Chapter 3: The Morning After
The galley at five in the morning was a pocket of still life aboard the sleeping boat. The only light came from a single bulb over the stove, casting everything in a harsh, yellowing glow. Lorna sat at the small teak table, her hands wrapped around a mug of coffee that had gone cold twenty minutes ago. She hadn’t taken a sip. She was still in her robe, the silk bunched and twisted from a night spent staring at the ceiling, listening to Betty’s shallow, uneven breathing in the other bunk.
The image was burned onto the back of her eyelids: the blue glow in the water, the two silhouettes merged against the hull, the way Betty’s head had fallen back. The sound she’d made. Lorna shifted in her seat, the silk tightening across her thighs. A flush of heat, familiar and unwelcome, crawled up her neck.
She heard the soft pad of bare feet on the companionway steps before she saw her.
Chermaine entered the galley like she owned the air in it. She wore only a pair of faded, low-slung cargo shorts, the button undone. Her torso was bare, every muscle defined in the stark light, a landscape of deep brown skin and powerful curves. Damp tendrils of her pixie cut clung to her temples. She’d already been working.
She didn’t look at Lorna. Not at first. She went to the counter, her back to the table, and began the methodical process of making a new pot of coffee. The silence was a physical thing, swollen with everything they weren’t saying. The grinder screamed, shattering it. Lorna flinched.
When it was done, Chermaine turned, leaning her hips against the counter. She crossed her arms, which lifted her breasts, and finally let her eyes settle on Lorna. Her expression was neutral. Inquisitive, maybe.
“You’re up early,” Chermaine said. Her voice was morning-rough, devoid of its usual mocking lilt.
“Couldn’t sleep,” Lorna managed. It came out a dry croak. She cleared her throat, a loud, awkward sound in the small space.
“Hmm.”
Chermaine pushed off the counter and walked to the table. She didn’t go to the other side. She stopped beside Lorna’s chair, so close the heat from her body cut through the galley’s chill. Lorna caught the scent of her—salt, clean sweat, and something earthy. She kept her eyes fixed on her cold coffee.
Chermaine reached across her for the sugar bowl. Her bare forearm brushed the sleeve of Lorna’s robe. The contact was electric, deliberate. Lorna stopped breathing.
“Sleep well?” Chermaine asked. She was still reaching, her body arched over Lorna’s seated form, her shorts riding low on her hips.
It was the same question. The one from yesterday on the lounger. It meant everything now.
Lorna’s heart hammered against her ribs. She felt like she was negotiating a hostile takeover, but all her PowerPoint slides were blank. All her data was corrupted. “No,” she whispered.
Chermaine straightened, spooning sugar into her own mug. She stirred slowly, the metal clinking against ceramic. “Rough sea. It gets to people. The isolation. Makes them do things they wouldn’t normally do.”
Lorna’s head snapped up. She met Chermaine’s eyes. They were dark, impossible to read. “What things?”
A faint smile touched the captain’s lips. She didn’t answer. Instead, she set her mug down on the table, right next to Lorna’s cold one. Then she pulled out the chair beside Lorna and sat, angling her body toward her. Her knee bumped Lorna’s under the table. She didn’t move it away.
“Your niece. She’s a restless sleeper. Kicks the sheets.”
Lorna felt a jolt of protective fury. It was a pathetic flare, doused instantly by a hotter, sharper shame. She’d done nothing to protect her. She’d just watched. “She’s young,” Lorna said, her voice tightening into its managerial register. It sounded ridiculous here.
“She is.” Chermaine took a slow sip of coffee. Her eyes never left Lorna’s face. “Eager to please. Responsive. You can see it in the way she moves. Always waiting for a sign, for permission.”
Lorna’s mouth was parched. She couldn’t look away. “Permission for what?”
“To feel something.” Chermaine set her mug down. She reached out, not for Lorna, but for Lorna’s mug. She picked up the cold, full cup. “You didn’t drink this.” She brought it to her own lips and took a swallow, her eyes locking with Lorna’s over the rim. It was an intimacy more shocking than a touch. A sharing of saliva, of defeat.
“Stop it,” Lorna breathed. There was no force behind it.
“Stop what?” Chermaine put the mug back in its exact spot, her fingers lingering on the handle. “I’m just having coffee with a guest. Making conversation.”
“You know what you’re doing.”
“Do I?” Chermaine leaned in closer. Lorna could see the faint droplets of seawater still on her collarbone. “You’re the one sitting in a dark galley before sunrise. In a robe. You didn’t even turn on the proper lights. You’ve been sitting here in the dark, thinking about it.”
Lorna’s composure cracked. A sharp, silent tear escaped and traced a path through her powder. She didn’t wipe it away. “It was wrong,” she hissed, the words barely audible.
“What was?” Chermaine’s voice was a soft, relentless press. “The swim? Or the watching?”
The question hung there, obscene. Lorna’s breath hitched. She had no answer. The truth was a tangled knot in her gut—revulsion, jealousy, a yawning, aching want so deep it felt like grief.
Chermaine saw it. She read it in the tremor of Lorna’s lip, the way her hands had begun to shake. The predator in her settled, satisfied. The game wasn’t in the catching; it was in the moment the prey accepted the chase was over.
She stood up, her movement casual. She drained her coffee. “We make landfall at a private cay today. Good snorkeling. You should both come. Get some sun.” She spoke as if discussing the weather. “The water’s clearer there. You can see everything.”
She walked to the sink, rinsed her mug, and placed it upside down on the drainer. She paused at the companionway stairs, one hand on the teak rail.
“Wear the black one-piece, Lorna,” she said without turning around. “The one with the low back. It suits your authority better than those frilly cover-ups you packed.”
Then she was gone, her footsteps fading up to the bridge.
Lorna sat motionless. The galley felt emptier than before, charged with a new and terrifying silence. She looked at her mug, the one Chermaine’s mouth had touched. A faint smudge of lip gloss marked the rim.
Slowly, as if in a trance, Lorna reached for it. She brought it to her lips. She drank the rest of the cold, bitter coffee in one long, shuddering swallow.
Above her, the engines rumbled to life.