The third time I saw Chase was several weeks after I had discovered my strange little brittle star, the morning before Hurricane Grace was supposed to hit the Florida gulf. I awoke that morning to the rustle of wind outside the window and an unnatural jostling coming from the kitchen. Sleep-tousled and yawning, I rose from the empty bed and padded into the kitchen to find Jackson, my husband, rummaging around in the kitchen drawers.

“Shouldn’t you be at work?” I asked blearily.

He stood upright and flashed a grin at me, a wide-bottomed candle in one hand and an industrial-strength flashlight in the other. “I just got up early to stock up on some stuff, you know, for tomorrow.” Since we lived a bus-ride away from the shore we weren’t really supposed to be in a lot of danger from the hurricane, but The Weather Channel did advise to keep some candles, flashlights, and jugs of water on hand just in case the power went out. He just looked so excited about it though, as if it were going to be this great adventure. As he put the things away, grabbed his satchel from the counter, and kissed my forehead goodbye, a part of me wanted to hit him hard and not stop. I wanted to yell in his face that life wasn’t Boy Scouts anymore and that I didn’t need saving or protection from anyone.

I took the Metro to the beach that morning, ignored the boarded-up windows from the shops all around, the clouded sky, the rushing wind, and the entirely deserted shore. Inside the marine life exhibition, the saltwater tank and all of its little sea creatures had been taken away, the walls stripped of its charts and posters, the display coral gone. But, in his lime green polo shirt, bright white visor, and khakis, Chase was there, stuffing a stack of brochures into a small cardboard box. He looked up at me when I entered, grinned.

I went back to his place with him that morning. Just this once, I told myself. That had been my rule for the other two times: only once with the college boy in Barbados and only once with the man at Lake Huron. Only at their place, and then we’d never see each other again. My husband would never have to know.

Afterwards, we lay quiet for a while, tangled in his bed sheets, listening to the sounds of the wind outside the window. The walls creaked and the branches tapped against the windowpane, showering petals of crepe myrtle every time. He rolled over.

“Did you know,” he said, tracing the curve behind my ear and down my neckline to the points of my collarbone, “that starfish are actually violent predators?”

I smiled, sighing at his touch. “Mhmm...I thought they just kind of floated around, actually, or sucked in algae or something.”

“Nope.” He leaned down and nibbled on my earlobe, pulling the skin almost enough for it to hurt. I gave a tiny squeal. “They eat mollusks and all kinds of other stuff. Vicious and beautiful.” He lifted my chin and kissed the delicate skin there. “Like you.”

I sat up on my elbows, my stomach twisting uncomfortably. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shrugged. “I mean, you’re a beautiful woman, but, damn...you’re married.”

My heart began to jack-hammer against my ribs. I wasn’t wearing my wedding ring, and I hadn’t told Chase that I was married. The other two had known, and it hadn’t mattered to them, but I didn’t want to tell Chase. In a moment of sheer panic, I decided to play innocent.

“What?”

He cleared his throat. “Julie, that woman who works the help desk with me, you know? She knows your husband. Her kid is in his music class or something and I guess she met him at a parent’s conference. Told her all about his gorgeous little red-head Mexican wife Dosinda and that she goes to the beach nearly every day. Said she should look out for her.” He wouldn’t quite meet my eye. “She’s not an easy one to miss.”