Chapter Thirty #2
I turned back to meet Cooper’s eyes. “I didn’t kiss Finn,” I said.
“Pretty sure you did.”
“It wasn’t what it looked like, is what I’m saying.”
“It looked like you and Finn smooching.”
But I shook my head. “He kissed me, but I didn’t kiss him back.”
“That feels like semantics.”
“But it’s really not.”
“What were you doing, if not kissing him back?”
“I was standing there, tolerating it, waiting for it to be over.”
Cooper considered that.
“I allowed myself to be kissed by Finn,” I specified. “But I knew I didn’t want that kiss even before it happened.”
“So why did you let it happen?” Cooper asked.
I shrugged. “I thought I needed closure.”
“And did you get it?”
How to explain it? “Even before I knew the truth about that kiss on the playground, even when I still thought everything had started because of Finn, that kiss he”—how to phrase it?—“conducted on me made one thing very clear.”
“What?”
“Finn doesn’t matter to me anymore.”
Cooper waited.
“I thought Finn was my unresolved issue,” I said. “But it turns out—it’s you.”
At that, Cooper closed the distance between us on the stairs. “JoJo, I need to tell you something.”
He was poised to say something big. That much was clear. The look on his face had that much intensity. He was about to say something that would change our lives.
But then I didn’t get a chance to hear it.
As soon as he reached me, we heard an impossibly loud, ship-clattering BOOM—like an explosion that seemed to rattle everything.
And then all the light in the stairwell disappeared.
By disappeared, I mean the stairwell turned so dark that I couldn’t see Cooper right in front of me. As the light went, so went the sound. That comforting, constant 24–7 hum and churn of the ship’s engines just went … quiet.
The world became dark and still.
Not good.
“Did we just blow an engine or something?” I asked.
“We just lost power,” Cooper said. “That’s pretty clear.”
“Shouldn’t some emergency lighting be kicking on right about now?” I asked.
“That would be nice,” Cooper said.
Other questions I could’ve asked: Was the ship about to sink? Did we have enough lifeboats? Were these the last remaining minutes of our lives?
Also: Was Cooper about to have a cleithrophobia problem?
First things first. We needed to get out of this stairwell.
I found myself really hoping that all the times Cooper had said “it’s mild,” he’d meant it.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, sensing my worry.
“Nothing,” I said, making my voice bright and smiley.
“Do you think the door we came in through is open?”
“It has to be open,” I declared. “Legally.” I had no idea.
Next, wishing for even the tiniest sliver of light, I said, “You don’t happen to have your phone, do you?”
“I left it in my banjo case.”
“We’ll just have to echolocate, then,” I said, overly cheery. “Grab the railing.”
I set an example by starting to climb.
I’d made it up exactly five steps when I sensed that Cooper wasn’t following.
“Cooper?” I asked, reversing steps until I was close to him again. “Are you okay?” I turned to feel for him, and my palm landed on his chest.
Some darkness gets brighter as your eyes adjust. But this was not that kind of darkness. He might as well have been invisible.
He was breathing a little fast. “I’m fine,” he said—voice tight.
“Are you having a cleithrophobia attack?” I asked, moving my hand up to his face—to what? Read him like braille?
“I’m not sure,” he said.
“Because this wouldn’t be great timing for that.”
“I agree.”
“Could you postpone it,” I suggested, “until after we get out of here?”
“I’m not sure that’s how that works,” Cooper said.
We were basically nose to nose.
And then I had an idea. “Cooper,” I said. “Do you need a distraction?”
“What?”
“You said it helps to have a distraction.”
He wasn’t quite sure where I was headed with this. “Sometimes, yeah.”
“Do you want me to distract you?”
“Not if you’re going to slap me across the face or something.”
But that wasn’t what I had in mind.
Instead, I said, “Don’t take this the wrong way. This is medicinal.”
And then I leaned into the darkness, pulled him toward me, found his mouth—and kissed him.
I went all in, too. My mouth led the way, but my body followed.
The second Cooper registered what I was doing, he kissed me right back.
His arms came up and tightened around me, and before I knew it, we were twined around each other like passionflower vines. I couldn’t see him, true—but I could definitely feel him. In every possible way.
Was this a good idea?
I had no clue.
But if distracting Cooper would help me get us both out of this stairwell, it seemed worth a shot. More important, if we all were about to die—maybe this wasn’t a bad way to spend a minute or two before the end.
But that’s when a loudspeaker crackled to life, and a voice filled the stairway and put an end to the smooching. “Passengers, this is your captain speaking.”
Cooper and I broke apart to listen.
The captain went on. “I’m sure you all just heard a rather loud noise and have no doubt noticed our sudden lack of power.
Please be assured the problem is a simple blown electrical transformer.
The ship is fine, and our backup generators should be up and running momentarily.
We appreciate your patience. Full power should be restored within the next hour. ”
“Do you think that’s true?” I asked.
“I think,” Cooper said, “that if there were a real problem, he’d have told us to go to lifeboat stations.”
I let out a sigh. “That makes sense.”
Next, the emergency stairwell lights flickered on at last—low and greenish, but on all the same.
Cooper and I took in the sight of each other for a second.
At that, it was time to go—before the distraction wore off. “Come on,” I said, turning and not just climbing, but—now that we had some light, in an effort to hurry up and get us out of there—more like jogging up the stairs.
The very steep stairs.
And Cooper followed.
“Sorry for kissing you just now,” I called back as we went.
“You’re sorry?” Cooper called up.
“I didn’t give you much warning.”
“I thought you were going to tell me to take a three-second breath.”
“No,” I said.
“I guess you had a different idea,” Cooper said.
“Very different,” I agreed. And then, out of curiosity: “Did it work?”
There was a nice long pause with just the sound of our feet clanking up the steps before Cooper said, “Like magic.”
“Well, then,” I said, “you’re welcome.”
We kept up our pace, turned on a landing, and started the next flight. We were almost home free. I could see the AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL door waiting for us up ahead. Getting out of here wouldn’t fix everything, but it would definitely take cleithrophobia problem off the list.
But that’s when Cooper decided to say something else.
We were still jogging up those tight stairs. He was right behind me. We were making good time.
And then, in what must have been the weirdest timing for a statement like this in all of human history, Cooper just said, behind me, mid–stair flight, “You don’t ever have to apologize for kissing me, JoJo.”
“No?” I said, just kind of making idle chitchat until we reached the door. “Why not?”
“Because…” Cooper said then, “I think I’m in love with you.”
WORDS ARE MORE powerful than they seem. Right?
They don’t have any weight or mass or heft. They’re just sounds in the air.
And yet.
The sound of those words stopped me short. My whole body just stopped moving—froze, right there, halfway up the ladder.
I stopped so fast that Cooper ran into me from behind.
At the impact, he lost his balance and missed his footing—and I heard an oof, then some clattering as Cooper half slid, half tumbled back down the stairs we’d just climbed and landed at the bottom.
The only sound I heard as I turned around was a string of curse words.
Down below, Cooper was clutching the stair rail like that was how he’d caught himself.
“Cooper!” I called. “I’m sorry!”
“I’m good,” he said, holding up a hand to wave me off like he didn’t need help.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said, but he kept himself crouched like maybe he was still deciding.
“Can I help you up?” I said, moving back down toward him.
“I’ve got it,” Cooper said. Then: “I do think we might need to find the infirmary, though.”
“The infirmary?” I asked. “Did you get hurt?”
“I’m fine…” Cooper insisted.
But as he got his feet under him and stood to start climbing again, I sucked in an involuntary gasp at the sight of his torso. His stone-colored linen vest was now blooming crimson with blood.
“You’re bleeding!” I announced—like he might not know.
Cooper looked down. “I’m fine,” he insisted again. Then he added, “But it looks like I just popped my stitches.”