Chapter 20 #2
I scan the space for Doug to pop out with his camera and to let me know this is some elaborate prank the two of them concocted to tease me about kissing him. The remaining tables are empty, not even a hotel employee. Jett fiddles with his straw.
Oh, god, he’s serious.
“You—You want to…kiss me?” I stumble over the question.
I’m short-circuiting.
If I thought kissing him last night was insanity, I was wrong. This is it.
He scrubs at the nape of his neck. “I don’t know what’s going on, but if you regret it and want to forget it ever happened, we can. But if you don’t…well, the offer’s on the table. Either way, I want you to know I’m not uncomfortable, you will not lose your job, and this stays between us.”
I need time to think—to plan. He sprang this whole thing on me when I should have been apologizing for mauling him with my mouth. I lost my wits somewhere between here and Los Angeles, and now I’m doing stupid shit like contemplating saying yes.
This is not who I am. I don’t do irresponsible things. I make calculated, thought-out choices.
Kissing Jett last night was not thought out. It was impulsive, reckless, foolish. So many things, but I still can’t say it’s a regret, which, on its own, is a massive problem.
The distinct laughter of our friends grows closer, and Jett straightens in his chair. Before he stands, I grab his hand. “I’ll think about it.”
His gaze lingers on the contact. I should tell him no. It’s a terrible idea, even if I want it more than I know.
A muscle in his cheek jumps, as if he’s biting back a smile. “There’s no right answer, just so you know.”
He walks away, and the truth rattles my bones. No matter the choice I make, he won’t hold it against me.
It would go against his nature, who he is as a person.
“Are you coming with us?” Charlie asks, braiding back her wet hair in preparation to dive again.
When I booked the overnight liveaboard—a boat docked on the Great Barrier Reef, where you can scuba dive multiple times a day—I did not include myself in those events.
This was my time to catch up on emails and other work that’s fallen behind because of the time difference and minimal access to service in some places.
While I still anticipate spending my time working, I’ve also scheduled pockets of time to obsess over Jett’s offer and the near compulsive need to agree, if only to kiss him again.
I shake my head. “Maybe next time.”
Unlike my friends, I don’t know how to dive. Even Amy, who I didn’t expect to possess the skill, has her certifications. They all went out for the first dive after their safety briefing, Doug and Molly included. I was happy for the time to decompress, to reorganize my thoughts a little.
I’m also hiding that I’m too afraid to snorkel on my own. I’ve only done it a few times in my life, and the waves are strong on the surface. What if I’m ripped out to sea or get water in my snorkel and drown?
It’s easier to keep my feet on the boat.
Charlie shrugs, heading out to the deck where the rest of the group is slipping on wetsuits and collecting camera gear. A pang of jealousy hits me when Oliver advises Molly to look beneath rock cliffs to find tropical rock lobsters.
I’m watching through the window that leads to the back deck when a droplet of salt water sizzles against my skin.
Jett hovers over me, his hands gripping the back of my chair. The knot in my diaphragm tightens, and with a flick of the wrist, he closes my laptop.
“You’re going to miss the dive,” I say, lifting my screen. He shuts it again. “What are you doing?”
“I’m not going with them.”
The feet of my chair drag against the carpet as he hauls me out from under the table. He’s rendered me speechless for the second time today, and when he pulls me up, I allow him the control, too stunned to formulate a coherent response.
“Are you wearing a swimsuit?” he asks.
He’s not wearing a shirt, and his swim trunks cling to his thighs. I’d prefer if he covered up. It would allow me to think much more clearly if there were a layer of fabric between me and the subtle outline of muscle spanning his thighs.
I don’t have an answer for him yet—at least not one I’ve thought through. The reckless lobe of my mind, as small as she may be, wants to agree, but I can’t do that without at least writing out a pro/con list.
“Sofía.”
My head snaps up. “I’m wearing a swimsuit,” I confirm.
“Good. Come with me.” He guides us up to the vessel’s second level and onto the back deck where the wetsuit and snorkeling gear I reserved live in a plastic bin. “We’re going snorkeling,” he declares, slipping into his personal wetsuit with efficiency.
Jett digs my rent-a-wetsuit out of my designated bin, and I stare at him while he unzips the back and crouches, holding one leg open. “Step in, I’ll help you get it on.”
I am not wearing that. What if someone peed in it? I heard Oliver confess to Charlie and Mateo that he peed in his wetsuit earlier. Over my dead, cold body will I wear a pee wetsuit, no matter how cute the pink accents are on the side.
“Someone peed in that,” I blurt out. “Not happening.”
He blinks and then releases a roar of laughter, falling flat on his ass. With red cheeks, he points behind me to a rack of wetsuits, all black and in various degrees of disarray. I look back at the fancy wetsuit in his grip. It looks brand new.
“Like I would ever make you wear a rental wetsuit,” he says. “Bought this one for you yesterday. Now, let’s get you in this so we can get into the water.”
My heart flip-flops like a fish on land, and I ignore the pulse of electricity that appears when I hold on to Jett’s shoulders for stability. It’s harder to squeeze into the form-fitting neoprene than I expect, and after some tugging and wiggling, he zips up the back.
With our masks, snorkels, and fins in his grip, he gives me a slow up-down. “Hot in a wetsuit,” he mutters. “Diabolical.”
I’m not sure what he means by that, but my cheeks heat all the same at the whispered compliment, and my heart races as we head to the platform to jump into the water. Once we’re down the steps and the waves crash against our shins, my throat dries with fear.
I scramble back, ready to run away and hide in my room, but Jett stops me, a gentle hand on the small of my back. “You’re fine,” he says, low and confident. “I’ve got you.”
He helps secure the mask and snorkel over my head, his hand a comforting weight on my bicep, and steadies me while I clumsily slip the fins over my heels. I look like a goddamn emperor penguin as I waddle to the edge of the platform, terror shaking my hands.
Jett’s far quicker than I am, his snorkeling gear ready to go before I’ve reached the edge. I have a white-knuckle grip on the railing when Jett offers me a playful smile. “Want to jump together?”
He extends his palm, and after a moment’s hesitation—because is holding his hand right now smart?—I lace my fingers through his. At the edge of the platform, he squeezes my palm.
“On three,” he declares, counting down. “Remember to hold your mask to your face.”
When he hits one, I step forward, crashing into the water beside him. I do not hold the mask to my face like he instructed, and the force of the impact pushes it up, water flooding into my lungs.
I hack, flailing to stay afloat and avoid an impending drowning. One strong hand grips my waist while the other readjusts my mask. The water recedes, and Jett wears an apologetic but I told you so look.
“You’re all right,” he says, the confident, soft declaration easing the panic.
He releases his hold on my waist and guides the snorkel to my mouth. I bite down on the rubber piece harder than what’s likely necessary, but I don’t want it to slip out.
“Take slow, deep breaths. I won’t let anything happen to you, I promise.”
What’s scary—more so than the waves, sharks, or potential for the boat to forget us on the reef—is that I believe those words. Even though I’m terrified of this unfamiliar situation, part of my brain knows I’m safe with him.
There’s no greater, more intimidating realization than this, especially when I can’t recall the last time I’ve felt this way around someone, romantic partner or otherwise.
I’ve always been the safety net for other people, learned to create what I’ve needed for myself, but there’s never been anyone else to build those safety walls for me.
“Don’t let go of my hand,” I demand.
His fingers slip through mine—a perfect fit. “Ready?”
I allow my legs to float upward, my head dipping below the surface. Air rushes through the snorkel, and after a few deep breaths, I offer Jett a tentative thumbs-up. He gives my hand a squeeze, and then we kick against the current.
The water is clear, and white sandy bottoms shift to massive, sprawling corals, connected and overlapping each other. It’s a masterpiece of color and movement, and Jett waves his hand in front of me, catching my attention. He points to the left, where our friends all hover deep below the surface.
Charlie taps on the tank, and heads snap to her. She points at us, and I offer her a small wave. Each one of them wave in response, a small chorus of metal taps against oxygen tanks sounding at our arrival. Jett shakas and then veers right, guiding us to the shallower parts of the reef.
The water is warm, heated by the sun, and I stop kicking, content for him to drag me around.
Soft corals in varying shades of pink and purple sway with the current and hard corals, some pointy and others flat like massive tables, make up the base of the reef’s structure.
Algae and anemones fill tiny pockets of space, and it’s the single most beautiful, otherworldly thing I’ve ever experienced.
Bright fish dart around us, some solitary, others forming massive schools.
My fear of the ocean fades with every kick.
No wonder Charlie and Mateo love it so much; it’s spectacular.