So now I pick myself back up and rely on myself. It’s easier this way.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.
“I met Doug when I least expected it. Could happen to you, too.”
I grunt.
Not holding my breath. But Iwillbe buying one of those air suction toys when I get back to LA. I miss having sex, but I amnotsacrificing my peace of mind to hook up with a stranger.
“How did you two meet?”
“A salsa class. He was my dance partner. Kept stepping on my toes.” She sighs, a fond expression brightening her face. “He’s a horrible dancer.”
“Sounds like love at first sight.”
She cackles. “God, no. Our first date was so awkward I almost didn’t call him back. But the next week, he showed up to our class with a bouquet of ranunculus. I had mentioned they were my favorite once when we were dancing, and he remembered. He got a second date.”
“I love peonies, but they’re expensive and have short seasons. Most men get roses.”
I fucking hate roses.
“My piece of advice: Find someone who remembers. The big things, the small habits, all of your little quirks. Words are a declaration of love, but remembering is the action of it.”
The words strike a chord. How much can I remember about Tommy, about my family, about my friends? How much do they know about me? I don’t think Tommy knew anything about me, nor did he care to learn.
I’m left with the thought and my field guide, flicking through the pages. Water splashes, and I drop the book, running to the side of the boat. Jett pops his head out of the water, all smile as he rips the mask off and waves.
Chatter fills the air as they climb out of the water and remove their gear. The engine kicks to life, and we’re off, hopefully back to shore.
“About forty minutes to the next site. Grab some food, and we’ll chill for our surface interval,” Simon says, fiddling with the oxygen tanks.
“You’re going back in?” I ask, poorly hiding my panic when Doug and Jett make it to the front of the vessel.
Why on earth would they do that?
“Well, we’re gonna move a bit to a new dive site, but yeah. Hoping we can film a Port Jackson shark,” he replies, running a towel over his hair.
I stumble into the seat. Now they’re willingly chasing the dangerous animals. Great. They’re going to send me to an early grave. Jett mistakes my worry for hunger and runs over to the cooler, scooping up an armful of food and returning to the chairs.
“You need to eat,” he says, shoving a turkey sandwich in my direction. A bag of pizza Shapes falls into my lap beside a piece of candy. “Your sugar is low.”
“It’s not.” My hand trembles as I raise the sandwich to my mouth.
Okay, fine, maybe it’s low, and maybe I’m overwhelmed at the idea of Jett getting back into the water. I don’t like the onslaught of emotions or the anxiety that coincides with them.
Water drips off Jett’s skin, and I peek at his chest, a droplet traveling down between his pectoral muscles. An arm raises, and muscles flex as he drags his hands through his wet hair, water landing on my skin. I can almost hear the sizzle when they hit their mark, evaporating against the warmth stretching along my arm.
We hit a wave, and I jostle into him, knocking the bag of pizza Shapes out of his hand and scattering them along the deck. He gasps and reaches around my waist to steady me when we hit a few more bumps.
“My crackers.” He pouts, and I offer him mine. “Oh, thanks, sugar tits.”
I smack him square in the chest, and he barks a laugh. “Couldn’t help myself,” he chokes out.
“Don’t let that catch on,” I grumble, dipping my head to hide my blush.
There’s something titillating about hearing the wordtitsroll off his tongue. I scoot away to create some space between us. The sun and the alcohol are zapping my brain cells.
“Wanna watch some of the footage?” he asks after polishing off the crackers. “Got some wicked shots on my GoPro.”
