We’ve nearly caught up with Jett and Doug, thanks to the pit stop they made to swap out camera equipment, and before we’re in earshot, Molly catches my forearm, pausing my steps. Her gaze flickers from the guys to me. Something flashes across her gaze, almost like clarity.
“Keep an open mind and follow the unexpected path if that’s where your gut leads you. It might not be what you imagined for yourself, but it doesn’t mean it’s not meant to be.”
She only lets the conversation fall when I acquiesce, and Jett saunters over, looking like the dopiest tourist on the planet. Pockets cover his cargo pants, and the camera dangling aroundhis neck bounces as he walks. Add the sunscreen washing his skin in a white sheen, and the stereotype is complete.
Oh, shit. This is what I look like, too.
A laugh rips out of me, and he cocks his head. “Laughing at me?” he asks.
“Never.” My voice cracks, and he playfully shoves my shoulder.
He’s stronger than he realizes, and I step back, trying to absorb the impact, but I misstep, hitting a divot in the road and careening back. My arms flail, and I grab on to the first thing I can: Jett.
I yelp as the gravel and rocks grate and dig against my skin, pain searing through my tailbone when I land hard on the ground. A breath later, he lands on top of me, his camera taking the brunt of the impact against my stomach.
His hands bracket the sides of my head, a wild look contorting his face as he scans my body, searching for damage. Our mouths are inches apart, my gaze flickering across his lips, and the lower half of his body digs into my hip to lift pressure from his camera.
Oh, fuck. His camera.
“Is your camera—”
“Are you okay?” He cuts me off, pushing from the ground and revealing scrapes and cuts along his palms.
I wince, and guilt trickles down my throat, suffocating me.
“Did I break your camera?”
He crouches, setting the camera to the side and unzipping my backpack. The muscle in his jaw tics.
His voice is like thick honey when he says, “Fuck the camera, Sofía. Are. You. Okay?”
The damage isn’t bad, and after the initial shock, most of the pain dissipates, leaving behind a bruised ego and a mountain of guilt.
“Which of these is a first aid kit?” he asks, lifting a few of the pouches.
“Red.”
For blood, obviously.
“Give me your palm.” He bandages the tiny scrape before checking me over, turning my jaw. “Did you hit your head?”
“No,” I mumble, his fingers lingering on my skin. They tremble a bit, and when I wrap my hand around his wrist, the shaking worsens.Is he afraid?“You’re hurt.”
Blood drips down his arm from the gash on his hand, and he blinks down at it like he didn’t feel it. I unscrew the cap on my water bottle and dump it on his skin, offering a sympathetic smile when he grimaces.
He lets me examine the wound for any debris, and once I’m happy there are no rocks or tiny bugs in the cut, I dab it with gauze.
“Do you need the ointment?”
I gag. “Don’t say that word. It’s a horrible word.”
His eyebrow lifts. “Noted.”
“But yes, please.”
He laughs, and the sound soothes the ache forming in my chest. With his free hand, he leans forward and plucks a small white flower from a stem. Removing the baseball cap from my head, he smooths out my hair and tucks the bloom behind my ear.
My mouth dries, my pulse racing like I’m running the hundred-yard dash.
