The movement of the dock and the rhythmic lapping sound the water makes, spins my head even worse than the ride in Ryan's rattling truck. I gulp the breeze and try to calculate how big his dinghy is inside. The result isn't promising. "So, that's our shalash."

My husband chuckles behind my back. "I don't see any tree branches. Do you?"

"Right." I gingerly place one bare foot on the boat's rim or whatever it's called. The boat stops rocking. Instead, it buckles wildly, leaving me swinging my arms like a windmill, fighting for balance. Even in the face of certain death, I clutch my shoes. I love those shoes!

Ryan props me up, and we parachute inside, pretty much tossed into each-other's embrace by the willful vessel.

"Is your boat big enough to have even one bed?" I free myself from Ryan's ridiculously long limbs. Two beds cannot possibly fit below decks unless they're bunk beds. I shudder at the thought.

"Yes, absolutely, I have a bed. My bed. It's bolted down, so it can't be moved in a storm or for a fake wife."

My toes curl instinctively to grip the cold corrugated surface under my feet. "Good thing we've discussed this eventuality beforehand. It's not a threat to our virtue."

"Yeah," he folds his hands behind his back, looking past me. "Yeah. Excellent foresight on our part."

What distracts him from me is a stack of surfing gear.

"Ryan?" I suck my teeth. "Ryan, there are two surfing boards on your tiny houseboat. Did you forget to mention something?"

Now is a perfect time for him to come out and tell me that he's seeing someone. And honestly, what did I expect? The guy's in his thirties and easy to look upon. Sure, his disposition is sour, and he's down on his luck, but when did it stop a woman of determination? Of course, he's in a relationship, even if it's an on-and-off kind or broken or... something. My mood plunges.

"That's Emily's." His voice is completely expressionless when he says it.

The measure of how low my spirits fell is how high they spike when I hear that name. Emily! The bitch I was going to have a heart-to-heart with about family values! That Emily! I'm ready sing it. Emily-Emily-Emily!

"Emily, your sister." I sure hope he doesn't have multiple women of that name in his life, because I've had enough romcom situations for one night. "That Emily?"

"Yes."

His clipped reply pushes me to the brink of laughing, but I hold it in for dear life. Hysterical giggles will be misinterpreted, and I can't afford making my marriage any more awkward. I want simplicity.

"She used to come with me all the time..." Ryan says. "And I don't have, you know, don't have the heart to get rid of it."

"You don't need to explain." At first, my voice is tight from fighting laughter, then it's tight because of a solidifying constriction in my throat.

He stands there, thumbs jammed behind his belt—tuxedos have no pockets to speak of, just the satin accents and a holder for a folded handkerchief. Moonlight sets off the luster of the trim on the lapels, reminding me they're meant to be worn after dark.

Darling, sweetie, my love... the worn-out words used to roll easily from my tongue when I was trying to get a rise out of him. Now when I want to comfort him, no dice. I don't dare to even use his name out of fear of giving out how much affection I have for him at this moment.

He is forlorn, and I want to be here for him. Plus, I'm thrilled he's single, apart from being fake married to me. It's so dumb and poignant at the same time. My heart soars, while my cheeks heat with guilt. Thankfully, the night hides conflicting emotions well.

If I could offer succor, I would, I swear.... But dammit, ours is not that kind of a relationship, and I'm not a nurturer. He's a big boy. Another second, and he'll shake the mood off. We'll proceed below decks to work on the sleeping arrangements. All will be lost in the mundane details. The awkward situation will pass and never shall we ever—

Slowly, I loop my arm through his elbow. "Ryan? Take me surfing."

He startles out of his sulk. "What?"

"Let's go surfing," I repeat, as my heart pounds.

"Now?"

I nod vigorously. "Why not? I'm too keyed up to sleep, but too mentally exhausted to hack into Luca's accounts without fucking it up."

Wind stirs his hair. The eyes behind the thin lenses of his glasses spark with curiosity. "You surf?"

This, right here, is the important stuff! Why do I even bother with comforting this dumbass?

"Uh-huh," I mumble noncommittally. "A little."

He raises an eyebrow. "Naz, the overconfident fools drown."

Fine, let's do a full disclosure. "I surfed as a teen."

Once. Martial arts, with the culture of discipline and the achievement level worn in plain sight, appealed more to me than beach-bumming ever would.

"It's not exactly bikini weather. It's December."

"January," I correct him pedantically. "Did you miss the clock strike twelve?"

"How could I? My limo turned into this pumpkin." He motions to the Jeep. "But it's just as chilly."

"It's L.A."

"Yes—"

Before he comes up with something else—sharks?—I press a finger to his lips. We're still linked elbow through elbow, like a chain. If I were swaying on my feet, I'd look drunk. Technically, I'm sober, but the intoxication of the night just won't let go, and I want him to get infected by it too.

"I don't have a bikini with me anyway."

"Naz... bad idea."

"No, it's a good idea. I bet you have a spare wetsuit and a t-shirt."

Finally, his sulky façade crumbles completely. Warm lips slip from under my digit to stretch in an unexpectedly boyish grin. He can't help it, he's intrigued by the prospect of finding out if I'm lying. Or, maybe, he dreams of dunking me into the frigid ocean waves.

"Okay," he says. "I'll take you to a children's beach and no stupid stunts. Deal?"

"Perfect."

Ryan ducks inside. His head reappears to toss me a pair of black track pants and a t-shirt, then ducks down again.

I strip the gown that costs more than his boat, pull up Ryan's stuff and crouch to stroke the red waves of silk and golden embroidery. The dress served me well and now it's strewn on the deck. Every stitch is so beautiful that I wish I could sew... what a stupid desire. It's just another pretty gown. I should have it dry-cleaned and packed away for another occasion. Period.

"Hey," Ryan calls softly, padding across the deck in sandals and what seems to be an identical baggy ensemble. He stares at the discarded finery for a second. "Changed your mind yet?"

"Never."

He gives me a strange look. "Yeah, that's what I thought."

We're back in his Jeep, but this time I sag against the back of the seat. I'm too parched to talk.

The darkest, deadest time of the night falls around us. After a few minutes of riding in silence, Ryan turns on the radio to keep awake. Or is he afraid that I would fall asleep on him? To be fair, only stubbornness prevents me from succumbing to the pressures of the circadian rhythm.

The music is something indie, Latin and particularly poignant. But it's the memory of the king-sized bed in my penthouse, cool sheets and multidirectional shower that brings tears to my eyes. The only way to get these little comforts back into my life is to shame Ryan and rent us a decent place. But, no, can't do. Have to play at paradise in Ryan's floating shalash.

"I'm going to find something less funerary." I fumble with the dial until it hits an ancient reggae tune.

Ryan smiles out of the corner of his mouth. "Sleepy? I can turn back."

"No." The long experience tells me that in another hour, my body would give up on sleep and rally to a dazed, hyper-aroused state of a chronic insomniac. I'll ride the waves till then, thank you very much. It's better than to wake up groggy.

The Jeep weaves its way between smaller and smaller houses, then jumps onto a circular gravel lot. It should be closed at night, but who's watching on New Year's Eve?

I hear the surf before my feet sink into the sand and my heart shifts uneasily in my chest. It's pretty damn loud. I remember belatedly that the waves are praised for being the strongest in December. Pretty sure the same goes for January 1st. If the Jeep's headlights were still on, the comparison to a deer would have been more apt, but I freeze anyway, talking down the twinge of anxiety.

Ryan extracts the boards out of the back seat and extends his hand to me. Hopefully, he just thinks I'm standing there because my eyes are adjusting to the low light on the beach.

"Go slow, and watch your step," he advises. "Sometimes there's broken glass and worse, particularly after the party nights."

Today is one of those nights, but I see no bonfires or drunk teens cruising the shoreline. Nothing to use as a pretext to flee to safety of the only bed. "Okay."

The first step on the sand fringing the parking lot grates the soles of my feet. The sand is coarse here. The plants clinging to life are tough little buggers. They prickle me too. Together with the grouchy sound of the surf, this is the most unwelcoming beach I've ever been to.

I let the building sigh go. It drifts away, resolving nothing as the sighs always do.

The night sea awaits.