Chapter 8
ABBY
Kissing does not usually scare me, but last night I thought about kissing Miles, and that scares me.
It was inevitable, really. I saw him at the beach party last night and he looked so handsome in his linen-looking top and shorts that showed off enough of his thighs to make me clench my own.
I couldn’t help but go talk to him, and from there it was a slippery slope.
The talking, the flirting—and then there was dancing, and even though the alcohol had worn off, the adrenaline had not.
And he was standing so close and he smelled like sweat and vanilla and those warm spices he always smells like and my body was screaming at me to for god’s sake smash my mouth against his and just get it over with.
But good sense caught me at the right time, and I used what little self-restraint I had to get my ass out of there and back to my room, straight to the shower, where I relieved all that pent-up sexual tension myself.
Maybe next time I should…take care of myself before seeing Miles so I don’t have this problem.
I shift in my seat, directing my thoughts elsewhere. I’m on a bus full of people on the way to the stingray swim excursion and don’t need to be thinking about Miles or taking care of myself right now. Even if I am sitting by myself.
I lean against the cool glass of the window, watching the world pass by.
It hasn’t been so bad flying solo, not as bad as I thought it would be.
While there are a ton of couples everywhere at the resort, there are also a lot of groups of friends, and I think there’s at least one group of senior citizens.
I’ve enjoyed my solitude, or what I’ve had of it when Miles isn’t around, but boarding the bus this morning for the stingray excursion was the first time since my first day that I really felt out of place and wished I’d had a companion with me.
This was supposed to be my honeymoon, after all, and sitting by myself on the bus where most of the seats were filled with couples was more of a punch in the chest than I expected it to be.
I’ve been trying to nap, but my mind is circling, thinking about last night.
And not just how tempted I was to kiss him, but also about how easy it was to talk to him.
He’s fun and he makes me laugh and blush, yet it’s more than that.
I didn’t even think twice about telling him about the graphic design program.
It feels safe to want things with Miles, because it was in college.
He never made me feel silly or small for dreaming.
I think that’s why it felt easy to open up to him.
It’s not that Hazel has made me feel small or weird about anything, of course, and if I told her, I know she’d be super supportive.
But telling Hazel feels so real, and being here in Cabo, removed from my actual life, it doesn’t feel real here.
And Miles isn’t part of my real life back at home.
I might as well have whispered my secret into a shell and thrown it into the ocean.
I’m not going to leave here with the pressure to decide from Miles, but I know Hazel would ask about it every time we talked.
And I’m just…not ready for that yet. Especially if it isn’t real.
I’m no closer to deciding and I don’t even think I’m any closer to relaxing. But maybe an encounter with wildlife will do the trick. I’ll try anything at this point and a swim with sea creatures is first up.
We reach our stop and the excursion director shuffles us off the bus and onto a wood dock where a boat waits for us.
The tour boat is white, with one deck that looks like it will just about seat everyone in our group.
There’s a canopy over the seating area to shade us from the brutal June sun, and a covered area in the front that must be for the captain.
The boat wobbles as we load up, the captain and the excursion director helping us climb from the dock into the boat.
Our modest-sized group settles in on the benches along the edges of the vessel.
Once we’re all in place, life vests secured, we’re shuttled out to what feels like the middle of the ocean, but there are no big waves.
The water is calm here, slapping against the boat rhythmically as the captain anchors us near a few other tour boats, groups of people already scattered around the area where the stingrays are.
Gasps of delight and squeals of surprise come from all around.
Ooohs and aaahs resound as people reach out to touch the sea creatures.
The water glows in the most beautiful shades of blue and turquoise, and it’s clear enough that when I lean over the side of the boat, the sandy bottom and stingrays are plenty visible, gliding through the water, their fin-wings rippling like they’re underwater birds.
I’m so mesmerized by the stingrays and how beautiful this area is that I don’t realize the excursion director is talking to us until the boat has started to rock and I look up to find people standing and starting to climb down the small ladder attached to the end of the boat.
Oh god, I hope I didn’t miss any instructions.
It looks like I’ll be one of the last people off the boat, and I secretly hope everyone offloads as slowly as possible.
I pay attention as everyone descends the ladder, trying to pick up on any behavior or mannerisms that might hint at the director’s instructions, but nothing really gives anything away.
I do realize that everyone has shucked their life vests, so I do the same, leaving it on the seat before shuffling toward the ladder.
I wasn’t nervous on the bus or the boat ride here, but now I’m worried I missed some vital information. What if I get hurt because I was so enraptured by the pretty blue water?
Oh god, Abby. Way to go.
Once it’s my turn, I descend the ladder slowly, looking out for any stingrays, but when I don’t see them, I let my feet touch the sandy ocean floor.
I huddle close to the boat, trying to avoid the sea creatures I’m here for, feeling silly and out of my element.
“I was told they don’t bite,” a voice to my left says.
An older gentleman, easily in his late seventies, maybe even early eighties, also huddles close to the boat.
He’s wearing a long-sleeve rash guard and purple swim shorts, and his crumpled-paper skin is tan, like maybe he’s been at the resort and hanging out in the sun for a few days already.
My skin is more sun-kissed than it was four days ago, but I was pretty pale before, so it doesn’t take much.
“They do sting, though. RIP Steve Irwin.”
“Oh, I loved him. He had the first Australian accent I’d ever heard,” the man says.
“I’m Abby,” I say and hold out a hand.
“Walter,” he says, a wide, friendly smile stretching over his face.
Neither of us moves from our stingray-less spot despite the ticking clock on our excursion.
It’s just as hot here as it is at the resort, but the water makes everything feel a bit cooler, a bit more bearable to stand out here in the sun.
The sky is clear, not a cloud in sight, and the air is thick and salty.
Except for the occasional squeal of laughter, most of the sound is absorbed into the vast, open space, and given the number of people, it isn’t too loud.
“Did you get dragged here by someone else?” I ask.
“No, no, I chose this of my own free will,” he says around a laugh.
“Me too.”
“The idea of it seemed so exotic, but in practice, I’m not sure how I feel about petting a sea creature that could end my life. I’m too young to die,” says Walter. He gives me a sneaky smile and winks.
“Maybe they’ve been de-barbed. Or they’re not the dangerous kind of stingrays.”
“Are there more than one kind?” He sounds shocked and curious, and it elicits a laugh from me.
“I think so, but marine life is not my specialty. I bet one of them would know.”
I point to an excursion guide not too far from us, one of the handful of people in a blue shirt talking to some of the guests.
“Oh, I’m not going to go out and ask them anything. What if I get stung on my way out there?” Walter says.
“A very valid point. It’s probably best if we spend our two hours standing right next to the boat.”
“I quite like the sound of that.”
A few seconds of silence pass, and it’s less awkward than I expected it to be. Like Walter and I are old friends and we don’t need words to fill the conversational space.
“Don’t you have some friends to meet? Maybe a new husband?” Walter asks.
“Actually, it’s just me. Solo vacation.”
“Great minds,” Walter says, tapping his temple.
“Do you always travel alone?”
“This is my first time traveling.”
“Like…to Mexico? Or to a resort?”
“No, no, I mean I spent my whole life living in the same small town and I had never been on an airplane before last week when I flew here.”
I let my jaw hang slack. “I have so many questions,” I say.
Walter chuckles, and it reminds me so much of my own grandfather that a pressure behind my eyes forms, threatening tears. He died a couple of years ago, and talking to Walter is making me realize that I’ve missed him maybe more than I realized.
“Well, I’ve got two hours, so ask away.”
“Actually…I have to confess, Walter. I…I missed the instructions the person on the boat gave us. Did they say anything that might…be important?”
“Well, she told us to do the stingray shuffle, you know, just sliding your feet along the sand. And she said to avoid their tails, but I think you and I knew that one already.” He winks again. “And she said to be gentle.”
“Can we tell the stingrays to be gentle with us?”
Walter throws his head back with a booming laugh, not seeming to care that people are staring. Someone rolls their eyes at him.
I want that kind of confidence.