“He’s, um—he died.”
He looks up. “Jesus, that fucking sucks.”
A laugh escapes me and my hand flattens over my mouth, trying to keep the sound inside. I’m horrified at myself because there is nothing funny about Ben’s death, but Keane’s response caught me off guard. The tears that fill my eyes are unexpected, too.
“When I [SPOILER],” he says. “People kept apologizing and I know they were sorry I had to experience such a terrible thing, but I got so bleedin’ tired of those words. I’m so sorry. Just one time I wanted someone to say, ‘Jesus, that fucking sucks.’”
“It really does fucking sucks.” I scrub my eyes with the heels of my hands. This time I laugh because I’m embarrassed that he’s managed to only see me at my worst. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” There’s a light of understanding in his hazel eyes that he doesn’t need to verbalize. “So my thought is this…we head to shore, you get cleaned up, and I’ll gather my gear from the yacht. Unless you’d feel more comfortable with me staying elsewhere until you’re ready to set sail.”
“You can stay here.”