"Am I going too fast for you?" Isaac asks breathlessly, muscles straining. "We can slow down if you want."

"No," I gasp,  "this is fine. Let's...keep going."

We're several hundred yards from shore, paddling a rented two-person kayak through the gently rolling cerulean waves.

Isaac sits in the forward seat, and we'd barely started rowing before I'd had to admit that he is in much better shape than I am. His muscles flex and stretch beneath the tanned skin of his shoulders and back as he dips the double-ended paddles from side to side, and he sets a pace that quickly becomes difficult for me to match. 

He's already asked me several times if I want to slow down or rest, but for some reason, I'm having a hard time admitting that I do. I'll pay for my pride later, I can already tell, as the slight pain in my back, shoulders, arms, and hands has gradually intensified to the point of agony. After nearly an hour of non-stop strain, my muscles are starting to cramp, I can't catch my breath, and my heart is beating harder than it has in a long time.

I need to work out more.

Up until the point where it became torment, though, I'd been enjoying myself. It had been Isaac's idea, of course; he'd wanted to do a bunch of stupid, touristy things that either he or I had never done before. This morning, we'd rode in a glass-sided contraption hanging from a wire up the side of a steep ridge and had breakfast in a restaurant with a view of the entire lake, and this afternoon, Isaac wanted to take me to a famous sandy beach farther up the east shore.

Kayaking, too, was his suggestion. He'd picked out a long, red tandem sit-on-top, which he'd explained wasn't as fast or sleek on the water as the closed cockpit kind, but which had greater stability and was easier to climb in and out of. Good for a beginner, in other words.

It was fun, at first: feeling the easy roll of the waves beneath us, the heat of the sun on my bare arms and legs, the breeze on my face, the quiet whisper and swish of the paddles. Mostly, I'd enjoyed watching the shore slip steadily past. We were traveling along a wild stretch on the Nevada side, with few houses, lots of smooth white-gray granite boulders poking above the waves and piled along the edge of the water, and steep-sided hills clad in clinging pines.

Now, all I can focus on is forcing myself to keep paddling despite the burning pain in my arms and back. At last, my shoulders cramp, and I literally can't paddle anymore.

Isaac feels the increased drag on the boat as I stop contributing to its forward motion, and twists in his seat to look back at me, his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses.

"You okay?" he calls back to me, shielding his eyes against the sparkling glare of the waves.

I shake my head. "Sorry, no. I...think I need a break. Sorry." I can barely speak, and my hands and arms shake as I rest the bar of my paddle across my knees.

Isaac frowns and stays twisted in his seat, waiting for me to recover.

We drift for several minutes, the waves carrying us closer to the shore and a gentle wind pushing us along at a leisurely glide.

"How about we pull to shore for a bit?" Isaac asks when I have my breath back. "We can swim and rest a while."

"No, no—I'm fine," I assure him, forcing a smile. "Sorry about that."

Rather than reply, he merely faces forward once more, turns the boat with a few quick, efficient strokes, and paddles us quickly to the rocky shore. I barely help, and he has to give me a hand getting out.

He's landed us alongside a big, flat-topped boulder with one side level with the waves. It's in two-to-three feet of crystal-clear turquoise water a few yards from shore.

He flops down, sitting with his arms resting across the tops of his knees and staring out over the lake, an unhappy set to his mouth. I sit carefully beside him, feeling the scrape of the rough granite against my skin. He seems upset, but I'm not sure what I've done wrong. We sit in silence, watching a pair of Canadian geese glide by on the waves.

"Felix," he says after a few minutes, "why didn't you ask me to slow down, or take a break? There's no rush. This is supposed to be fun, not a chore."

"Sorry," I say, and then grimace slightly. I know I've said that word too much in too short a time. "I just...don't want you to think I can't keep up."

He takes his sunglasses off and looks over at me, his short hair catching the sun and flecks of yellow in his gray eyes. His lips look a little chapped from the wind and the dry air.

"Dude, I want to be your boyfriend, not beat you in a race," he says. "Let me see your hands."

He slides closer to me and, reluctantly, I hold out my hands. He takes them in his own and turns them over, inspecting the palms. The skin in the valley between my first fingers and thumbs is red and blistered, raw from rubbing against my paddle's grip.

"Shit," Isaac sighs. Releasing my hands he reaches up and slides the sunglasses off my face, setting them carefully aside and meeting my eyes with a steady, penetrating gaze. He reaches for me again, gently brushing both callous-roughened palms over my features as though studying them by touch, ending by running his fingers lightly through my long, corkscrew curls.

"You're too good at hiding pain," he says, sounding a little sad. "Why is that?"

I shrug. Lots of practice, is the truth, but I can't say that out loud. "Just a stoic, I guess."

His frown dips a little deeper, and he tilts his head slightly to the side, exposing the strong, taut muscles of his neck. Sliding his hand from my face down my throat, he rubs his thumb along the skin over my collarbone. The scent of sunscreen and his exertion-warmed body carry on the intermittent breeze.

"Listen," he says softly. "Don't do this again, okay? I'm not gonna judge you if you need a break, or if you aren't at the same level as me. You don't expect me to play the piano as well as you, do you?"

"Not without years of tedium," I answer, giving him an apologetic half-smile. He has a point.

"Right. And I don't expect you to do anything more than you can, and it's dangerous for you to try. Believe me—I know. The first time I went surfing with some pro-level guys, I didn't want to admit I wasn't as skilled as they were. They asked if I was comfortable with this one area of really rough surf, and I lied and said I was. I almost drowned that day. Whether it's on the water, or in bed, be honest with me, Felix, alright? Otherwise, I won't be able to trust what you say."

I feel a little shock of alarm at his words. I hadn't thought of it like that, from what his perspective might be.

I nod, hoping he can see the sincerity in my face. His expression relaxes into a smile, and he leans over to kiss me, tilting his head opposite mine and shifting closer to loop his arm around my waist. The heat of his mouth on mine and the heat of the sun on our exposed skin combine to make me slightly breathless again.

I push him away gently.

"Hey, I think I'm ready to head back now," I say. "And...Isaac? Can we skip the beach? I'd rather go back to your uncle's house instead."

A smile lifts the corners of his mouth, and crinkles appear at the edges of his sea-gray eyes. "That's more like it," he says. "Don't be afraid to ask for what you need, babe. I want to be the one to give it to you, after all."

He kisses me again, just a light brush of his warm lips over mine, and I feel his lashes tickle my face. Then he helps me up and back into the kayak, climbs into his own seat, and guides us back out into the open water once more.

#

I'm exhausted when we get back to the house, and Isaac helps me put ointment on my blistered hands and wraps them in a few strips of gauze from the first-aid kit.

"Fuck," Isaac swears, chewing a nail and looking at the bandages with a worried crease in his brow. "Can you still play?"

I flex my hands experimentally. It hurts, and I stop. "Not today," I say. "But I'm sure by the wedding I'll be fine."

I'd barely helped on the way back, but by the time we'd returned the kayak to the rental place, several blisters had torn and started to bleed. Still, it was just a few layers of skin. It would heal quickly enough.

Breathing a sigh of relief, he smiles and laughs. "God, I hope so. I'm living to hear you play for Belle."

We're sitting side by side on the large couch in the main living area, and a new sort of nervousness is fluttering around the bottom of my stomach like a trapped bird.

I know that Isaac wants to take things to the next level—I do, too—but I'm worried after what happened this morning. What if I say the wrong thing? Or don't say the right thing? It shouldn't be so hard to tell him how I feel, but I'm still scared that if I show him the real me, he won't like what he sees.

He leans towards me, and I expect him to kiss me, but instead he merely shifts his weight and gets to his feet. "How about we get some late lunch?" he asks. "I'm starved."

Hiding my unease with a grin, I agree. "Me too."

The rest of the day passes pleasantly enough. We get deli sandwiches, lie on the lounge chairs by the pool, eat ice cream and sit in the hot-tub after dark. We talk, and laugh, and I'm never bored or wish that I was anywhere else but with him.

At no point does he try to kiss me or touch me again, though, and by evening I'm starting to worry that I've put him off after all. I find myself wishing I could be more of what he wants: stronger, less needy, less fragile...more honest.

Later, we watch a movie. Isaac wants me to choose, and I'm horrible at picking out something to watch, so I just close my eyes and point. My finger lands on Monty Python and the Holy Grail, which we've both seen before, but we still end up laughing anyway. Somehow it seems a lot funnier than it ever did before, watching it with him.

When the movie ends, we go to bed. Isaac heads towards his room, and I head for mine; but at the door, I stop.

I'm disappointed he hasn't made a move. Then I realize that he's not the only one who can. He told me he wants to give me what I need, but he won't know what that is unless I tell him.

"Hey, Isaac?" I call as he reaches the end of the hall. "What if I can't sleep again?"

He stops and turns back to face me.

"I mean, I'd try Mike's suggestion, but..." I hold up my freshly bandaged hands.

A slow grin lights his face. "You wanna sleep in my room? Maybe I can help."

I walk to his door and shyly place my hands on either side of his waist, feeling the firmness of his muscles through the thin, warm cotton of his shirt.

"I'd like that," I say, and—heart suddenly racing like I've been trying too hard to paddle a kayak again—I kiss him.

He kisses me back through a smile, and then he takes me to bed.