While we wait for Anthony and Ben to return, Mads and I sit in the living room and watch a thick layer of mist slowly suffocate the remains of the sun, drawing the color from the sky. As the living room windows turn gray, it feels to me as if we’re being submerged in a bath of tepid, soapy water, and I push myself up from my comfortable position on the sofa to switch on the lights, even though it’s way too early for this and they hardly do anything against the gloom. Mads has hardly left my side since his confrontation with Sammy. When we first returned inside, he performed a series of pull-ups, using the lintel above the entrance into the hallway as a bar, as if he needed to burn off an excess of hormones still churning through his system. Since then, every half hour or so, he stretches himself out—keeping himself ready, I think, in case Sammy comes back.
When he emerges from the bathroom, cheeks flushed and hair dripping from the shower, he crosses the room to the windows. “What time is it?” he asks me.
“One,” I answer, joining him at the window.
Neither of us speaks. But we’re both thinking the same thing: They should have been back by now. They left nearly five hours ago. It hasn’t started to rain just yet. But the wind is already whipping through the trees, howling and whistling in the eaves. This is going to be a fierce storm. The island feels unprotected, and the channel is treacherous enough on a calm day. Maybe they’re having a difficult time getting back.
Mads clears his throat. “Should we call them?” But it sounds like he’s speaking more to himself than me.
“Do they have their phones with them?” I’ve spent so long without mine, it seems strange to imagine Anthony and Ben carrying them.
Mads strides out of the living room. I follow him down the hallway, into Anthony’s room. He goes straight for the bedside table, opening the bottom drawer, without hesitation, and revealing three cell phones. He obviously knew where the phones went. When Anthony had taken my phone, our first night here, he told me he was stashing them away in a drawer. He hadn’t specified which. I’m not so surprised, but I make a mental note of the slight. This is yet another reminder how much of an outsider I am here. Still.
Mads nods in satisfaction. “Looks like one phone is missing. Probably Anthony’s.” He reaches for the landline, dialing immediately. It strikes me that he knows Anthony’s number by heart. The two of them are closer than they let on. He presses the phone to his ear, waits a beat, then, frowning, depresses the switch hook, as though to hang up the call. He does this once, tentatively, then again, clicking the buttons a few times, more forcefully.
“Damn,” he exclaims. His eyes are on me, nervous. Urgent. “I think the phone line’s down.”
I’m staring at the phone, like I can will it to work. Then, without thinking, I pick up the receiver and hold it up to my ear. But Mads is telling the truth. There’s no dial tone. No sound like a skipping record. It’s just a flimsy piece of plastic in my hand. “Must be the storm,” I say, though I’m thinking it’s not windy enough yet to knock out a phone line.
“What do we do?” he asks me.
“If the phone line is down,” I say, finally replacing the receiver in its cradle, “the electricity is probably next. We need flashlights. And a fire.”
Mads’s relief is palpable. I’m going to take charge of this crisis. He’ll do whatever I ask him to do, but he’s not making any decisions. He tells me he thinks he saw a flashlight in the closet by the kitchen. “I’ll start the fire,” he says, heading back to the living room.
The utility closet smells of old leather and bug spray. While Mads kneels in front of the hearth, I manage to dig out a few large flashlights, and toss them in a pile on the sofa. He’s finally getting the fire going when I hear the mechanical whirr of an approaching boat. “Thank God,” I say, making for the front door. The wind grabs it from my hands as I push it open, and I’m barely able to catch it before it slams backward into the wall. I wrestle it back into the frame until I hear the latch click.
Mads is already off the porch. I have to practically jog to keep up with him. By the time I reach the shore, he’s on the pier. My legs slow as I sidle up next to him. The wind is so briny, it stings my eyes, and my vision is blurred. Maybe that accounts for my confusion, as I make sense of what I’m seeing. The boat pulling up to our dock is not the garbage scow. It’s another, smaller dinghy, and it’s manned by Sammy. Sitting in the front, bundled up in thick blankets, are Anthony and Ben. The garbage scow trails behind Sammy’s boat, listing helplessly in the wind, its nose bouncing dully in the increasingly choppy waves.
Sammy doesn’t throw Mads the rope. Instead, he leaps onto the dock himself and lashes his boat to the pier, clutching the knot tight before signaling for the two men to disembark. Mads grabs Ben’s hands to assist him, even though he seems unhurt, just a little shaken. His cheeks are drained of color, and he holds his body stiff, like he’s on the verge of shivering.
“What happened to you?” I ask Anthony, looking over at the garbage scow, which is weighted down with a ballast of overflowing plastic grocery bags.
Anthony shakes his head. He doesn’t look ready to speak yet.
Ben claps Mads on the shoulder, then gestures to the garbage scow, which is still drifting, knocking against the pier. “The engine just died on us, dude.”
“Lucky I spotted you,” Sammy says, grunting as he corrals the scow and lashes it expertly to the dock. I watch as the oily rope rips the scabs from his injured fingers. He doesn’t even wince. He catches my stare and locks his gaze on mine. “When I caught up to them,” he tells me, “they were practically out to sea.”
“Are you okay?” I ask Anthony, who doesn’t seem to hear me.
“I should have warned you all when I got here,” Sammy continues, leaning over to begin unloading the groceries. “That engine doesn’t have a lot of horsepower. You shouldn’t have been out there. This current here will take you out to sea so fast even the Coasties won’t be able to find you.” He brushes past Mads, bags rustling and hanging from his arms, and starts up toward the house, shaking his head. The scow knocks into the side of the pier with a deep, reverberating sound, but it looks stable enough.
Anthony clears his throat, then directs Ben and Mads to grab the rest of the bags. To me, he says, “I’m fine, really.”
And then together, as a group, we follow Sammy up the path, to the porch, where he’s deposited all our food. He’s skipping down the stairs when we reach him.
“Thank you, Sammy,” Anthony says, stopping short in front of the shorter man. “I don’t know what we would have done without you.”
Sammy nods. Once.
“Stay for lunch,” Anthony suggests. From the tone of his voice, it’s clear he isn’t grateful at all, and he doesn’t actually want to make this invitation. He’s seizing an opportunity for the film. That’s all.
Sammy pushes past him, like he’s going to ignore the offer, but then stops, pulling himself up next to me at the rear of the group. “Actually,” he says, “I was hoping to ask Lola here to join me.” He’s responding to Anthony, but he looks at me instead. “If she still wants to come over with me to the mainland for a bite of lobster.”
Anthony looks confused, but not unduly. He glances up at the sky. “With this squall approaching?” he objects. “Why don’t you just stay here, Sammy? We’ve got enough to feed an army.”
Mads doesn’t appear to register Anthony’s objection. Instead, he approaches Sammy and me, moving in close like an enormous shadow. He’s still keyed up from this morning’s confrontation. “What did you say?” he barks. “You didn’t just say that, did you, bro?”
Sammy stares for a moment at the ground in front of his feet, as if he’s considering the question. Then, finally, he raises his bulbous eyes to Mads. When he speaks, though, he speaks to me. “We have plans. Don’t we, Lola?” His voice is soft. Still, there’s absolutely no mistaking the challenge. I glance at Anthony, uncertain what I should do. I can feel this escalating. I know that’s what Anthony wants. I recognize that this is exactly the moment he’s been prodding us toward, and I can almost taste his excitement. He nods at me, nearly imperceptibly. Urging me forward. Willing me to help Mads instigate this confrontation. But it’s happening so quickly. It’s upon us so unexpectedly, despite the buildup. I’m not ready for this yet. And I don’t know how to react.
“What are you talking about?” Mads asks, looming over me, as he sizes Sammy up. “She’s not going anywhere with you.”
Sammy’s eyes don’t blink. They lock themselves onto Mads’s face. But not on his eyes. On his mouth, I think. On his chin. His own lips curl into the suggestion of a smile. “Why don’t you let her decide?” His voice is sweet. Patronizing. “She was eager earlier.”
The next thing I know, Mads’s anger is directed at me, rather than Sammy. Two massive hands drop onto my shoulders without any warning, heavy enough to crush me. He isn’t violent, though. If anything, he’s incongruously gentle. But before I can catch my breath, I’m being twisted around in place. The hands slide down to my biceps, his fingers digging into my flesh. I don’t recognize this version of Mads. I’ve seen him intimidate Sammy. I’ve never seen him angry, though, not like this. It turns his beautiful features ugly. He’s a gargoyle of himself.
“Tell me this is bullshit,” he says. Like I disgust him. “You didn’t tell this moron you were going to eat lobster with him, did you?”
“Yes,” I stutter, too confused by the dramatic transformation to speak anything but the truth. Then, out of reflex: “Let me go.”
I feel the air shift behind me. I can sense Sammy moving. He’s probably taken a step closer, on those quiet feet of his.
But Mads isn’t paying attention to him. His eyes are boring into mine. “What the hell are you doing, Lola?” he asks me. “Do you have any idea how many girls I could have asked up here? What the fuck—” He gives me a shake, tightening his grip.
I know what he’s doing. But his anger feels genuine. I feel trapped, and I can’t help but react in kind. “You’re hurting me,” I tell him, trying to escape his hold. It’s impossible, though, to free myself. As gentle as he is, I’m caught in a vice.
Sammy materializes beside us. Arms loose, like he’s relaxed, except that his muscles are bulging. “I’d take your hands off her,” he tells Mads, matter-of-factly, “if I was you.”
Mads ignores him, but I can feel the tension in his fingers as he readies himself for this next escalation. It looks like he’s holding me. He’s prepared, though, to grapple with Sammy. I can hear it in his breathing, just how eager he is to destroy him. “You make me sick,” he tells me. “Sick.”
“I said,” Sammy says, stepping in closer, so he’s practically on top of Mads, “I’d take your hands off of her.”
Finally, Mads shifts his attention to Sammy. He gazes at him, breathing through his nose, then releases me, pushing me backward, out of the way. “What are you going to do?” he asks Sammy, puffing up his chest. “You gonna make me?” He looms over the shorter man. But Sammy doesn’t flinch. Instead, he seems to lean his weight forward, tilting his head up, to meet Mads’s eyes. Mads is breathing hard, like he’s suddenly out of breath, and I think it must be the adrenaline coursing through him. The contrast with Sammy is stark. He looks focused. Like he isn’t even breathing. And it occurs to me, he doesn’t realize yet what’s about to hit him. After all, he has no way of knowing that he’s being set up.
I take a step backward, instinctively getting out of their way. I don’t risk another glance back at Anthony. I know he’s there, just on the edge of my field of vision. Waiting. Tense and ready. I can almost smell the bloodlust in the air. My stomach clenches, and saliva gathers in the back of my throat, like I’m about to vomit. This is abhorrent. Mads is twice this man’s size. Nearly half his age. He’s been preparing for this moment. Ready to aim for Sammy’s injured knees—and, I remember, with another twist of my stomach, Sammy’s voice as he showed me his torn hand. Couldn’t hold anything for a day. Mads is going to break him. I know I shouldn’t feel this way. I know what Sammy did to Anthony. But I feel sorry for him. I don’t know if I can watch the same thing happen again, this time in reverse, to yet another unsuspecting, helpless victim.
Sammy’s voice yanks me back, horribly, into the moment. “Lola,” he says, eyes fixed on Mads’s chin. “Let’s go.” He doesn’t understand yet that the fight has already started. He still believes that this confrontation is about me. That my fidelity is still the issue, and still up for grabs.
“Are you kidding me?” Mads says. “She’s not going anywhere with you. Now get the fuck out of here.”
“Not,” Sammy says, savoring each syllable, “without Lola.”
Before he can finish uttering my name, Mads’s hands are on him. Shoving him, savagely. Sammy lurches backward, caught off guard, hands flying out as he tries to regain his balance. But Mads is way too strong, and his legs can’t move fast enough to catch himself, and he buckles to the ground in a clumsy heap, one of his knees taking his full weight on the gravel path. He winces. Mads was right about his knees. There’s no doubt. I can read the pain on his face as he stands back up. And once again, I feel sorry for him as he squares his shoulders and gears himself up to attack. He’s like a bull, too thickheaded to know anything else but to charge. Mads, though, is not like a toreador. He has no intention of getting out of this smaller man’s path. He raises himself up to his full, intimidating height, preparing to knock Sammy into unconsciousness.
My own voice shocks me. “No!” I shout, suddenly desperate. “Please, Mads. Don’t hurt him.” Sammy is momentarily unsteady on his feet. His knee doesn’t want to straighten fully. I can feel a hand on my shoulder holding me back. Anthony. He doesn’t want me to intervene. This is his big moment. Finally, his big revenge. Mads is going to pummel Sammy until he capitulates. Until he’s humiliated. And the whole thing is going to be caught on tape. I’m certain Anthony has already told Mads how he wants this moment to play out. The scene won’t be complete until Mads has Sammy pinned to the ground and he has extracted an apology from him.
As he steadies himself, Sammy’s gaze is on the ground, head jutting forward. At last, he takes a deliberate step forward, toward Mads. Then another. He doesn’t look up, like he’s concentrating on something on the ground in front of him. Another step. Bent over like this, his head is barely higher than Mads’s chest. He’s walking right into the bigger man’s punch, I think, wrapping a hand around my mouth. Preparing myself for the inevitable crunch of bone splintering bone. Sammy stops, a few paces away still, head down. I think he’s scared. For a split second, I wonder if this is over. Maybe he’s come to his senses. But then, in the space between two heartbeats, he launches himself forward, so fast he becomes a blur. It’s like he’s moving through a strobe light. Everything has sped up and slowed down, in equal measures. I see Sammy disappear into Mads’s middle. I expect Mads to crush him. But the next thing I know Mads has been hoisted up off the ground, his mouth open in shock. And then there’s a loud, sickening crash as his huge body lands on the gravel, his back flat. I don’t have time to take in a breath to scream.
Sammy’s on top of him, wrapped around him expertly, shoving the man’s face back with a forearm, the other hand pinning Mads’s arms into a painful tangle. Mads is struggling, with all his might. But Sammy holds him still. His arms bulge, but he isn’t straining. He tightens his grip, then leans his head back to take a good look at Mads’s pink, winded face. “Apologize,” he says, his voice betraying the effort he must be making.
Mads’s only response is a painful wheeze.
“You can do better than that,” Sammy tells him, digging his forearm harder into the soft flesh under Mads’s chin. “Apologize.”
“S—,” Mads starts, mouth wide open, his normally full lips swollen like he’s been kissed. He takes a short, rattling breath. Then: “So—”
Sammy drops a hand to Mads’s leg, which he yanks backward, forcing Mads’s face farther into the ground, all the way from this impossible angle, like a lever. “I don’t have all day, boy,” he tells Mads.
Mads gasps, overcome by the pain. This has happened so fast and it’s so unexpected, that not one of us—Ben, me, or Anthony—has figured out how to react. We’re stunned. Frozen in place. “Sorry,” Mads grunts. There are tears in his eyes.
The hand lifts from my shoulder. Finally, Anthony is moving. He pushes past me, his face white. He’s reaching for Sammy’s back, as if to pull Sammy off his friend, when Sammy releases Mads, twisting around to face this new aggressor so quickly it stops Anthony in his tracks. But not before he gets one last dig in, into Mads. I don’t see what he’s done at first. I hear it. There’s a horrible popping noise that I can feel in the pit of my stomach, and then Mads howls in pain. The sound travels up my spine, closing in a fist at the top of my neck. The large man curls into a ball, reaching for his leg, his whole body shaking. And I realize belatedly what has happened. Mads had gone for Sammy’s weakness. Sammy had decided to turn it into his.
“My knee,” Mads cries, the words barely more than a rasp. Ben rushes to his side, his face white. Mads whispers, “He broke my—”
Sammy’s already on his feet again, yanking himself out of Anthony’s grip. “Don’t touch me, Anthony,” he tells him, pointing a finger in his face.
No matter what his intention may have been, Anthony flinches away from him.
Sammy has to swallow a laugh. “You coming, Lola?” he says, still facing Anthony. And it strikes me. For him, this really is about me. Anthony had wanted a fight. This man wanted me. My blood runs cold. Sammy actually expects me to leave with him, even after this violent display. He expects me to get on a boat with him and sail away, with Mads’s hoarse screams following us. I shake my head, realizing only as I do how much this will hurt him.
Sammy waits, finally turning toward me, eyeing me as if he can’t understand my hesitation.
I find my voice. “No,” I tell him. More softly: “No.”
For a moment, his face drops. But then he recovers himself, quickly. As if by rote, like this is something he’s had to do before. His eyebrows gather together in a concentrated frown. For a few beats, I think his mood is going to shift and he’s going to attack me. At last, though, he just turns away from me and jogs back to the pier. As his footsteps fade, Mads’s wretched crying grows louder and louder, as if Sammy is delivering him to us as he retreats. I watch Sammy leap onto the boat. Already, his own knee seems to have healed.
Anthony seems to shake himself out of his stupor. “Wait,” he says. And then, louder, in a shout: “Wait, Sammy.” He sets out across the lawn at a run. I stand there, frozen in place, until I understand what Anthony has seen. The scow is still attached to Sammy’s boat. And it doesn’t look as if he has any intention to untie it.
I race after Anthony, catching up to him at the pier.
“That’s our boat,” Anthony says, but Sammy has already pushed away from the pier. It’s too far to jump.
“I’ll fix it,” Sammy tells him, already pulling away. “The engine’s shot, anyway.”
Anthony’s face turns red. I can’t tell if he’s angry or scared. “You can’t take—”
The boat’s motor roars to life as Sammy guns the throttle, kicking water out in its wake, drowning out Anthony’s objections. I have to strain to hear Sammy’s next words, shouted over the spray: “Don’t worry,” he promises us. “I’ll be back.”