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Chapter Six - Damn, You're a White Guy

Bacon. Greasy. Salty. Ever-so-savory. The aroma of 'real man' food hit my nose even as I struggled out of the binds of exhaustion. I had fallen asleep again on the deck, but at least this time it was in a chaise lounge and not curled up on the hard floor. My mind tried to process how in the world the smell of bacon could be wafting from the ocean when my eyes opened a crack and crossed as they narrowed in on the plate that was being held an inch for my face.

"Oh good, you're awake," a very soft, semi-spacy, and vaguely familiar voice said happily.

I glanced down. A pair of green flip-flops screamed back at me. I didn't need any more to decipher the cook's identity: Rosie. My eyes lifted to take in her mess of blonde hair and her smiling oval face. She didn't seem in the least bit nervous or out of sorts; it was like she trespassed on someone's boat every morning with a plate of bacon. And eggs. And toast cut into perfect triangular halves.

"What are you doing?" I asked, my voice sounding gruff. I turned my head and coughed, clearing out what remained from the onslaught of tears from the night before.

"I brought you breakfast!" she announced. She jiggled the plate awkwardly. Spotting her cast pressed close to her body in a bright blue sling, I took it from her before I ended up wearing it.

"Thank you," I said awkwardly. I put the plate on the floor and began to swing my leg over. "Let me get my wal--"

"Nope!" she said. "Won't hear of it. You wouldn't be stuck here if it wasn't for my cousin."

"Your cousin?"

"Well, he might not be my cousin. I don't really get into the whole 'family tree' thing," she said, using her good hand to make an invisible quote in the air. "What's family anyhow? I think family should be whoever you like. Being related to the bad ones makes life miserable. But anyhow, we confirmed the culprit of your boat jacking was Joshua. Of course, it wasn't a hard mystery to solve. He came home soaking wet and his mama slapped him silly with her dish towel. She was doing dishes; I mean, she doesn't carry a dish towel around with her all the time. That would be weird, right? And the most frustrating part about the whole thing is I keep telling Josh that he makes a horrible criminal, but he just doesn't listen."

I stared at her. She talked a mile a minute and her hand flew around like she was half-bird. I picked up a corner of my toast and took a bite.

"I didn't know whether you wanted white or wheat," she rambled on, watching me chew. "But you seemed like a sweet guy."

I choked, the dry crumbs soaring down my throat the wrong way. "Excuse me?"

Her pale brows knitted together in confusion. "I said you seemed like a wheat guy." Her mouth formed a perfect 'o.' "Damn, you're a white guy aren't you?"

I held out my arm and studied it. It was pink, but still very Caucasian. "Yup. It looks like I'm still a white guy," I quipped. She stared at me for half a beat before she realized her accidental double meaning. She tossed her head back and laughed. A normal person would have joined in; I tensed.

It had been forever since I had made someone laugh. The noise, a result of my own humor, seemed so foreign to me. I picked up a piece of bacon and took a bite. The tinkling sound of happiness faded away.

"So whatcha doing today?" she asked. I heard a soft creak and out of the corner of my eye I saw her sit down. She stretched her legs out in front of her, her toes pointing towards the sky, and leaned forward as if this was always her morning routine.

The bacon tasted delicious, but her question soured my mouth. I glanced up at the sky and watched a large white seabird pass above us.

"I'm staying on the boat," I said. I heard a sound that seemed like a cross between a snort and a groan.

"Why stay on a boat that don't work?"

"Doesn't," I corrected, my inner Howie coming out as it often did at the most random of times.

"Don't, doesn't. To-ma-to. To-maaaah-to," she said. Her hand wrapped around my leg; my head jerked in her direction. It took everything in me not to pull away.

"You should go sightseeing," she said. "I can show you all the neat places that tourists never find."

"I don't need to sightsee," I said evenly, more than aware of the pressure of her fingers on my skin.

"You're on vacation, aren't you?"

The question hung in the air. I didn't answer. I picked up the plastic fork and took a big bite of eggs. Her hand slipped away and she hugged herself.

"I knew it," she said softly.

I swallowed the fluffy bite. "Knew what?" I asked defensively.

She scrambled up, teetering a little without the help of both arms. She stared down at me. If she meant to pose as an authoritative figure, she failed. Even sitting on the chaise, her diminutiveness was evident.

"You're lost," she stated simply, the color rising in her cheeks and pity (God, how I hated pity) filling her eyes.

I moved some egg closer to one of the triangular pieces of toast, my pulse thumping. "You didn't seem to have trouble finding me," I said. "And coming aboard. Without an invitation."

If she got the implication, she didn't let on. She shook her head. "I don't mean location-wise, and you know it."

I took one more bite of toast, chewed vigorously and grabbed another piece of bacon. Sticking it in my mouth like a cigar, I held out the plate. She took it without looking away from my face.

"I," I said, gnawing on the pork and purposely talking with my mouth full, "know exactly where I'm going. I dunno if you're into weekly charity cases, or whatever, but I'm the wrong guy."

Her lips pressed together and she hummed. "Fine," she said after a minute's worth of buzzing. She turned around and I heard the awkward sound of flip-flops on the ladder. I licked some of the salt off the bacon and flopped back on the chair.

After washing my unexpected breakfast down with a bottle of warm water that had been sitting out since the night before, I was all prepared to spend the day lost in thought and getting sunburned. I assumed Rosie would stomp back to her little restaurant and be the clumsy little waitress she was.

And maybe she did stomp back to the restaurant. I'm sure she had to because when she returned, once again uninvited, she didn't have my breakfast plate. But what she had was lugged up and dropped on the boat so noisily, that it caused me to scream and roll off of my chaise.

A huge tacklebox lay tipped on itself. A moment later two fishing rods came flying up and scattered to either end of the deck. A small hand gave way to a slender arm and all of a sudden she was back.

"What the hell are you doing?" I snapped, all pretenses of being nice flying out the imaginary window.

"You don't wanna sightsee," Rosie said breathlessly, slapping a few blonde strands of hair that had come loose from the ponytail she must have just affixed. "So we'll fish."

"We'll do nothing," I said. "If you don't get off my damn boat I'll...I'll--"

"Call the police?" Rosie filled in.

I nudged the tacklebox with my foot. "Yes!"

She smiled and knelt down to pick up one of the rods. She stretched out again like a little kid would do, her legs spread far apart and slid the tacklebox towards her. She opened the lid and began rummaging around an impressive collection of lures.

"I don't think Uncle Manny's gonna care," she said lightly.

"What do I care what your Uncle Manny thinks?" I said. I grabbed the other fishing rod, preparing to fling it back over onto the dock. Rosie sat back, dangling a brillant red lure from her fingertips.

"He's the police captain," she said proudly. I turned from her and smacked my palm to my forehead.

I had never met a peskier woman in all my life. What had I done to deserve this?