Honestly, We Meant Well by Grant Ginder

Author:Grant Ginder
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Flatiron Books

* * *

“Okay.” Will takes a deep breath. “O-kay.”

He squints. Gripping both ends of the rope between his sunburnt fingers, he twists it and recites aloud: “You make a hole, then the rabbit comes out of it, and then goes around the tree, and then dives back through the hole, and…” He pulls the rope, but nothing happens. Or—nothing that’s supposed to happen happens; instead of a clean bowline knot, all he’s left with is a tangle of nylon.

“Shit,” he says, and drops the rope to the floor of the boat, one of the Saronic Yachting Academy’s tiny sabots. The collar of his T-shirt is caked with salt and sweat. Beneath him, water sloshes against the hull. He says, again: “Shit.”

He woke early that morning and, in lieu of a shower (they’re still broken), he dove into the Alectrona’s pool. Then, over breakfast in the dining room, he tried to engage Eleni in something resembling a conversation. This didn’t quite work—it never does. He always gets the feeling that she’s a little too busy, or a little too bored, and so, per usual, he ended up finishing his coffee in his bedroom, taking down the last sips as he spent half an hour looking for jobs. This didn’t quite work, either; after an hour of tweaking cover letters he got anxious, which invariably led to thoughts of Dio, and his hair, and that inch of skin above his waistband. He felt a surge of anticipation and nerves. A lightness in the knees that caused him to think that, maybe, Rajiv leaving him was a good thing—that, without that catastrophe, he might have forgotten how fun it was to have a crush.

Now Dio hands Will the rudder. “Don’t get frustrated,” he says. “That doesn’t help.”

He picks up the rope and Will watches as he begins to untangle it, his rough fingers prying at the knot. As he works he crouches down, resting his ass on his tan calves. His white shorts are stained with grease, and his neck strains as he fusses with Will’s mess.

He says, “You’ve managed to create something pretty complicated here, Mr. Wright.”

“I think the rabbit hates me.”

“That’s a lie,” Dio says, finally managing to loosen the rope. “The rabbit loves everyone.”

“I don’t know if I love the rabbit.”

“But you must!” He coils the untangled rope and slides it beneath the bench where Will sits. Then he tousles Will’s hair. “The rabbit is what teaches us our knots.”

Will says, “I think I hate the rabbit.”

He’s wearing a life jacket, which digs into the base of his neck, and he reaches up to pull it away as he looks out over the harbor. A hundred yards in front of him a gull bobs along the peaks of tiny swells, every so often leaning over to dip its pointed beak beneath the surface.

“Okay,” Dio says, adjusting his sunglasses. A small wave slaps the side of the boat, spritzing Will’s face with salt. “Okay, we’re going to tack. Remember what I told you?”

“I think so.

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