He holds it out to me, and I look at him like he’s crazy.
“To surviving a shit day,” he says.
I’ll drink to that. Ihavesurvived so far, and it was close there for a while.
I clink the neck of my bottle to his and take a pull. As soon as the brew hits my tongue, I start chugging, suddenly thirstier than I’ve felt in my life.
“Whoa—” Zach pushes off his stool. “You still need to rehydrate. I’ll get you some water.”
I lower the bottle with a twinge of regret, but I know he’s right. A part of me wants to stop him. Get my own damn water.
But I honestly don’t know if I can.
I mean, sure, I won’t collapse or anything, but it’s been a day. I don’t think I have much left in me.
Zach sets the tall glass of ice water in front of me and sits down again.
“Thank you,” I croak.
“Don’t mention it,” he says before taking a bite of his BLT.
I drain half of the glass immediately, and the cold is a restorative.
I set it down and stare at the crescents of ice stacked just below the water’s surface. And then I’m thinking of the Titanic. And how that iceberg had been there for, I don’t know, probably millennia. And how that ship made a beeline straight for it.
Bound for disaster.
“You okay, Greta?”
I look up. No idea how long I’ve been zoning out on the perils of icebergs and all things doomed. The way Zach is looking at me, his brows pulled together, I’m thinking it’s been a minute.
I inhale through my nose. “I will be.” That little frown of his smooths out, and, maybe for the first time since I met him, I’m glad he’s here.
“Thanks.” I hope he knows I mean for more than just the BLT. And the chips. And the ice water.
And leaving me alone when I came apart at the seams.
And diving into the lake to search for Josh.
And taking care of me when I got overheated.
And anything else I’ve forgotten about in this shitshow of a day.
And since that one word doesn’t seem to cut it, I tack on, “For everything.”
The left side of his mouth lifts, smile lines bracketing the grin in a way that makes him look… I don’t know… humble?
I’m grinning back before I realize it. The way you might grin at the stranger next to you on a plane after you’ve survived an emergency landing. The one who saw you nearly shit your pants thirty seconds before, and that would be mortifying, except he was about to shit his pants too.
Two hours ago, I wouldn’t have said that Zach and I were on the same flight.
But that grin makes me wonder.
Zach shakes his head, dismissing my thanks. “Get some food in you,” he says with a nod toward my overflowing plate.
I pick up one of the BLT triangles and take a bite.
“Mmmm.”
