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Lights from the surrounding boats and the shore refract off the wavy surface of the water, creating shifting patterns I wish I could paint. Each breath is scented with the taste of the sea and the smell of cooking food. I lean back on my palms and glance up at the stars, closing my eyes for a minute.
A warm arm brushes mine. I startle, eyes flying open and drink nearly toppling.
“Sorry.” The sound of his voice—deep, masculine, and smooth—sends shivers up my spine. My stomach clenches, looking over and seeing him sitting next to me, smelling like salt and seaweed. “Here.” Liam tosses a small box into my lap.
“What is it?” I squint at the box, trying to read the letters in the dim light.
“The lady at the store said they would help with the seasickness.”
I wait for him to say more, provide some explanation on why he did somethingnicefor me, but he doesn’t. Liam just leans back on his palms and watches the shore, mirroring me.
“You got me seasickness bands?”
“Uh-huh.”
“You really didn’t need to do that.” I’m off-kilter and uncomfortable. I’m not used to people taking care of me or being thoughtful. Needing people and accepting help from people are two foreign concepts to me.
“It wasn’t a big deal. They had a big display of them by the cash register. Evidently, you aren’t the first tourist to visit with a weak stomach.”
“I don’t have a weak stomach. I did the whole fetal pig dissection in biology. Jeremy Rinner contributed nothing.”
“We did cats at Glenmont High. Sarah Martin wasn’t much help either.”
I unbox the bands and slip them on. My stomach feels better, but I think that’s more due to the distraction from the guy beside me than anything else. “Sounds like we would have made good partners.”
The corner of his mouth I can see climbs up into a curve. “I’d prefer to partner with you on something that doesn’t involve a dead animal.”
Like what?is on the tip of my tongue. But I swallow the question—because I’m not sure I want to know the answer.
“Thank you,” I say instead.
The acknowledgment feels heavy and clunky on my tongue. Unfamiliar. I don’t thank people often—or sincerely.
I’m expecting a smirk or a gloat. Some mention of the rivalry and how unlikely me genuinely thanking him is. Instead, Liam’s only response is a barely perceptible nod and an unrelated comment. “This band sounds like a group I like—Caamp.”
“Yeah, this song reminds me of ‘Misty.’”
He glances over, surprise sketched on his face. “You know their music?”
“You were playing them in the car.”
Liam exhales some combination of a laugh and a scoff. “Interesting. I figured you mostly listened to pop ballads.”
“Have you spent a lot of time trying to figure out my taste in music?”
“I’ve spent too much time thinking about you, period.”
It’s more honesty that I’m expecting. It sparks some of my own.
“Yeah. I think I know the feeling.”
We sit and listen to the whole concert together.
It’s the best night I’ve had in a long time.
There’s a fizzy, giddy feeling in my stomach like bubbles of champagne.
And I tell myself it has nothing to do with the guy sitting next to me.
