in Florida, feeling the sea breeze in my hair, and I have a guitar in my hands and a song in my heart and, for a moment, at least, I feel a measure of something like happiness.

Corey and Elaine fill in their parts, and I let Simon and Garfunkel flow out of me. Rob harmonizes with me, and I’m transported, flown away to that place in my soul where music lives. My talent is rusty from disuse, but this is wetting it, feeding it, greasing it until the cogs churn effortlessly again.

The song ends, but Elaine keeps playing, shifting into something else, her own melody, maybe. Corey adds a slow beat, and I listen for a moment, but my hands know what to do, even if my head doesn’t. I play with them, add a simple, repeating refrain. Rob leans backward against the wall of the boardwalk and comes back with a mandolin, and then layers in his own contribution. We just play, then, the four of us. It’s a simple song we’re playing, but it’s lovely and delicate and somehow joyful. Hopeful, in a time of hardship. I look around at the people by the fire, and there are bandages and casts and bruises, sorrow and worry lines, fear, sadness, anger. And our music, it’s a moment of light in the darkness.

I see Jonny, at the edge of the light, arms crossed over his chest, watching me play.

I lose track of time after that. Jonny just watches, and more people filter in and some leave, and there’s someone with a little camera, recording us. We play for hours, Rob with his mandolin and me with Rob’s gorgeous Martin, Elaine with her cello, and Corey with his bucket drums. We play The Counting Crows, Michael Jackson, Crosby Stills and Nash, Jonny Cash, Alan Jackson, The Black Keys, The White Stripes, and if one of us doesn’t know a song, we improvise. People sing along, and some dance, and others make out, and there’s a sense of camaraderie between us all, born in the ruins of the hurricane and brought to life by the music, the shared moment of enjoyment when all else is so dark and painful.

Eventually, Corey says he’s beat and has to sleep, and Elaine just blinks sleepily and wanders away with her cello and bow, and now it’s just me and Rob.

I hand Rob his guitar back. “Thanks for letting me play. She’s a beautiful instrument.”

Rob takes it and strokes the strings. “She sure is, ain’t she? Ol’ Gloria and me, we’ve been makin’ music together more’n thirty years, now.” He nods at me. “You’re a fine hand with the six-string, Delta, and you got a voice like an angel. Pleasure to jam with you, sweetheart.”

I smile self-consciously at his compliment. “Thanks, Rob. Did me a world of good to play and sing again. Been a while.”

“I think there’s talk of another fire tomorrow,” Rob says. “Swing on by and we’ll jam again. I know Gloria will be lookin’ forward to it, and so will I.” He eyes the shadows, and sees Jonny. “Looks like a fella’s waitin’ for you.”

I stand up. “I’d love to play with Gloria again,” I say. “Thanks again.”

“It was my pleasure, and I do mean that. Hope we see you tomorrow night.”

I stroll away from the fire, past Jonny without slowing down or acknowledging him, because I don’t know what to say or how to act around him. He catches up in a few easy strides and walks beside me in silence. I walk straight past his little nest, ignoring him still.

A quarter mile later he finally breaks the silence, trotting around in front of me to force me to a halt.

“Delta.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “Jonny.”

He sighs, as if hunting for the right words. “I don’t know . . . dios mio, this is hard.” He starts again. “I don’t know how to navigate this, Delta. I’m a sailor, that’s what I do, I sail. I can circumnavigate the globe without a chart or GPS, using the old ways, but this thing, you and me? I can’t make my way through it. I’m not trying to hurt or confuse you, I just . . . I don’t know what I’m doing.”

I laugh. “I can’t even navigate Chicago without GPS, and I’ve lived there for years. So . . . I don’t know how to navigate this either.” I shrug. “Maybe there’s nothing to navigate.”

“You don’t think so?”

I lift my hands palms up. “Hell if I know, Jonny. I mean, part of me wants there to be, but honestly, no, I don’t think there is.” I let out a long sigh. “I have to . . . I have to figure out where I’m going next, what I’m doing. I can’t stay out here on the beach, digging through rubble. I have a son who needs me. I have bills to pay. I have a life. I have a sister who’s about to get out of the hospital, and she has no home, nowhere to go, and her husband is missing, probably dead. So no, I don’t think there’s anything to navigate.”

“It kinda feels like there could be, though.” Jonny steps closer to me.

“Don’t, Jonny.” I back away. “Yeah, it does kind of feel like there could be, but feelings fade, don’t they? I’m sure you’ve had feelings for someone before, but it’s never kept you in one place, has it? This isn’t going to be any different. Like I said, I have a son who needs me, so even if I wanted to, I can’t just . . . go gallivanting across the world on a sailboat.”

I wave a hand at the sea. “Your life is out there”—I wave behind me, at the land—“and mine is out there. It was nice spending time with you, and it was amazing getting to know you, and I’m for sure gonna regret this later because I’m crazy attracted to you, but . . . there’s nothing there, Jonny. Nothing real and lasting.”

He sighs. “That’s not how I wanted this to go.”

“Me either.” I shake my head and sigh. “But . . . I don’t think there’s any other way it could have gone.”

A long beat of silence. “I’m gonna go visit Ava tomorrow. I have to give her the box from Christian.”

“I’ll go with you. She’s really going to need me when you’re done.”

He nods heavily. “Yes. I think you’re right.” He steps backward, away from me. “So . . . where will you sleep?”

I gesture at the sand by the edge of the boardwalk. “Here, I guess.”

He shakes his head and rolls his eyes. “Don’t. That’s dumb.”

“I can sleep fine in the sand.”

“We’ll keep our distance, if that’s what you need. But staying way over here all by yourself? It’s not safe.” He steps toward me again. “Law and order tends to break down at times like these.”

“I’ll be fine.” I’m totally lying: the idea of sleeping in the bare sand, alone, no blankets, no one around? It’s utterly terrifying.

He frowns at me. “What are you afraid of, Delta? What do you think I’m going to do?”

I laugh, an amused, sarcastic bark. “It’s not you I’m afraid of, Jonny.”

His frown deepens. “Then what?”

I shake my head, not wanting to answer. But I do. “Myself. I’m afraid of what I’ll do.”

Jonny takes my hand and leads me back towards his nest. “Come on, Delta. It’ll be fine. We’re both adults. Nothing will happen.” Another few steps. “I’m not letting you sleep out here alone. It’s not safe.”

He’s not safe either, but in a totally different way.

I go with him, knowing deep in my gut that this is going to lead to me doing something stupid. Because . . . hello, this is me. I specialize in making stupid decisions that are bound to accomplish nothing but hurt me and make my life more difficult.

We lay down in the little nest of blankets, in the divot we’ve made in the sand. We lie close, but not too close. Spooning, but not touching in anyway. Just sleeping. Neither of us says anything as we fall asleep because, really, there’s nothing to say.