Uncharted Territory

17. Emma

17

Emma

T he ocean breeze blows tendrils of hair loose from my braid, tickling my face. The water cools my feet while the sun warms my shoulders. The waves ebb and flow beneath my surfboard, carrying me a little closer to shore each time.

It’s exactly what I needed. Exactly what I was hoping for. Proof that there’s a big, wide world out there where I don’t have to think about bridesmaid dresses or job applications or student loans or Garrett North.

Of course, I’m not completely free of him. He looms in my periphery, way out in the distance. Occasionally, he pops up and lets a wave carry him closer to shore then he paddles out again.

He’s good at this. I hate to admit it, but he’s good at all of this. The man was born to be outside riding waves, scaling mountains, and living off the land…whatever that entails. Murdering and skewering squirrels? Drying their tiny hides to turn into earmuffs?

Garrett has never mentioned hunting. In fact, we don’t even sell guns or hunting gear in our stores. I never gave it much thought until Frank started insisting that we adorn the stores in taxidermy. Animal carcasses, Garrett calls it instead. Apparently, he’s not a fan.

“That’s a big one,” Katie says, staring out in the distance.

I’m not sure if she’s talking about the wave or Garrett. I glance over my shoulder just in time to see him pop up and cut through the water.

The wistful look on Katie’s face tells me she’d rather be out there with him than over here bobbing around near the shore with us newbies.

“So, you two are cousins?” she asks me, peeling her gaze off from the distant dot that is Garrett.

“Mmhmm,” I hum like a liar.

“I guess that explains not wanting to share a bed.”

“Yeah, that would be awkward.” At least that part isn’t a lie.

Katie presses her lips together like she’s trying to decide whether or not to let the next words out. She glances over at Garrett then back at me.

“Is he single?” she finally asks.

He better be, considering what we did in my hotel room last night.

“Yeah, I think so,” I tell her.

“Do you think he might be, um, interested…in me?”

My stomach drops a notch.

“I don’t know,” I say. When Katie’s expression deflates, I force a smile and add, “Probably.”

Garrett probably would be interested in Katie, right? She’s beautiful and tall. She seems nice. Although, without any knowledge of Garrett’s previous conquests, I don’t know if ‘nice’ is really his thing. Maybe opposites attract, or maybe he prefers women who wandered off the same demonic plane as him. It’s hard to say.

All I know is that my stomach is clawing its way back up from that momentary freefall, and the contents of my lunch seem to be coming with it.

“Are you okay?” Katie asks, her tone switching instantly.

“I think I’m getting a little motion sickness from the waves.”

“That happens sometimes. I’ve got some pills for it in my cabin,” she offers. “I’ll paddle back with you.”

“No, it’s fine. I think I just need to lay down for a few minutes.”

“You sure?” she asks.

“Yeah, I’ll be fine after a cat nap.”

Katie’s brow crinkles with concern but she lets me go. Once I’m back on land, I hightail it back to the tent.

It’s not motion sickness. I’ve been on plenty of boats. My dad loves fishing, and I enjoy spending time on the lake with him. Fishing isn’t really my thing, but I like how peaceful and quiet the lake is at sunrise.

So no, it’s not motion sickness that’s making me feel this way.

It’s Garrett. It’s Katie. It’s last night. It’s everything.

As much as I want to enjoy this part of the trip, my mind keeps straying and robbing me of the chance to do so. One minute I’m enjoying the feel of the ocean breeze on my skin, the next I’m dreaming about Garrett’s touch instead. And all of a sudden, I’m strangely aware of my own lips. Did they always tingle like this? They didn’t, right? Maybe I’m just having an allergic reaction to my lip balm. It’s the same kind I’ve used all my life, but maybe they changed the ingredients. That’s probably it. My tingly lips have absolutely nothing to do with my boss.

This minor bout of nausea has nothing to do with the thought of him staying the night in Katie’s tent instead of mine. Ours. Whatever. He’s free to do whatever he wants, and I refuse to be jealous. There isn’t enough room for it in my heart, which is already tight and achy with hurt and confusion over last night.

Garrett rejected me.

Beg again.

This was a mistake.

My stomach churns. Nope, definitely not the waves.

Behind the glamping tent, there’s a fancy outhouse. It’s a sleek but small wooden building with a shabby chic sign that reads ‘La Toilette’ on the door. Inside, there’s a full-sized shower, a toilet that actually flushes, and of course, another chandelier.

More importantly, there’s a lock on the door. I can shut myself away, take a long, reasonably warm shower, and forget about everything else.

Twenty minutes later, I’m bathed, lotioned, and scurrying down the small path back to the tent wearing a plush white robe. Once I confirm that Garrett is nowhere in sight, I close the flap of the tent and quickly pull on some pajamas. The sheets are cool and crisp as I slide between them. I lay back against the stack of pillows and let the sound of the waves lull me to sleep.

A persistent buzzing sound stirs me back to consciousness. A mosquito…a bee…no, a phone. More precisely, it’s my phone rattling on the wooden dresser a few feet away.

I drag myself up and across the room slowly, feeling wobbly and off-kilter from sleeping so hard. My head swims, easing me back into wakefulness.

The tent is dimly lit with the last shreds of daylight. Everything is quiet, except for the rhythmic waves of the ocean and the buzz of my phone.

I make my way over to the dresser and pick up my phone. My eyes go wide and panic spikes in my chest when I see my sister Keri’s name next to eight new text messages. Keri never texts me. There must be some sort of emergency. My heart picks up a beat as I punch in my pin and pull up her messages.

The first one reads, Brianna 5’4” Size 4 .

Okay…

Pulling my brows together, I scroll down to the next message.

Kylie 5’5” Size XS but has 34DD boobs.

Um, no thank you?

What’s happening?

My groggy brain tries to make sense of the strange information. I scroll down to find five more female names, followed by random bits of information about their sizes and their boobs apparently.

One last text message comes in a second later: Mom told me to send this to you. Here’s the style and color I want… Two photos of drastically different bridesmaid dresses pop up on the screen. One is a champagne-colored satin dress with a flowy a-line skirt and draped neckline. The other is blush-colored with a sweetheart neckline and trumpet skirt.

Another message arrives: Can you finish them soon? I want to make sure I have time to look at other options if I don’t like how they turn out.

Finish them soon?! I never even agreed to make them! If Keri and my mom are hoping this barrage of useless information will change my mind, they’re dead wrong. Size XS? 34DD cups? One of them Keri simply describes as ‘shorter than me but probably about the same size.’ There’s not a single useful measurement in sight. And don’t even get me started on the two vastly different dresses that Keri seems to think are the same.

To top it all off, she wants me to spend all my time (and presumably all my own money) making these dresses that she might not even use if a better option presents itself?!

My blood boils in my veins. My fingers fly across the keyboard, inviting my sister to both shove her bridesmaid dresses up her ass and also suggesting that she discovers the softer side of Sears if she needs her bridesmaid dresses in such a hurry. Then I take a deep breath, delete the unsent message, and slam my phone down on the dresser instead. I’ll cool off and craft a more appropriate response later.

Footsteps creak across the wooden deck outside but stop short of entering the tent.

“Emma?” a deep voice calls from outside. “Can I come in?”

“Yeah, come in.”

“Everything alright?” Garrett asks, eyeing my phone on the dresser as he sets a brown paper bag down on the opposite side.

“Yeah, it’s fine.”

“Is Frank still bothering you?”

“No, it’s not him. It was just a text from my sister,” I blurt out.

I’ve never told Garrett anything about my family. He’s never asked. And apparently, he’s not going to start now.

He strides across the room, tossing his pack into a nearby chair and fishing his own phone out of the front pocket. He frowns down at the screen for a second before sliding the phone into his pocket. Opening the main compartment, he pulls out a new t-shirt and pair of dark gray sweatpants.

Every move he makes is fraught with an undercurrent of agitation. The message is loud and clear: he’s not happy to be here. He still wants to leave. Even though he seemed to enjoy surfing today, there’s no amount of joy in this world that will counteract the burden of having to share a tent with me.

“Are you going to sulk around like this for the rest of this trip?” I ask crossly.

Garrett glances over at me then turns his attention back to his bag, fishing out his toothbrush. “I’m not sulking, but I’m also not going to pretend to be thrilled about the situation you’ve gotten us into.”

“Believe me, I’m well aware that this situation sucks. I hate it just as much as you do, but it’s not my fault that they changed the reservation without telling me, so I don’t know why you’re being so pissy with me.”

“Well, join the club,” he throws back.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Garrett straightens up and takes a couple steps closer. All of his irritation is now focused squarely on me. He’s across the tent, nowhere near me, but I can still feel the heat emanating from him.

“It means that I’ve spent the last year wondering when you’re going to forget about what happened and move on. Instead, you’ve spent every day reminding me that I messed up for half a second when we met and that you’ll never forgive me for it.”

“Eleven months,” I correct.

“Seriously? We’re in the middle of an argument and you’re already trying to start another one? Who cares how many months it’s been?”

I do. Because in one more month, I can finally be done with all of this.

The fact that Garrett knows he messed up is news to me. Whether it’s good news or bad news is up for debate.

Am I being unreasonable for holding a grudge for this long just because he was disappointed that I wasn’t a swimsuit cover model? That’s what he’s talking about, right? I’m honestly surprised that he even remembers our first interaction.

Too much time passes without a response. Garrett gives up on waiting for one and blows out a long, weary breath. His hand moves to clasp the back of his neck, rubbing away the tension there.

When he speaks again, his voice carries less anger. “Look, I’ve avoided bringing this up because I thought it would only make things worse, but we’ve reached the point where I don’t think it can get any worse. If I apologize to you, do you think we can finally just move on?”

“Maybe,” I say hesitantly.

Do I want this to happen? Do I actually want an apology from Garrett? Emotions swirl around in my gut. A weird flourish of anticipation. A swooping sense of embarrassment. He can’t very well apologize without bringing the issue to the forefront. Please, please, please just don’t say the word fat. Not that overweight or chubby would be much better.

I almost cut him off, uncertain that we could ever bounce back from Garrett commenting on my weight, regardless of his word choice. Every self-affirming mantra that my therapist has equipped me with evaporates from my brain as I start to panic.

But it’s too late. Garrett is already opening his mouth to speak.

“Emma, I’m truly sorry for checking you out when we first met. As your boss, it was an asshole move.”

Wait. What?!?

“And I know you don’t want to talk about it,” he continues, “but I’m also sorry about what happened last night.”

The words hang between us. I’m still trying to arrange them all in a way that makes sense. That isn’t what I was expecting. Not at all.

The silence is heavy. Garrett’s expression slowly fades into concern. I can’t summon the strength to look directly at him, but I see it in the shift of his posture.

“Emma” he says after a minute.

“Is this a joke?” It’s all I can think of to say. As soon as the words leave my lips, I know they’re all wrong. But I can’t be expected to make sense when nothing else around me does.

“No,” Garrett says cautiously, drawing out the last letter. “Isn’t that what this whole thing’s been about? You’ve been angry with me for looking at you the way I did when we first met?”

Well, that’s…accurate. Just not in the way he thinks.

“I, um,” I stammer. I fidget, wholly unprepared for this conversation.

Garrett raises his eyebrows as if to let me know he’s still waiting for a reply and has no intention of dropping this.

“Yes, sort of,” I say slowly.

“Sort of?”

Nerves claw at my stomach, shredding my ability to form a coherent thought.

“I just got a different impression from our first meeting. That’s all.” I clamp my mouth shut before I say too much.

Part of me wishes that the ground would turn to quicksand and gobble me up. The other part is embarrassed to admit how happy I am that I was wrong. Granted, checking out your new assistant isn’t exactly the best look for a boss, but it’s better than the alternative.

Garrett is regarding me with a fierce curiosity from a few feet away. The plexiglass is down, laying shattered at our feet.

Drawing a deep, fortifying breath, I try to hide the shakiness in my voice when I speak. “I think there was a misunderstanding. Thank you for clearing it up...and for apologizing.”

I should apologize as well but stop short of offering one. After all, this isn’t just about the first time we met. It’s about every day since then. All the times that Garrett has been a total jerk. All the times he made me wonder what I did to earn his ire and wrath. All the times he’s made me feel unworthy of his time, even though he’s quite literally paying me for mine.

The words hang in the air around us. We both hold perfectly still, as if we might bump into them. It’s an unnatural stopping point for the conversation and we both know it.

Questions bubble up inside me at rapid speed. Has Garrett been attracted to me this whole time? Was last night more than some drunken fluke? What else have I been wrong about?

But asking those questions means leaving myself vulnerable to the ones Garrett might ask in return. Questions I’m not ready to answer.

My gaze drifts over to the small paper bag that Garrett set on the dresser. He follows my line of sight.

“It’s for you,” he says with a jut of his chin. “You missed dinner.”

I pick up the bag and look inside. There’s a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, a bag of chips, and a ginger ale. Underneath it all, a bottle of motion sickness pills. When I pull them out of the bag, Garrett tells me that Katie packed them.

“She said you weren’t feeling well. I came to check on you earlier, but you were sleeping,” he says.

“Oh,” I mutter faintly. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, no problem.”

Is this the most awkward conversation in the world? I can’t help but feel like I’m not really doing my share of the work. It’s so much to process and my hazy post-nap brain can’t make sense of it all. My stomach is also screaming at me ever since the smell of peanut butter hit my nostrils, begging to devour the sandwich in my hands.

My eyes flick down to Garrett’s wetsuit.

“You can have the tent if you want to change or get ready for bed. I’m just going to go outside and eat,” I say, motioning toward the exit.

Garrett nods but doesn’t say anything. He scrubs a hand over the scruff on his jaw and watches as I turn to leave.

I sit in the heap of pillows and eat my sandwich as it grows dark outside. The distant buzz of conversation wafts over from the beach. The final shreds of sunlight disappear in the distance. It’s just me and all my decorative lanterns now.

And Garrett.

I hear him moving around inside the tent. As I’m finishing off my last bite of sandwich, he appears in the doorway holding a gray toiletry bag and some clothes.

Our eyes meet but don’t linger. Garrett clears his throat.

“Gonna grab a shower,” he mumbles.

I nod in acknowledgement then watch him disappear around the side of the tent.

I’m not sure if the conversation we just had makes sharing a tent more or less awkward. I’m not sure about a lot of things right now.

While Garrett is showering, I crawl back in bed. A long nap was probably a bad idea since we need to be up bright and early for our surfing lesson tomorrow morning, but my groggy brain tells me it will have no problem going right back to sleep.

Once I’m situated, I remove the bra that I put on after my shower just in case Garrett stopped by the tent. Thank god for that. That wasn’t the sort of conversation I would like to have with my nipples on full display under my tank top.

Garrett returns to the tent a few minutes later dressed in a pair of dark gray sweatpants and a white t-shirt. His hair is damp and unruly on top of his head. His beard has officially made the transition to full mountain man. I can feel it tickling my lips as the scene from last night barges its way into my brain.

I sit up, but I don’t know why. It just feels weird to be laying down while my boss gets ready for bed. I tuck the fluffy white comforter under both arms and distract myself by cleaning a grain of sand out from under one fingernail.

Garrett unfurls the sleeping bag between the bed and the dresser. He drops to his knees and smooths out the corners as I watch. When he’s happy enough with the result, he sits back on his heels and glances up at the bed.

“Can you spare a pillow or are you bracing for some sort of meteor impact?” he asks.

I start to roll my eyes at Garrett, but when I lean forward to hand him a pillow, our eyes lock on each other.

“Thanks,” he says, slowly peeling his gaze away.

We both settle into our beds. I switch off the lamp and the tent goes black. It’s quiet except for the waves crashing in the distance.

That, and the sound sheets rustling.

And rustling.

And rustling.

First him then me. Him again.

I flip onto the opposite side.

The slippery nylon fabric of Garrett’s sleeping bag squeaks as he moves around in the dark.

It’s hard to say how much time passes. It feels like hours. Occasionally, Garrett draws a sharp breath as if he might say something, but the moment passes without a word. The sound of him unzipping his sleeping bag might as well be an explosion compared to our silence.

Eventually, I kick off my blanket as well.

“Emma,” Garrett says quietly into the dark.

A butterfly swoops through my stomach unannounced.

I hum back a noncommittal, “Hmm?”

“What did you think?”

“About what?” I ask, unable to conceal the nervous quake in my voice. I know what he’s asking.

“When we first met. You said you got the wrong impression.”

There’s a long pause – so long that I have to wonder if Garrett finally dozed off. Part of me hopes that he did as I release the truth into the darkness. “I thought you were disappointed.”

At first, it seems like my wish might have been granted. Garrett doesn’t answer. He doesn’t move. Then I hear his lips part followed by a long intake of air. My pulse quickens in my veins as I await his reply.

Garrett’s voice comes out lower and more gravelly than usual when he finally speaks.

“Never. Not even for a second.”