Fall With Me

many beers did you have?” I ask. “And you better sleep this off by morning . . .”
    But I stop abruptly, probably five feet away. The full moon has made it bright enough that I can see this is clearly not Brett or one of the other campers. I don't know who it is, and not just because he’s brought his hands up and is covering his face like he’s got the worst headache ever.
    “Fucking hell,” he says, before trying to sit up. He makes it halfway and then twists to the side and throws up. It sounds like mostly water.
    I take a step closer. “Are you okay?”
    He doesn’t seem to hear me over the retching, though, and when he’s done he rolls over onto his forearms and his knees, his forehead on the sand. Perhaps I should be more fearful of strange men that wash up onto the beach, but this one is clearly in no condition to do anything that might put me in harm’s way.
    I take a few steps closer and kneel down. “Hey. Where did you come from?”
              Finally, he looks at me. For a few long seconds, he doesn’t say anything. Then, he laughs, a dry, hacking sound that quickly dissolves into a brutal cough. He pushes himself up and stands, swaying a little.
    “I would think,” he says, his voice rough like gravel, “that I were in heaven if I didn’t feel like such shit.”
    “Well, this isn’t heaven; it’s Fulton Beach.” I look out to the expanse of ocean that is reflecting the moon’s light in milky-colored ripples. I see no boat, no vessel, not even a raft or a stick of driftwood. “And you’re not supposed to be here. Where did you come from? Where are you trying to go?”
    “Sweetheart,” he says. “If I knew that, I’d be there by now.”
    “Do you need to go to the hospital? I can call an ambulance.”
    “No.” He shakes his head. “No, don’t call anyone. Just . . . just give me a minute. Let me try . . . let me . . . Goddamn. Do you have any water?”
    I can see how dry and cracked his lips are and how the salinity of the water has irritated the skin around his mouth. He has been swimming for a long time, I realize.
    “Sweetheart,” he says. “I really need to lie down.”
    “Come with me,” I say, wanting to get him out of sight before Karen sees. “But stop calling me sweetheart.”
    “Sure, okay. What’s your name, then?”
    “Jill.”
    “I’m Griffin. Thanks for saving me.”
    “I haven’t done anything yet.”
    He staggers next to me, one leg or the other giving out periodically but he doesn’t fall. He collapses into the tent and just lays there as I pull a water bottle from the little cooler I brought with me. I twist the cap off and hand it to him, and he sits up long enough to gulp a few mouthfuls before lying back down.
    “Don’t drink so quickly,” I say. I try to scrutinize his face in the darkness. I twist the knob on my LED lantern and a whitish glow fills the tent. He is no one I have ever seen before. “Seriously. Where are you from?”
    “I would tell you,” he says, “but sweetheart, you wouldn’t believe me.”
    “Try me,” I say.
    He lets his eyes fall closed for a second, before reopening them. He’s got those enviable, long, thick lashes that only guys ever seem to have, and his eyes as blue and bright as pools of tropical water. “I was kidnapped. It started off really lovely and all; I was having the total Eat, Pray, Love experience, traveling the world, except in my case it was more like Drugs, Rave, Fuck , and I was partying in Thailand and I was kidnapped and woke up to find myself on some yacht in the middle of the ocean. And then a fucking whale sank the boat. Like Moby Dick or some shit. So I started swimming.”
    He takes another sip of water. I narrow my eyes. “You’re full of shit,” I tell him. I know his type, which isn’t all too different from Sean, actually, just maybe a little more adventurous. The privileged rich boy who happens to be so ruggedly handsome, people are constantly falling over themselves just to get in their good graces. And these boys know this, relish this, and just like to mess around with people because they know they can get away with it.
    “Sweetheart, you’re the one who asked what happened.”
    “I asked because I thought you’d tell me the truth. And you really need to stop calling me sweetheart. My name is Jill.”
    “Okay, okay. Jill . I’m not exactly sure what I need to do to convince you that I’m telling you the truth, but that’s what