Chapter 6
Charlie
In reality, she’s transferring frozen food from the baking sheet to a plate, but I don’t comment on her idea of cooking as long as she shares.
The song’s bass rattles the wall, and I’m sure we’ll have a passive-aggressive note on our door for the sound, but the walls are thin. If I have to listen to my neighbors rock the bed every night, then they can listen to our perfectly curated playlist of pump-up jams.
“At least forty pairs of underwear,” Amy yells, and I rush to my dresser and dump my bucket of granny panties into the large duffel bag on my floor. “What if you shit yourself a bunch?”
Fuck, so true .
The possibility that I become incontinent and soil myself isn’t zero, thus all the underwear is coming with me.
It took two hours to recover from the shock of my meeting with Cheryl, Dan, and Mateo. I’m not sure I’m fully convinced any of this is happening. If it weren’t for the contracts I signed and the plane ticket on my phone, I wouldn’t believe it at all.
Three weeks on the SeaStar vessel is a dream come true.
State-of-the-art research facilities, two remotely operated vehicles, submarines, and complete access to their labs.
The only downside to the whole thing is that Mateo’s involved, but even that disappointing fact isn’t enough to squander my joy.
The last forty-eight hours since the meeting have zipped by in a blur, and now I’m panic packing only an hour before Mateo picks me up to head to the airport.
I shove a few pairs of pajamas into a packing cube, followed by a handful of tops and long pants for the days we’re in the lab. With one swoop, I slide the crystals off my dresser and into a small pouch, then toss it into the duffel bag.
Amy bounds into the room, a platter of taquitos and chicken nuggets in her grasp.
“Eat,” she demands, dropping the plate between us. “Airport food is expensive.”
I snatch a T-Rex dinosaur nugget and pop it into my mouth as I continue to shove what I need into the duffel. Deciding to pack the morning I leave was a poor choice. I have no idea what I need to survive as an ocean explorer.
“Are you excited?” Amy asks, chomping on a taquito.
“If I think about it for too long, I get light-headed.”
What I’m not thrilled about is the flight to get to California. I’ve never enjoyed flying, and after my accident, I’ve avoided it at all costs. Instead of flying home for the holidays, I take the train from Rhode Island to Philadelphia, even though it takes hours longer.
Airports teem with people, and people love to stare, and no matter how many times someone tells me turbulence isn’t a big deal, I still get nervous .
I’m packing up the last of my toiletries, including my trusty vibrator—three weeks at sea is a long time for manual mode—when Amy extends a tote bag.
“This is for you.”
I dump the contents onto the bed, and tears threaten to fall. A box of lemon sugar protein bars. Chocolate. The balm that helps when my joints ache. Another pouch full of crystals. Three different alien romances that Amy swears are the best books ever written.
“It’s an at-sea survival kit. It has everything you could ever need.”
I crawl beside her and throw my arms around her neck, forcing back my tears. If I cry, I’ll flush, which is the last thing I need when I’m seeing Mateo so soon.
“I’m going to miss you,” I admit.
This is the longest time we’ll have spent apart since I went home for Christmas last year. Even though I love my parents—and wouldn’t be here without them—it was the most boring two weeks of my life, and I learned that Amy and I have separation anxiety from each other.
“You’re gonna have the experience of a lifetime, and I’ll be right here when you get back, ready to hear all about it.” Tears brim on her bottom lashes. “Don’t kill Mateo while you’re there. Orange is not your color.”
Flight attendants pass along the aisles, checking seat belts and chatting with passengers to prepare for take-off. My knee bounces as I buckle up, pulling the strap as tight as possible while I can still breathe .
I’m not a great flier, preferring to keep my feet on solid ground, and sitting in a tin can in the sky is a torturous form of immersion therapy. Sitting in any moving vehicle for prolonged periods sets me on edge, but airplanes are the worst.
I figured cars would be my big issue, considering I was nearly smashed while driving, but when I was released from the hospital, my father forced me into the passenger seat of his car.
It took us an hour to drive five miles. He drove slowly, and my mom fed me chocolate the whole time while asking obscure questions about the ocean to keep my brain occupied.
If it weren’t for them, it might have taken months to get into a car, let alone drive one.
Planes are a different beast, and the sky adds a greater terror: the plummet back to earth.
The aircraft jerks forward, beginning to taxi, and my nails dig into the plastic armrest. Shallow, uneven breaths fill my lungs as I focus on the safety briefing and catalog the emergency exits.
Flight attendants find their seats for take-off, and the plane rattles as it picks up speed.
Mateo sits quietly beside me, unfazed by the concerning sounds.
We lurch from the ground and into the sky, and my arms flail outward, swatting him in the chest, before I scramble to find his hand and clutch it.
The need for human contact—for comfort I rarely ask for—outweighs every reason to ignore Mateo, which was my original plan when we arrived at the airport.
My fingers tremble as I squeeze his hand like I’m making orange juice.
He pulls out his phone, pausing whatever he’s listening to, and clasps my hand between both of his.
“Are you okay?”
It’s probably a rhetorical question, given the nervous sweat dotting my brow and the impending anxiety attack looming, but I shake my head. We gain altitude and my ears pop, adding to my discomfort.
“I-I don’t like flying,” I admit, the confession sour on my tongue.
“It’s completely safe,” he assures me, “even if there’s turbulence—” He pauses when he clocks my terror. “You’re right. Not helping.”
Nausea rolls in my gut as Mateo peels his hand out of my death grip. I can add embarrassment to the slew of emotions banging around my chest, right beside undiluted fear, and my stomach swirls with physical and emotional discomfort.
I’m not a fan of others witnessing my weaker moments, and this one right here, while occurring thirty thousand feet in the air, is very close to rock bottom.
He’s supposed to view me as the one woman he can never seem to beat. The incredible, witty scientist with a brilliant mind. Not a fully grown woman who is terrified of flying.
Somewhere toward the back of the plane, a child screams—a loud, sharp pleading sound.
I’m right there with you, buddy. The heat from Mateo’s touch lingers against my palm, and although it’s horrifying to admit, I miss the fit of his fingers between mine.
It’s not his job to offer me comfort. We are not that person for each other.
The barrier between us vanishes as he lifts the armrest and, without warning, pulls me against his side. His skin is warm, a balm to my anxiety, and it wards away the chill of the aircraft. If I weren’t mortified, I might admit how nice it feels to accept the comfort offered by another person.
In one smooth movement, Mateo interlaces our fingers and rests our hands on the hard muscle of his thigh. My pulse beats erratically as I study the sharp bridge of his nose, the soft flush of his cheekbones, the subtle smirk perpetually curving his lips, and the barely there dimples on each cheek .
He’s a complicated mathematical equation I can’t solve. For every teasing comment or sharp retort, he offers a moment of unexpected gentleness. Right when I believe I’ve solved the problem, the equation changes—our relationship morphs—and I’m back to staring at the chalkboard.
Though he calls me “bruja” and teases me for my messy desk and collection of bobbles, he continually checks in on me with a concern that feels genuine. He has no obligation to ask how I’m doing or offer his help, yet he does so freely.
And I don’t know how to answer the simple question: why?
“Here.” He offers an earbud, and I slide it in, ready to drown out my muddled thoughts with whatever music Mateo listens to, but instead, I’m greeted by a woman with a crisp English accent describing a…ship?
“What is this?” I ask, trying to concentrate on the words for context. The narrator of what I assume is an audiobook describes the linens of a bed and how rough they feel against the supple flesh of her thighs.
What the hell is Mateo listening to, and why the fuck is my stomach tingling?
“Historical romance,” he says, his voice rough around the edges.
The answer surprises me, but it’s outdone by the words spoken in my ear.
“Dominic’s member twitched beneath his britches, and though Elora was inexperienced in lovemaking, he made her feel alive, offering a deep pulsing between her thighs she’d never felt before.”
The earbud is ripped from my ear as Elora dives into how his velvety member feels between her thin fingers.
“I didn’t know it was explicit, ” Mateo shrieks, his cheeks flushed and palm sweaty against mine.
His flustered appearance helps dissipate my anxiety, and a small laugh tumbles out when he swats at my hand as I try to snatch the earbud .
“Give it back,” I demand, stretching over him to reach his far hand. “It was getting good.”
“The book is horrible.”
“One man’s trash is this woman’s treasure. I need to know how Elora feels about his throbbing velvety member.”
The woman in the row across from us chokes, and Mateo’s face deepens to a shade of lobster red.
Before I can further convince him I’ll riot if I can’t listen to the audio, the plane jostles, jerking through turbulence, and I yelp while my heart skips a beat. The seat belt sign sings the tune to our impending demise, and the flight attendants scatter to their seats.