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Josie doesn’t say anything.
“I should go,” I say.
“Wait,” she says. “I want to be there for you. If you need me. Want me to head to your room now?”
“No,” I say, suddenly very, very tired. “I just need to be alone right now and figure this one out on my own.”
She doesn’t ask the question hanging over us like a giant boulder ready to fall. How?
“Bye, Josie,” I say. “Thanks for checking in.”
“Wyn,” she says, “let’s talk about this. Why don’t I head to your room and we can—”
“I can’t,” I say simply. “Not yet. Bye.”
And then I hang up, lie back down, and hope for more sleep.
At least some wishes come true...
By the time I finally wake up, it’s night out, nine PM.
My phone has a message from Emerson—How are you?—that I don’t answer.
I feel like I could still sleep some more, but right now, between weariness and hunger, my growling stomach wins out.
I head to the buffet amid blah-faced hotel guests whose moods finally seem to match mine. I pick over whatever’s still left in the metal pans, some mashed-up hash browns, a dubiously-crisped piece of bacon.
On my way back, I can’t help it. I stop by Josie’s room, but she’s not in. Then, I stop by his room.
He opens the door. When he sees me, his face can’t decide whether to be happy or guarded. He knows something is up. “Hey.”
“Hey,” I say.
“You feeling better?”
“Mostly. Sorry I was so grumpy before.”
He shrugs. “No worries. You should see Nolan when he has a cold.” He shudders.
I chuckle. “That bad?”
Emerson’s grinning and grimacing at the same time. “Worse. He’ll cocoon himself in so many blankets that he looks like a sumo wrestler, then moan and whine for chicken noodle soup and whiskey every five minutes.”
“Whiskey?” I ask.
Emerson, still chuckling, just shrugs. “Jax, his best friend, is part Irish and swears by it for knocking out any sickness. Though I think it just plain knocks you out.”
I chuckle. “Sounds about right.”
Emerson’s gaze dips to my plate and its pathetic contents. “The selection at the buffet’s that bad?”
“Worse,” I say. “I’m pretty sure I saw two kids fighting over a slice of rotten cantaloupe.”
“Damn,” he says, scowling and taking my plate. “You shouldn’t be eating this. Especially if you’ve been feeling sick. Let me take you out.”
“I don’t know...”
“Why not?” he asks.
“I...” I trail off.
Why not? Because I’m worried I’ll get too close to you again and blurt out everything before I’m ready.
“All right,” I say instead. “But I’m changing first. Give me ten minutes.”
Back in my room, luckily, the sickness is mostly gone. Maybe because it’s been replaced by a different, deeper sort of sickness.
That of a ticking clock that will eventually have to stop. A secret with a time limit.
Minutes after I’m ready and dressed in a knee-length dress that is neither fancy nor casual, I stare at my reflection.
Well, you should tell him. Maybe this wouldn’t mess things up how you think.
Who knows? Josie could be right.
Thing is, it would change things. It couldn’t not.
And I don’t want them to be changed, not yet.
Right now, things are still a bit scary and a lot new. But low pressure. We aren’t around friends or family. In a way, we aren’t even in the real world.
We’re in this tropical bubble where the temperature is as warm and easy as we are.
Breaking the news to Emerson... would be like jumping out of paradise. And that’s something I’m not willing to do.
Not yet, at least.
I meet Emerson at the lobby steps, as agreed. We take one look at each other, then another outside.
I’ve been so involved with my thoughts and the shit-I’m-pregnant thing that I hadn’t even noticed.
It’s pouring out.
Rain.
Big, cold gobs of it that I know from experience hit you like a kamikaze bee. Mini-rivers of it rush down the sides of the roads.
Thunder crackles further off.
“Your choice,” Emerson says, gesturing into the deluge. “The place is close enough to walk. I’d rather taxi, but up to you.”
“Is that a joke?” I say, holding out a bare arm hesitantly as the droplets splatter down. “Taxi, of course.”
“Atta girl,” Emerson says.
He manages to wrap his arms around me and wave down a taxi that’s been idling around the hotel’s entry roundabout at the same time.
As we step inside, I take another glance at the storm and shudder.
“What if I had said walk?” I ask Emerson once we’re inside the scratchy-seat taxi.
He squeezes my hand, making a face. “Guess I would’ve grinned and borne it. And run like hell.”
“I’m not very fast,” I say with a chuckle.
He steals a kiss. “Then I would’ve picked you up.”
With our faces so close like this, I can see all the details you normally wouldn’t. The stray freckle near the corner of his right eye. The lightest of smile marks on his jawline. A small sandy patch of quarter-inch-long hairs just under his chin that he must’ve missed when shaving.
