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As always when I invite him to join me, he answers with a grunt.
“You know you’re always welcome.” I pause at the large set of spotless glass French doors that lead out to the pathway to the beach, waiting for him to open the door for me.
I’m so under his control, I’m not even allowed to open doors for myself…
“Thank you,” I say between clenched teeth.
I step out into the sun, my sandals snapping along the stone path that cuts through the grassy field and leads to the ocean.
Anger boils inside of me. Anger at my mother, at Patrick, at Damian. Most of all… at myself.
To find myself in this position, one more time. I’m an idiot.
It’s lunchtime, no one’s on the beach. Everyone is inside. I assume the families know I’m here, but still, he keeps me hidden away for the most part. His dirty little secret. Scheduling my garden tours during their dinners, earlier than our own, and this swim, during their lunches.
I reach the sand. Kick off my shoes. Unknot the sheer coverup that’s tied around my waist. I go to toss it to the ground, but Caesar takes it from me.
“Thanks,” I say, sweeter this time, the ocean softening my mood.
I can feel Caesar’s eyes on me as I make my way to the water.
My bare feet glide across the warm sand. A foamy splash of water covers my feet. I lift my knees high to march through the surf as it crashes against the shoreline.
Determination warms my muscles as I stretch my arms out, bring my hands together, and dive into an oncoming wave. I will get out of here. The water, as always, is the perfect temperature for a swim.
As I extend my body, making long strokes through the oncoming waves, I think of the olive oil I soaked my bread in at lunch. This island has a large garden, supplying the Parrish with most of their fruits and veggies.
Everything else is brought in by boat.
What if I was able to stow away once more, this time by sea instead of air? I could hide amongst the empty crates, returning to the mainland on the boat that delivers sundries.
It’s not the craziest plan. I’ve seen the boats filled with supplies. They pull up to the shore behind the low gray shiplap building where they offload everything, men with beautiful faces and large muscles talking and laughing as they carry the crates from the boats to the building.
I’m past the breaking waves now, the sea smooth as glass.
I focus on my breaths, filling my lungs with fresh sea air as I perfect my breaststroke. At one point in my childhood, swimming was my happy place. My mother would take me to the Cherry Grove pool during the summer, which started my love for the water.
I thought she was taking me out of the kindness of her heart, something fun for us to do together. When I got older, she told me the real reason she brought me to the pool was to keep me tanned and in shape for pageants.
Sick, huh?
Still, she couldn’t crush my love for the water, which ultimately helped me land my summer lifeguard job. I love the way my muscles burn from exertion, the way the waves hit me as I dip my head below the surface. I swim a little closer to shore and pop my head up out of the sea, wiping the water from my face.
I glance over my shoulder. Caesar stands on the sand like a stone statue, watching me from behind his dark glasses. He doesn’t look like he wants to get wet, and he knows I’m a strong swimmer. I don’t think he’ll be alarmed if I change directions as long as I tell him.
I shout out to him from over the crash of the waves. “There’s a strong current. I’m going to head that way.” I point to the right.
He gives me a nod.
Now, I cut my direction the way I just pointed, swimming toward the docks where I’ve seen the supply boats arrive. The current I made up suddenly appears, tugging at my torso as I fight to move against it.
My lungs burn, my muscles ache, but I’m determined to lay hands on the docks.
I stroke harder, faster, using my anger to propel me forward. Finally, I make it out of the current, the water going back to the smooth, glassy tide. I work with the water, getting closer to my destination.
I see the docks. I tread water, my limbs jelly. There’s a sleek white speedboat coming into shore now, a dark-haired captain bringing the vessel closer. Young, tattooed men mingle along the shore, waiting for the boat to dock so they can unload the supplies.
I gulp air into my burning lungs. Hope rises in my heaving chest as I watch the boat pull into the dock. The hope quickly turns to determination as I watch the men haul wooden crates into the low gray building.
