She pushed her lips against mine, pressing her fingers against my chest. My tongue swept against her bottom lip before I sucked gently.

“I had a nightmare, too,” I told her. “I felt like I was drowning again.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” she whispered.

I closed my eyes and saw the water. I felt it. It felt so real, so cold, so close. Then Maggie kissed my lips and reminded me that I didn’t have to drown alone. “Yes,” I replied.

“Tell me what it felt like,” she said, her voice filled with care. “Tell me what it felt like in the water.”

“Panic. It happened so fast, but in my head it felt like slow motion. My mind spun as I tried to get back to the boat,” I said.

Her lips moved to the scar on my neck, and she kissed it gently, before moving down my shoulder blade.

“When the propeller struck me the first time, I was certain that was it. I knew I was going to die. That sounds dramatic for me to say now—”

Maggie cut in. “There’s nothing dramatic about that.”

“Now, I have the nightmares and it all feels as if it’s happening again. I feel the cold water. I feel the propeller in my skin and wake up expecting to bleed.” I held my arm out, staring at my injured hand.

Her lips trailed down my left arm, and I tensed up the closer she grew to my hand. “What does it feel like?” she asked, resting her kiss on my forearm.

“There’s still this kind of phantom pain that happens. It feels as if someone is clamping against the finger super tight while setting a blowtorch to it. That comes and goes, though. When I get cold, my hand turns purple. I hate the scars. They are a constant reminder of what happened.”

“Everyone has scars. Some people are just better at hiding them.”

I smiled and kissed her forehead. “Honestly I think the anxiety and flashbacks are the worst part.”

Her eyes grew heavy. “Yeah. I know what you mean.” She sat up and bit her bottom lip. “Is it okay if I talk about my scars, too?”

“Of course.”

Maggie’s voice was timid. I saw the fear in her eyes from the idea of speaking to life what had happened in the woods all those years ago. I’d known how hard it was going to be for her, but even with her voice shaking, she still spoke.

“Her name was Julia. Sometimes my memory tried to convince me her name was Julie, but it wasn’t. It was definitely Julia,” she said.

“Who?”

“The woman who died in the woods.”

I sat up straighter, too, more alert.

“Her name was Julia, and she was leaving her husband.” She told me every piece of detail that had happened. She told me how he looked, she told me the color of Julia’s hair, her panic, her cries. She recalled the scents, his touch, his voice. For over twenty years Maggie relived her horror over and over again, never forgetting a piece of it. As she kept going, her body began shaking, but she didn’t stop. She continued telling me the story of the day that changed her life. I listened, growing angry, and scared, and sad for her. I couldn’t imagine seeing the things she saw as a child. I couldn’t imagine moving past watching someone be murdered before my eyes.

“I thought I was going to die, too, Brooks. The same way you thought your life was ending—that’s what I felt. It could’ve easily gone that way, too. If you had fallen forward, the propeller could’ve taken your life. If I didn’t get away from the man, he would’ve killed me.”

“How did you get away?”

Her eyelashes fluttered, and her eyes glimmered. “You called my name, scaring him off. You saved my life.”

“Well, I guess we’re even, because you saved mine, too.”

We stayed up until sunrise, talking about the traumas, speaking out all of the hurts and fears we both faced. Even though it was hard, it was needed for us both. It was freeing, speaking into life our troubles. Many parts of that night were tough, and sometimes we had to pause to take five minutes to remind ourselves to breathe. Yet, I was thankful for it all, the quiet moments and the painful ones, too. I was thankful for her willingness to allow me to bleed out against her. I was thankful for her bleeding out onto my soul.

“Kiss me,” she ordered.

I did as she said.

We were two souls praying to be rescued, yet with each kiss we delivered, the waters grew higher. She bit my bottom lip, and I groaned into her. She wrapped her body around my waist, and I held her in my arms. Her hips pressed hard against me, as if she were trying to hold on to me even more. My right hand moved to her chest, and I grasped her breast before moving my mouth to her neck, sucking her, biting her, needing her. Her fingers dug deep into the back of me, almost as if she were clawing into my entire existence.

She pulled back from me and locked her stare with mine. Those beautiful, sad blue eyes.

God, how I hated the sadness in her eyes.

God, how I loved the sadness in her stare.

It reminded me that I wasn’t alone.

Did she see my sadness too?

Could she taste the pain against my lips?

“Lie down,” I ordered.

She did as I said.

She slid my boxers off, and I tossed her white tank top to the side of the room. My tongue danced across her nipple, and she gasped. The sound made me pause for a second, but when she wrapped her hands in my hair and lowered my head back to her chest, I knew I needed to taste every part of her. I needed to engulf her existence to help make the pain of life disappear for a while.

Drowning.

We were drowning. Drowning into the sadness, choking from the pain. With every touch we exchanged, the waves crashed over us. I locked my fingers around the edge of her panties, watching them slide down her beautiful thighs. My mouth kissed her stomach, and I listened to her moan once more, looking up to see her staring at me. I could tell she wanted to shut her eyes, but she couldn’t. She had to watch me, study me.

Yes? I wondered in my mind, staring at her blue eyes.

She nodded once. Yes.

My mouth moved lower, and I kissed her left inner thigh. My tongue slowly dragged across her right inner thigh. Then, I positioned myself against her, sliding into her wetness, feeling the tightness of our fears with each thrust, feeling the waters rising above our heads. Our ship rocked against the tidal waves, breaking and breaking as we lost ourselves.

That night I realized a few things about life. Sometimes the rain was more pleasing than the sun. Sometimes the hurt was more fulfilling than the healing. And sometimes the pieces of a puzzle were more beautiful when scattered apart.