Page 10 of The Cruise Back to You

The snorkeling trip is everything Jules promised it would be. Crystal-clear water, colorful fish darting between coral formations, and Robin’s eyes lighting up behind his mask every time he spots something new. We swim side by side, pointing out sea creatures to each other—a bright yellow tang, a shy octopus hiding in a crevice, a sea turtle gliding past like it has nowhere to be and all the time in the world.

At one point, Robin grabs my arm and gestures excitedly at a small reef shark in the distance. His grip is firm and familiar, and when he looks at me, bubbles escaping from his snorkel, his eyes are crinkled with joy.

I forget, for a moment, that we’re supposed to be just friends.

After the tour, the guide drops us back at the port. We’re still damp from the ocean, salt drying on our skin, but neither of us seems to mind. The sun is lower now, casting everything in golden light, and Robin’s wet hair is curling at the edges the way it always does.

“That was amazing,” he says, still slightly breathless. “Did you see that turtle? I thought it was going to swim right into me.”

“You would have deserved it. You were basically stalking it.”

“I was appreciating it from a reasonable distance.”

“You were three feet away.”

Robin grins, unrepentant, and my heart does that stupid thing again.

“Hey,” I say, before I can talk myself out of it. “Do you want to have dinner with me tonight?”

Robin’s steps slow. He looks at me, uncertain. “Dinner?”

“If we’re going to sell this to Jules and Marc, we have to make it believable.” I keep my voice casual, like this is purely strategic. “What’s more convincing than dinner after spending all day together?”

Robin considers this for a moment. “We didn’t book a restaurant in advance.”

“Buffet, then. After we’ve showered. Meet you there at seven?”

A beat passes. Then Robin nods. “Okay. Seven, it is.”

The buffet is chaos in the best possible way.

We grab plates and wander through the stations, loading up on whatever catches our eyes. By the time we find a table, Robin’s plate is a disaster of conflicting cuisines, and mine isn’t much better.

“Okay,” Robin says, staring at my tray. “Explain yourself.”

I look down. Mashed potatoes. Paella. Fries. “What?”

“You’ve triple-carbed. Potato, rice, and more potato.”

“Fries are their own food group.”

“Fries are potatoes, Colter.”

“Agree to disagree.” I point at his plate. “You have sushi next to lasagna. You don’t get to judge me.”

“The sushi is a palate cleanser.”

“That’s not how palate cleansers work.”

“It is when there’s unlimited choice.” Robin picks up a California roll and pops it into his mouth, maintaining eye contact the entire time. “See? Refreshing.”

I laugh, and it feels like something that’s been gripping my chest tight loosens. This is what I missed. Not just Robin, but the easy back-and-forth, the stupid jokes.

We eat and talk, conversation flowing naturally from the snorkeling trip to life back in Pine Ridge. Eventually, I ask the question I’ve been curious about all day.

“How’s the shop doing?”

“Good,” Robin says, wiping his hands on a napkin. “Really good, actually. But I’ve been working on something else recently. A side project.”