Pink Whales: A Novel by Sara Shukla

Author:Sara Shukla [Shukla, Sara]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Little A
Published: 2024-06-04T00:00:00+00:00

chapter 18

Oliver and I half walked, half jogged the handful of blocks to the yacht club, laughing and shushing each other like teenagers sneaking out past curfew. I’d taken off my shoes when we hit the road, and I paused on the back porch of the club to catch my breath. The harbor was so dark I could barely make out the line where the sea met the sky. Everything felt murky and undefined, like a dream. I felt my thoughts lap slowly like the waves, drawing near, then receding.

“You wanted in. Right, Charlie?”

He stood in the shadow of the open door, and I realized it was the first time he’d used my real name. I didn’t mind it. His white shirt glowed against the light from his phone. I was giddy, and felt like a carefree version of myself, like the me who used to sneak into those landscape architect-sanctioned pools with Simon, giggling all the way. The only time I felt comfortable in properties of the rich and famous, apparently, was illicitly, and in the moonlight.

The room was empty other than a pair of dark-leather couches. I imagined it full of tables and chairs, men in navy sports coats clinking glasses, women in Vineyard Vines shifts. A wood cabinet with glass panels displayed shelves upon shelves of trophies.

“Why do you have a key?” I asked. “Do all members get one? Is it literally the keys to the kingdom?”

I threw myself onto one of the leather couches, lying flat and putting my feet up on the armrest.

“I did some work here a few summers ago,” he said. “I built that trophy case you’re staring at. They never asked for the key back.” The room was shrouded in shadows but light enough to highlight his white shirtsleeve rolled to his forearm. He walked to the bar and ran his fingers along the bottles.

“What are the trophies for?” I asked. “And why does everything around here have a trophy or title associated with it?” I sat up and put my feet on the cool wood floor.

“It’s for racing, mostly,” Oliver said. “Why, do you want one of those, too?”

“Shut up,” I said. “I’ll have you know I had a day on a boat and I earned that hat.”

Oliver grabbed a “something clear” from the bar and two glasses. Before he poured, I watched him take a swig straight from the bottle. He wiped his mouth with the inside of his forearm, then smiled at me, whispering, “Don’t tell.”

The lower half of my body went warm, and I thought about lying flat on the cool floor.

“Are you going to refill it with water so no one notices?” I said.

Oliver laughed, and this time I had more trouble looking away. “You’re always sneaking around, Yellow Elephants. You don’t need to.”

His disarming irreverence for this bizarre place—I found it alluring, and intimidating, and fascinating, all at once. Asking permission felt like all I did. For Oliver, Rumford was there for the taking, but he didn’t need it.

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