“Okay, okay.” He exhales dramatically. The soothing circles on my back slow and then come to a stop, as if he’s just realizing he’s been doing it.

“That helps,” I tell him in small voice.

“All right,” he says gruffly. But he begins rubbing my back again, and his hand is gentle.

“Josie?”

“Yes?” I say into my arms, cradling my camera.

“Why did you arrange this boat charter if you get seasick?”

“Clearly I didn’t know that,” I complain. “I wanted to help pay for the window. You refused. So I came up with this plan.”

“A good, old-fashioned Josie scheme. Missed those.”

“I thought I could take pictures,” I explain, hoping it sounds less … weird. “I didn’t know I got seasick.”

He chuckles.

“Are you laughing at me?”

“No, no. Just picturing you interning at that magazine during Regatta Week, that’s all.”

Oh my good God. “Is this a one-time thing, or are people genetically prone to it?”

“You get used to boats. Usually. Some people never do.”

Seagulls squawk as they fly near the Harborwalk. A small fishing boat motors past us. I finally dare to lift my head, and Lucky jerks his hand away. After a sickening moment when blood rushes back to where it belongs, I sit back in my seat and breathe. I’m okay. Not sick. Where’s the horizon? There. Okay. Not sure that really helps, because too many boats keep speeding past it, but at least we’re not moving.

I shift my focus to a nearby sign that warns of deep water. People need a sign to tell them not to swim here? I swear, people will post a sign for anything. People are strange. Thank God for strangeness.

Wish Lucky’s hand was still on my back.

His sunglasses rest atop his head, and he’s twisted in his seat, one bare knee up between us, elbows resting behind him on the edge of the boat. He squints at me and says bluntly, “So … you talked to Bunny.”

Right. That. “I ran into her. Your name came up, I didn’t—”

“It’s fine.”

“I wasn’t gossiping about you.”

“No?” He studies my face with a curious kind of enjoyment in his gaze. “That’s disappointing to hear.”

“She was telling me that some things I heard were wrong … and that you apparently are not the father of her child.”

“No, I am not. Not hers, not anyone’s.”

“Okay, that’s good. Not that there’s anything …” Ugh. Awkward. “I mean, if you …” One more time. “I guess I don’t know why people ever said that about you and Bunny to begin with?”

“People say that because I drove her to an abortion clinic.”

Oh.