Joy Ride

When we reach the doorway to the interior of the ferry, she sways and shoots out an arm to grab the wall. I slide in instantly, wrapping my hands around her shoulders. “You okay?”

Her hand flutters to her forehead, but she doesn’t answer. I guide her over to the seats, and she plops down with far less grace than I’ve ever seen in her. “My head,” she moans as she drops her forehead into her hands and yanks out her hair-tie, letting the chocolate strands spill over her shoulders. “Everything is moving.”

Oh shit. I think I know what’s going on now. “Henley, do you get seasick?”

“I’ve never been on a ferry, remember?”

“Have you been on a cruise or a boat?”

“Not since I was a little kid. Remember? I like roads.”

“Me, too. But even so, I think you’re seasick.”

She raises her face. There’s a sheen of sweat on her forehead, and her skin is pale.

“Henley,” I say, genuinely worried.

“I think you’re right.”

“We’ll reach Staten Island soon. We’ll have to get off there and re-board,” I say, reminding her of the ferry rules. “But we’ll get on the next ferry back to Manhattan like we planned. Won’t be too long from now.”

“Okay,” she mumbles, then she leans closer to me, resting her head on my shoulder. She breathes softly, a sweet and mournful sound. I reach across and stroke her hair.

I tell myself I’m doing this for reasons other than sheer physical want.

I can say that because it’s the truth.

I love her hair, but more than that, I want her to feel well. That’s a strange little shift from the last few weeks when she’s most decidedly been on my Least Favorite People list.

I’m not sure which list she’s on now.

“Max,” she says, her voice a whisper. “I don’t think guys should wear tank tops.”

I laugh as I stroke her hair. “I don’t even own a tank top.”

16

“Sweetheart.”

A blond woman, her hair in a low ponytail and crinkles in the corners of her eyes, taps my shoulder. She holds the hand of a young boy, who has light locks, too.

“Yes?”

“Would you like something for your girlfriend’s seasickness?”

“Oh, she’s not my—”

Henley lifts her face off my shoulder and blinks at the woman. “Do you have something?” Her voice is weak. She’s been resting on me since we got back on the ferry after re-boarding in Staten Island.

“Dramamine. My son gets motion sickness, too. I keep it with me, just in case.”

“I’d love one,” she says, and holds out a palm to the woman.

“Take two,” the mom instructs, as she reaches into her big blue shoulder bag and grabs a box. She taps it against her palm and a few pills spill out. She hands a pair to Henley. “They’re chewable. They work best if you take them before you get on a boat, but they should help ease the symptoms some.”

Henley sighs deeply. “You’re a lifesaver.” She pops them in her mouth and chews.

“They taste yummy, don’t they?” the boy asks.

Henley nods with wide eyes. “Like I’m eating an orange.”

“I love them.”

His mom squeezes his shoulder. “Ben, they’re not candy.”

Then she turns back to Henley. “Seasickness is the pits. As soon as I saw your face out there on the deck, I had a feeling. The weird thing is you’re actually better off staring at a fixed point in the distance than sitting down. The fact that you were looking at the statue might have helped prevent it from being worse. Vomiting is no fun.”

A look of horror fills Henley’s eyes. “Lady Liberty was watching over me.”

“She was indeed. Feel better soon.”

“Thanks so much for stopping to help,” I say.

“Bye-bye,” the boy says, and they return to the deck.

Henley waves to their backs and says, “Yes, my non-boyfriend appreciates you very much.” She pats my thigh. “Good thing you clarified right away that I’m not your girlfriend.”

I roll my eyes. “I see the motion sickness hasn’t dampened your fire.”

“Why, of all the things you could say, would you say that first?”

I sink back in the chair, dragging a hand through my hair in frustration. “You’ve recovered quickly, haven’t you? You’re all piss and vinegar again,” I say, crossing my arms and wishing the Henley who’d rested her head on my shoulder was back. This is the Henley who hates me.

But wait—why the fuck do I want that sweet version of her to resurface? We’re enemies. We’re rivals, and whether she has motion sickness or not doesn’t change a thing.

“I’m more honey and cinnamon. And I’ll have you know I’m an excellent girlfriend.” She nudges me. “Want to know why?”

“I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”

“One. I won’t ask my man to give up poker night with his friends. In fact, I’ll make you some of my amazing sandwiches and then make myself scarce so you can hang with the guys. Two. I don’t nag. Three. I’m super independent. Four. I believe in mutual respect, and five—” But there’s no five, because she slams her palm to her forehead and moans. “Oh God.”

I snap to attention, forgetting the current battle. “You okay, tiger?”

“My head hurts so much,” she says in a whimper. “Everything is spinning.”

I don’t think. I act.

I take her in my arms, wrapping them around her slim shoulders. I don’t know that this is a cure for a headache or her dizziness, but it’s all I can do. I gather her close and brush my hand over her hair. “We’ll get you home, tiger. You can tell me number five on the way.”

She tucks her head against my chest. Her face is buried in my shirt, her cheek against my pecs. “Max,” she says softly, “sometimes it’s fun to give you a hard time.”

“You definitely give me a hard time,” I say, and the double meaning is not lost on me.

“Max?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re tall.”

“I am.”

“Are you six-three?”

I nod against her hair. “Nailed it.”

“Max?”

“Yeah?”

“Your chest is really firm.”

“Thanks.”

“Max?”

“Yes, Henley?”

“That’s a nice feature in a non-boyfriend.”

“Feel free to make full use of it.”

And she does for the next ten minutes as the vessel slows near the tip of Manhattan Island. By the time it docks, I have a warm spot on my shirt from her cheek, and I don’t want to get up.

“Can I just curl up and sleep on you all day, please?” she asks.

“That’s number five in what makes a good boyfriend. Letting you sleep here all day.”

A tiny laugh falls from her mouth as she sighs against me. “I like number five.”

“Me, too,” I say, bringing her closer, since she seems to need it right now.

We stay like that for a little longer as the other ferry-goers rise and shuffle off the big boat.

“How’s your head? Still dizzy?”

She nods against me. “A little, yes. I’m sorry.”