Check yourself, Ethan Moonsong. Don’t worry, I answered myself, kicking that ajar door shut with every ounce of strength I had.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
After dinner, Father Connolly ushered me through the front door without a real opportunity to say goodbye to Fin as he said he needed to “bed early and rise early.” When I ducked under the front door with my bag, I looked back to see Fin, standing in the middle of the room, facing the door, her arms wrapped around herself, rocking back and forth from foot to foot, making my stomach drop. Her go-to coping mechanism. I pierced her eyes with a gaze so fierce she stopped rocking, staring straight back at me, her mouth parted. I nodded slowly at her, reassuring her that I was here, that I was there with her.
Her breath noticeably steadied and she nodded back. When I turned away from her, it physically hurt. I gripped the fabric of my shirt near my chest, pressing to relieve the screaming need to protect. I wanted to run back to her, stay with her, but Sister Marguerite would have shooed me with a broom right back out so I continued on, ignoring my instincts. Men weren’t allowed on property at night so I fought the urge and followed Father to the houseboat down the shore.
We walked the sandy path through the canopy of trees and came upon the beach where Finley and I had sat earlier that evening. As we passed the spot we sat, I recognized the indents of our bodies in the sand highlighted in the moonlight. For some strange inexplicable reason I wanted to run to that spot, kick the sand, shatter the imprints of our bodies as if I could physically remove the pain that had buried Finley there. The ghost of that ache lingered there so I turned my face from it and caught up to Father since he’d gotten a bit ahead of me.
“...and it rocks a bit but have no fear, it’s nothin’ but nothin’,” I caught him saying, confusing me.
“I’m sorry, Father?”
“The boat! The boat, boy. I been talkin’ to ya ’bout the boat.”
Caught up. “Oh, I see. Sorry. Yeah, so it rocks a bit. That’s okay.”
“Don’t worry yourself none, son. Unless ya see water on the floor, then ya might want to jump ship,” he said, laughing. I wasn’t sure if he was joking, though. “Oh!” he continued, “We canna be on the same soide of the boat at any point ’cause she’ll sink a bit an’ that can cause a bit o’trouble.”
“Watch for water. Stay on opposite sides. Got it.”
“We can share a room, you see, but we have to dance a bit. You on one soide, yeah, an’ I on the other.”
“Check,” I told him, earning a smile from him.
He looked up at me again. “You are a right big one, aren’t ya! Yes, I believe you’ll work nicely here,” he said, patting my arm.
“Thanks,” I told him, glad he could use me, glad to feel useful.
A few hundred yards from the main house, I noticed a hidden bend around the shore, the ocean dipped into the land a bit then spit itself back out and within a veil of foliage, a few twinkling lights shone through. With familiarity, Father brushed back the greenery revealing a hidden alcove beneath a small waterfall. In front of that waterfall sat a small bobbing houseboat. Looking at it, I thought there was no way it could hold my weight, and I certainly could never stand inside.
Father skirted around the sandy path and stepped onto a small six- or seven-foot dock to the houseboat’s front door.
“Uh, Father?” I said, hesitating as I tested my weight at the edge of the dock.
He whipped around, his cane flailing with the movement, almost pegging me in the knee. Father and his cane were lethal, I thought with a grin.
“Hmm?”
“I don’t think this thing will hold me.”
“Have faith, boy,” he said simply, turning back around and opening his door. Cautiously, I followed him, placing one foot down and letting my weight bare down before lifting my remaining foot from solid ground. I stood still, waiting for something to happen and when it didn’t, I took another wary step forward. The water beneath the dock rippled but it held me.
“Comin’?” I heard from the door.
“Yes,” I answered, walking to the door and ducking inside. The roof was a lot higher than I’d thought it was at first. I found I could stand up straight, but the top of my head grazed the ceiling. I’d have to be careful of fixtures but all in all, I thought it was doable. I’d lived in worse.
“’Tis moine,” Father said, gesturing to a small room just off the main room. Essentially it was a six-by-ten-foot room worth of a living and a kitchen. Another door laid opposite his on the other side of the living space. “Toilets,” he said, pointing to the other door.
I looked around. “I’ve got the couch then?”
“No, lad,” he said, leaving out the front door again so I followed. I hadn’t noticed it until Father had stepped down, but the entire boat had a narrow wraparound path. Following it around, we came upon a small floating room of sorts connected by another narrow wood dock. We followed that dock and he opened the door into the simple room.
“It used to be a boat slip but we added a floor and a bed for the odd guest.”
“Cozy,” I said, meaning it. The room was maybe five-by-seven feet but there was room for a bed and a sink as well as a small table. I set my bag on the bed.
“Lights out, boyo,” he said with a jovial smile. “Don’t forget ta say yer prayers.”
I hadn’t the heart to tell him I wasn’t the praying type. “Sure, Father,” I told him, stretching out my hand for him. He shook it and I thanked him for the room to which he promised me I would earn it, so I smiled. He left and I heard his slight steps and cane as he reached the main house, the door closing behind him.
I sat on the edge of the slight bed and for the first time since I’d arrived wondered how it was I’d found myself sitting on a bed inside a boathouse in Vietnam. It was so far away from where I’d thought I’d be right then. If anyone had asked me six months earlier where I’d been right that minute, I’d have told them dead, drunk, or in jail… and I’d have meant it. I marveled at the turn my life had taken.
A passing motorboat rode by off the main shore, probably unaware there was an entire houseboat hidden behind the hanging veil of foliage near the beach. I felt the effects of its wake bob my floating room up and down, up and down. I kept hearing the hollow thump of wood hitting wood so I peeked out to find a small, rather beat up dinghy attached to the side of the dock just outside of my door.
I studied the small boat and wondered if it could get me to shore quietly without Father finding out. I wanted to find Finley. I needed to see her, really, but I also knew I didn’t want to betray Father’s or Sister Marguerite’s trust. Just as quickly as the thought entered my mind, it’d left. I wouldn’t jeopardize my situation because of some selfish want to see Fin, no matter how much I worried for her.
I wasn’t completely convinced but I’d have to get used to it. I fell back on the tiny bed, my legs dangling, trying to distract myself from entertaining thoughts of checking on Fin. Every few minutes, I’d justify leaving only to convince myself again that it would prove dire if I was caught. I didn’t want to sabotage her. She’d spoken for my character, after all.
Finally, I felt myself dozing as the adrenaline of the day wore off. I was more tired than I’d realized. My eyes closed before I even had a chance to remove my clothing.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I woke to knocking the next morning, groggy from lack of acclimation to the time difference.
I cleared my throat but my voice still came out raspy, “Yes?”
“Up, lad, we’ve work ta do,” Father Connolly’s voice commanded.
I scrubbed my face with my hands to wake myself and sat up, the bed creaking beneath my body. My knees ached from hanging off the bed the entire night. When I crashed, I crashed hard.
I stood up too quickly and the entire room tilted back and forth in the water. “Whoa,” I said to no one. When the room steadied, I grabbed a pair of boxers, tattered jeans, and a black T-shirt, heading toward the mai
n houseboat to grab a quick shower. I opened my door and realized it was still pitch black, not even a sliver of dawn hinted on the horizon.
When I walked in, Father was sitting at the small kitchen table, a paper in hand, already showered and dressed but in regular clothing with a ball cap on his head.
“Early, no?” I asked.
“It’s four a.m.,” he explained, sipping from a coffee cup.
My eyes widened. “Four!” I exclaimed, unable to stop myself.
He laughed. “Yes, boyo, sin does not wait for the sun to rise,” he explained, sobering me.
“I see. I’ll just shower then.”
He gestured toward the bathroom door and I let myself in. Barely able to close the door behind me, I absorbed the size of it. I took stock of a sink and nothing else. Where the hell is the shower and toilet? Upon closer inspection, I noticed a ceramic-like bowl lodged in the floor.
“What in the world is that?” I said out loud, making Father laugh outside the door.
“Figure it out, lad!” I heard from the other side of the door.
This was the toilet then. In the airports, they’d had American-style bathrooms and I didn’t even think about it. I looked around the room and saw a nozzle attached to the ceiling in the corner of the very small room. You’ve got to be kidding me. The entire bath was the shower, toilet, sink.
I bit the bullet and started to undress, pinching the door open to throw all my clothing on the sofa right outside.
“Here goes nothin’.”
I started the shower and yelped, inciting yet another riotous Irish laugh on the other side of the door. The water was freezing. I looked at the nozzle and noticed there wasn’t a hot option. Meaning, I was in hell. A perpetual Groundhog Day-esque experience. Cold showers every day? Fine. For Fin.
I dressed as quickly as I could without getting my jeans wet from the tile below then sat on the sofa in the main room to put on my socks and lace up my boots.
“That was quick, lad, for one with such long, flowin’ hair.”
I grinned at the ground, tying one boot on. “Is that a dig, old man?” He laughed in answer. “I’ll have you know my mom’s Native American, sir. I’m a halfling of the Echo River Tribe,” I teased.
“And ye da?”
“White as a sheet,” I deadpanned.
“That explains it,” he said with a smile, leaving it at that, then standing. “Are ye ready?” he asked me.
“Men don’t ask other men if they’re ready unless there’s something to be ready for.”
Father nodded slowly in agreement. “Then ready yeself, lad.”
He lead me out of the houseboat, over the dock, and down the beach toward the main house. Just as we’d crested the canopied trail, I could see Finley’s silhouette in the distance. I had to fight the urge to run to her like a little boy. My hands fisted and opened many times, resisting the impulse. When she turned toward us, though, I couldn’t help myself and started walking much faster than Father to meet her side. Check yourself, gosh dammit! I stopped briefly, my eyes closed tightly to gain control of myself, before I fell back to meet Father’s stride.
Finley
Ethan walked toward me eagerly when he recognized me, stopped, then fell back with Father, setting me on edge for reasons I didn’t know. My stomach rose and fell in quick succession at the sight of him. Nerves, no doubt, though something else seemed to nag at me.
“Ethan,” I breathed. Although I had to have known he couldn’t hear me, his name escaped my lips without volition.
Lean and muscular, Ethan sauntered toward me, his head down, hands shoved in his front pockets, the muscles in his arms highlighted by the action. His hair fell side to side with every stride, and my belly began to burn with something I’d never felt before, making me even more nervous than I already was. I silently begged him to pick his gaze up and share it with me but he seemed entranced by his own steps.
Finally, he looked up and I caught his eye. The look on his face confused me.
“Hey,” I said breathlessly, my heart beat erratically. What is wrong with you?
He jerked his chin up in greeting the way all guys do, keeping his hands in his pockets. I reached out for his forearm but at the last second reined my hand back in. Why are you acting so freaking weird, Finley? I had no answer for myself.
“Hello, lass,” Father said in greeting, seemingly oblivious to my awkwardness.
“Father,” I addressed him with a smile, watching Ethan from the corner of my eye.
He studied the ground, toeing the shell gravel back and forth, distracted.
All three of us stood in a circle for a moment while Father checked his pockets for his cell phone.
“It’s right here,” I told him, handing it over. “You charged it in the kitchen last night, remember?”
“Ach! Daft me! Thank ya, girl.” He took a deep breath and looked on both of us before turning to Ethan. “Ethan, ye’ll observe us today. When I feel yer ready, lad, I might use ye ta fish one out, but ’til then ye watch us. Ye on it, son?”
“Yes,” he said, nodding his head in earnest, making me proud to be his friend.
“Roight,” Father said, smiling, “we’re headin’ for Hanoi today, a bit out o’ Finley’s comfort zone,” he began. I opened my mouth to object but he only talked over me. “Now, Finley, lass, ye’ll do just fine. An’s heard o’ bit o’ rumblings an’ we’re only gon’ to speak wit’ folks.”
I nodded my answer and turned to Ethan, whose face looked even paler than usual. Without a second thought, I threaded my hand through his arm. It rested closely to his side because he kept his hand in his pocket. If it had been any other boy, I would have felt rejected but the expression on his face, I noticed, was no longer pained, so I kept my hand right where it was.
It was so odd to me that my touch was just as soothing to him as his was to me. His head lifted, his hair no longer shielding so much of his face. He looked on Father Connolly calmly as he spoke to him about our MO but I observed when he pinned my hand even closer to his side, as if he needed the weight of our contact to deepen. He was nervous. I squeezed his arm to reassure him, which earned me a long side glance. My stomach clenched at his look. Uh-oh. That familiar pang of yearning, that deep want for Ethan when I was in high school, crept back into my soul and I had to remind myself why I was there, my mission, and that it was not the time to focus on anything else but that aim alone.
Father Connolly started his scooter so I followed his lead, putting on my helmet and handing Ethan his.
“You’ll have to drive again,” I told him, avoiding eye contact.
“Oh, yeah, okay,” he told me, straddling the small bike.
He started the motorbike, backing it up to idle beside Father’s. My heart began to beat an irregular rhythm as I approached him. A gust of wind blew a bit of cologne my way. The scent was signature Ethan, a little bit of sandalwood and a mixture of other scents I couldn’t quite put my finger on. The smell made my stomach sink, reminding me of high school all over again.
But Ethan didn’t want you in high school, Finley, remember? In fact, he made it quite clear that he’s just your friend. Stop torturing yourself!
I checked the old feeling bubbling up and sat behind him. I brought the inside of my bare thighs to the outside of his jean-clad ones and it proved to be fatal, making me feel almost sick with the memories of him sleeping in my bed that night back in Kalispell.
What Ethan didn’t know about that night was he’d talked in his sleep.
“I didn’t know it was you,” he’d told me with closed eyes that late night.
I assumed he was talking about Cricket Hunt so I ignored him and rolled him over onto his side toward the wall. He groaned in pain from his head wound and laid back again, flat on his back, his broad chest heaving with deep breaths.
“I didn’t know it was you,” he’d repeated, mumbling something about dancing and Holly’s name.
I couldn’t help myself. “Who did you th
ink it was?” I’d asked him, not really expecting him to answer.
“The most beautiful girl I’d ever seen,” he told me in his sleep, shocking me.
He’s drunk, I told myself.
“I wanted to know you,” he told me. “I didn’t want to know you,” he continued, confusing me. “I wanted to touch you. I wanted to touch you. I would have died just to touch you. One time. I would have needed just the one time.”
He’d stopped talking at that most inopportune moment. “Ethan?” I’d asked again and again with no response. He was out. His words did things to my stomach, things I’d never felt before, things I would never be able to admit to anyone. I’d turned over on my side, fighting all my old feelings for him, those long and buried feelings, finally falling asleep, reassuring myself he was only drunk. Swallow the butterflies, Finley. Swallow the butterflies.
Carefully, oh so carefully, I wrapped my arms around his ribs. His stomach muscles contracted when my hands touched him and I swallowed.
“Ready, ye two?” Father asked, unaware of my secret torment.
We both nodded, then Ethan breathed deeply, glancing over his shoulder, his eyes meeting mine in a sideways glance. “I got you,” he whispered, his hand resting over mine briefly, sending me reeling as we took off. The almost three-hour trip into Hanoi was agonizing on so many levels. The proximity between us was too much for one person to endure, and it didn’t help that the ride itself was physically exhausting, causing me to lean into Ethan for support after a few miles. My ear flat against his back, I could hear every breath, every tortured heartbeat.