Something in the question, perhaps the undercurrent of fear, sets me on edge. “Sure.”
“Is the reason you want this to be a fling because of that guy?” he asks. “What was his name? Terry?”
My stomach sinks. “Tommy?” I whisper.
“Ah, yeah. Are you still in love with him?”
The cap of the sunscreen bottle clicks shut, but I can’t face him, not when my heart is in my throat and panic roots me to the ground. He’s not supposed to know about Tommy. None of them know about him, not fully. The horror of that relationship is my dirty little secret to keep.
“How do you know about Tommy?”
“You mentioned him on the research vessel after you got wine drunk with Charlie and Vivian. You said, ‘You’re nothing like Tommy’ and ‘All of them are like him in a way.’” Vulnerability flashes across his eyes. “Is that the problem?”
Panic nearly shears me in half. “Youarenothing like Tommy,” I admit. “He was…he was my greatest mistake.”
And I think Jett might be my greatest adventure.
I’ll tell him every brutal detail, flay myself open so he never thinks that again, but not right now, not when we have all day to get through. Jett dips his head, like he expected that answer but is disappointed anyway. “You’re going back to him when we get to LA?”
“No.” The idea spirals my body into a panic. “I never want to see him again.”
He made me small. Self-conscious. Needy. The opposite of how I’ve felt since this trip began. Like the string of shitty menhas been severed. For a long time, I’ve been one of those wild animals caught in plastic, wrapped in debris, functioning the best I know how, and it isn’t until someone comes along and cuts the cord that you realize how poorly you were doing.
“We dated for a few years,” I admit, even though the words are heavy on my tongue. “He was…emotionally abusive. He never hurt me,” I babble, “but he destroyed my self-esteem, belittled me at every opportunity.”
It’s the first time I’ve admitted the words out loud to anyone but my therapist. The realization became obvious in the aftermath, but putting words to the treatment gave it weight, and shame would settle like concrete in water. How could I stay in an emotionally abusive relationship? How did I love someone who hurt me?
So I never spoke the words outside of the four walls of the therapy office.
But if spending time with Jett has made anything clear, it’s the truth I’ve been running from: I don’t know what a healthy relationship looks like—with anyone.
“You’re nothing like him,” I murmur. “But that’s a good thing.”
Hands grip my shoulders, and I’m spun around, a flurry of emotions swirling in his gaze before Jett drags me into a tight embrace that disintegrates the anxiety tensing my muscles.
“Thank you,” he mutters, “for telling me.”
The hug is over sooner than I’d like, and he straightens out the strap of my tank top, his finger lingering on my skin. My breath hitches, and he tips his chin downward, a featherlight kiss grazing my lips.
He doesn’t poke or prod for more, and I’m grateful. It’s not a story for right now.
“Today’s gonna be a blast,” he says against my mouth. “Let’s see some crocodiles and shit.”
The corners of my lips tug up when he kisses me again. I like the way he kisses me too much—gentle but with authority. It’s not what I would have expected from him.
“I’m excited for the ice cream shop,” I admit, fiddling with the edge of my top to dissipate the nerves fluttering in my gut.
“Sorbet is better,” he says before releasing me and strutting across the gravel parking lot, leaving me to meet our tour guide.
We will be conversing about that incorrect opinion later.
I chase after him, Doug and Molly reappearing from behind a bush, her hair disheveled and his long beard in disarray.
“I forgot how fun it is to do something wild,” she admits as we walk down to the boat docked on the Daintree River. “When’s the last time you did something a little reckless?”
“Did you havesexin the bushes?” I whisper, trying to keep the judgment out of my question.
We’re in a different country; what if she got caught? Bail wasnotincluded in my budget.
