“Fighting words are the learned man’s right hook,” Beck says as he swings at me. I dodge, and he nods.
“The right words can distract a pretty little thing like yourself from a wicked hook on the left,” he says, jabbing with his left hand. I feint left, but it turns out, he was feinting, too. He gets me against the jaw with his right hook.
“Were you just trying to sweet talk me?” I ask, angling myself so that I’m better defended.
“Nothing sweet about my talk, Capo,” he says as he whistles through his teeth.
Since our first few disastrous lessons, Beck’s taught me some maneuvers to break holds. He doesn’t pin me against anything, doesn’t ask about it, and I don’t bring it up. It feels like this big, heavy balloon between us that we’re both afraid to pop.
After a few days of letting my hands heal, he added in some attack moves, and I’m actually starting to get it. Whatever is in the doctor’s salve, it’s working like swift magic on my hands. I’ve been putting it on my hip, too, but it’s not as effective there. The scar is still raised and puckered, my rolled skin frozen in time in a fist-sized circle around three crudely carved letters: CJL.
The blisters are almost completely gone from my hands, though, and I’m able to once again grip Beck’s arms. Leveraging my own weight the way he showed me, I’m even able to flip him over my shoulder and onto the ground. It hurts, but the accomplishment of maneuvering someone his size boosts my confidence. He’s found boots in my size to match his. They’re flexible-soled, made of black leather, lace up to just past my ankles, and make moving around him so much easier that he grumbles his regret in gifting them to me.
“So, what’s your plan, Capo?” he asks, hopping from foot to foot as I protect my face.
“I’m going to punch you,” I say. Then I swing and box his shoulder.
“Good,” he says, in his instructor voice. “But that’s not what I meant.”
“What did you mean, then?”
“I mean, after all of this, the competition for the limpdill heir himself, is over.” I almost drop my guard and stop moving. Why is everyone suddenly so interested in commenting on my future? I shake off the rush of frustrated bitterness and push through, hopping from left to right and back and forth.
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t you think you might want to?”
I shrug. “I don’t know.”
“Well, let me be the first to offer my considerable condolences on your impending graduation. I’d love to offer you a position on my ship. We are in dire need of a second mate.”
“Ew,” I say.
“What do you mean, ‘ew?’”
“I mean, I don’t want to do anything with you that sounds like mate,” I say. He arches an eyebrow, and I throw a punch with my left hand, jabbing him in the kidneys. He laughs out loud and gives me an encouraging nod.
“Has anyone ever told you, you have a filthy mind?”
“Is it as filthy as your boat?”
“I’m not going to dignify that question with a response,” he says. But the grin he lets slip tells me he very much approves of the cleanliness of my mind.
“Does your boat smell like you?”
“Nope.”
“It doesn’t?” I ask, doubtful.
“I don’t have a boat. That said, my ship does . . . well, me plus my crew.”
“Ew,” I repeat, taking a swing that lands softly on his jaw.
“Good,” he says again. He dances back, cocks his head to the side, and gives a sharp nod. He takes a swing, and I duck. He nods again, then continues. “Seriously, you should come work for me. I’m a fair boss. I do require long hours, but it’s crappy pay, with hazardous conditions and bare-bones accommodations. There’s food, but it’s not healthy. Although, I do offer all the orange peels you can eat. Scurvy is a silent killer, and we’ve almost got this thing beat.” He moves the orange peel he’s currently chewing on and grins, showing off an orange smile.
“Man, where do I sign up?” I ask. I take another swing, but I open my arm too wide and he raises his fist to touch my chin.
“Careful. Always protect the money-maker,” he says, referencing a previous lesson.
I purse my lips, watching his shoulders, looking for a tell he’s about to attach. “I thought that was my ass.”
“Different kind of money. There’s face money, and there’s ass money.”
“Which kind works on your boat?”
“Neither,” he says, taking another swing. It opens up an opportunity to duck and get him in the kidneys. I miss, and he hits the back of my head. “Careful, there—rookie mistake.” I shake my head, then nod and reset.
“So, what kind of girl does work on your boat?” I ask.
“I told you, neither.”
“You don’t hire women?”
“Oh, I do. I’ll hire anyone willing to do the work. But it’s not a boat. It’s a ship.”
“I’ll give you a ship,” I say, faking right, and then swinging left. He blocks it and swings with his other arm. I block that and punch him lightly in the stomach. He gives an appraising nod and shakes it off, keeping light on his feet.
“For the record, I prefer brains.”
“What? Like roasted?”
“No,” he says, shaking his head. He chuckles between breaths. “We were talking about face-money girls and ass-money girls. I prefer women who can think.”
“Face and ass girls can’t think?”
“It’s not always their priority.”
“So, they’re mutually exclusive?”
“Not on Sundays,” he says, and then spins around with a little hoot. I roll my eyes as I let out an unattractive snort-laugh between breaths.
“Why should I care?”
“Didn’t you ask?” he asks.
“Nope.”
“Oh, well then I guess you don’t. Care, I mean.”
“I guess not,” I say, jabbing at his protecting arm.
“So, you’re not going to take me up on my offer?”
“To come work on your shitty boat?”
“It’s a ship,” he says, bouncing back on his heels. He points to his mouth as he over enunciates the word. “Ship. You mispronounced it.”
“I said what I said,” I say, leaning into another swing. It lands on his side a little harder than I intended, and he hops away.
“Ooooh, look at you! You’re getting feisty. Like a squirrel. It’s adorable.”
“You’re adorable,” I say, taking another swing. It lands just as hard in the same spot. He flinches.
“Jeez! Are you hormonal or something?” My face flushes hot.
“Don’t be a jerk.” I swing and miss.
“I’m gonna punch you in the ovaries,” he says, and I stifle a laugh.
“I’d like to see you try, Salt Knob.”
He stops, his eyebrows lifting in amused arches. He nods, and gives me an impressed smile. I mirror him and cock my head to the side. Then his fist strikes my lower abdomen. Hard. I keel over, my breath a thin sliver of air I can’t quite seem to get my lungs around.
“Can’t say I didn’t warn you,” he says.
“Capo? You with me?” he asks, rubbing the left side of his nose with his thumb as he watches me, his thick eyebrows narrowed. I try to sit upright in my chair, but my stomach aches. No, not my stomach—my ovaries. Stupid Salt Knob.
“Yeah,” I croak. I slump, keeping my hands pressed against my stomach as I glare at the floor of the cabin.
“Here.” He sets a cup of steaming liquid on the table beside me. “Drink this. It’ll help.”
“It’ll help my ovaries?”
“Oh, shoot . . . ostriches. This will help your ostriches,” he says with a proud grin as he sits in the adjacent chair. “I’ve got to start reading the fine print.” I take the warm cup and wrap my fingers around it. He shifts his chair to face me and leans forward over his knees. A chunk of dark, wavy hair falls loose from his ponytail, and he tucks it behind his ear.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get you that hard. Though, to be fair, I did tell you exactly what I was going to do.”
“I know. It’s okay,” I say. I blow into the cup, and then take a sip. The tea tastes like sweet lemons. He’s quiet for a minute, pressing his mouth into the palm of his hand. The only noise is the scratch of his fingernails against his scruff.
“Have you never really considered your future?” he asks at last.
“I haven’t.”
“Why not?”
I look at him. I don’t know what to say. How do I explain to a man who runs his own ship, crew, and business, that until I got here, I didn’t have a future?
“There wasn’t a point.” I watch him over the rim of my cup. He nods, thoughtful.
“Well, now there is.”
“And what? I’m supposed to know exactly what I want after having spent my entire life being told I didn’t have a say in it?”
He lifts one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “No, but you should have an idea of something you might like to do? Or somewhere you’d like to go?”
“Like what? Or where?”
“I don’t know . . . do you want to go back to the peninsula?”
“No.” My answer comes fast and resolute. He nods.
“Maybe you’d like to see the Espancian coast? Or the Brandeissland river caves?” He adds an affected accent to his words, as if he’s trying to sell me a luxurious estate. It makes him sound like Dean Edina.
I scrunch my nose and sip my tea. “River caves? No, not really.”
“Home, maybe? Where is home?” I feel nothing at the word, and try to ignore the sense of emptiness that comes with it. This conversation is uncomfortable. Almost more uncomfortable than taking a punch. I squirm, wondering if the tea will help this form of discomfort as much as it will the discomfort in my ovaries.
“Is that what you would do?” I ask. He’s quiet for a long moment, and then wipes his hand over his mouth, averting his eyes.
“Some say you can’t ever go home again.”
“That’s not an answer.”
His shoulders are tight, and he looks at the floor. “The sea is my home.”
I nod and try to imagine a world where the ever-changing tides were my home. A flush of something pleasant, yet unsteady fills me, and I give a little shudder.
“I don’t have a home,” I finally say. He’s quiet for a moment, and then shrugs.
“Well, I don’t know. The world is your oyster, as they say. What do you want to do?” I sip my tea and feel a familiar panic creep up my neck.
“I don’t know. Doesn’t Declan decide now, or something?” I ask, more venom in my words than I intended. Beck cocks his head again, eyeing me with shrewd intrigue. Then he sits back and expels a mean, barking laugh.
“No, Declan doesn’t get a say. You’re Independent, and if anyone tells you otherwise, they’re wrong.”
“Yeah, but I mean, there’s only so many options out there for me.”
“Meaning?”
I sigh, resting my cup in my lap as anxious numbness spreads through my hands.
“Before I got here, I was starting to think I could do something good from this experience. Like, really do something . . . make a difference. . . . But this is just an elaborate cover for a finishing school. I’m not supposed to do more.”
“You don’t want that.” It’s not a question, not an assumption. He just knows. Being understood, known, in such a fundamental way—it’s a feeling I’ve only experienced a few times before. It grounds me, makes my next deep breath easier.
“Of course, I don’t want that,” I say. “But what are my other options?”
“I wasn’t joking about the second mate.” I laugh and scratch my eyebrow, and to his credit, he smiles, revealing the dimple in his right cheek.
“Aye aye,” I say, giving him a little salute with my fingers. We sit quietly, but not uncomfortably, for a moment longer. Then he shifts in his seat and leans a little closer.
“Can I tell you a story?” he asks. I shrug and tuck my feet beneath me.
“They tell this myth where I’m from. There’s this goddess, Scio. She was beautiful, and clever—too clever. She upset the God of the Heavens—that’s another story; I think she was pissed he cheated on her, or she ate all his ambrosia or something. Anyway, he pushed her out of the heavens. Told her she had to find her own way back.”
I bring my cup to my lips, taking a small sip, watching as Beck gets lost in his story.
“It was dark when she fell into the great sea, almost black. She recognized some of the stars above her, but part of the sky was blacked out. She didn’t understand why she couldn’t see it. Enough of it was missing that she couldn’t tell which direction was home.
“She treaded water, and in the morning, when the sun rose, she saw that there was this giant mountain range, just inland from the nearby shore. It blocked out half the sky. So she swam to shore and went toward the mountains. She climbed them because she was sure that if she could get to the top, she would see the whole sky and find her way home. Well, the first day, she fell, sliding all the way to the bottom. She rested that night, still watching half the night sky and swearing she’d find her way.”
He glances up at me. I wait, unsure of what it is I’m supposed to learn from this tale.
“On the second day, she got farther, but her foot got wedged in a crevice, and it slowed her down. On the third day, a storm blew her back. On the fourth, she met a mountain lion—she bested him, ferocious goddess that she was, but not without injury.”
His eyes drift off to some distant point, and an easy smile tugs at his lips. It’s as if I’m watching him transform into the boy who first heard this story, told to him by someone whose every word imprinted itself into his memory.
“Each night she climbed, she saw less and less of the stars, as the mountains loomed higher and higher. The higher she climbed, the harder it got. Finally, on the sixth day, she reached the peak just as the stars filled the sky.
“A familiar voice called to her and said, ‘What has taken you so long to find what you seek?’ And she replied, ‘But for the mountains, I would have found it sooner.’ The voice replied, ‘Look at yourself. Look at the mountain. Look at the crevices, the blood stains, the gashes, the bruises. They are your character, your story. But for the mountains, you would not have found yourself.” His words linger between us as the story ends, the air in the cabin heavy and still.
“What happened then?” I whisper.
“Shit if I know. Some say she remained on the mountain and merged with the peak. Others say she moved on, or died, having become complete. I don’t know about that one.” He leans onto his elbows again and exhales.
“The important part is that, but for the mountains, she would have seen the stars. She wanted to see past the mountains—she wanted them gone. But she had to conquer them, and in turn, they became a part of her. They didn’t limit her, or define her; they were her mountains—craggy and cracked, dangerous and beautiful.” Beck leans forward, close enough that I have to meet his green-gold eyes, not that I would dare look away.
“The point is, don’t give up because your mountains have blocked the sky. You’ve started the climb, Arden, and it can feel like you’ll never get past it, but you will. It’s not wrong to want to see what’s on the other side.” The cabin absorbs his words, sucking in all the sound, leaving me with the scent of lemon mixed with leather and salt, and the sound of my heart, hammering with a new forcefulness. Absentmindedly, I trace my scar, the ugliest part of me.
“That doesn’t define you,” he says. “It’s part of you, but you control what it means.”