Chapter 8 #3
“I thought you said they were harmless!”
She winks.
“Just messing with you. But you know, bravery isn’t being unafraid.
It’s training yourself to take that fear in your gut and use it as motivation.
To turn off the lizard brain that tells you you can’t.
I’ve been surfing Cloudbreak for fifteen years, and each time the breakers roll in, I still feel that old shake starting in my gut.
But I decided a long time ago I wouldn’t let my fear do the choosing for me. ”
“You surf Cloudbreak?” I ask incredulously, taking in her diminutive form.
Maybe she’s right. But this woman is a total badass. For all I know she was born bombing thirty-foot waves and slow-dancing with sharks.
“I’m Stella, by the way,” I introduce myself.
“Joanna. It’s a pleasure.”
“How do you know so much about sharks, Joanna?” I ask her, ringing my hair out on the deck beside me.
“It’s part of my job! I help run the Fijian Marine Conservation Center.”
“No way!” I practically shout. “Are you a marine biologist?”
When Jules was younger, all she could talk about was becoming a dolphin researcher.
But that dream died when all the money our dad saved up for our college education went into paying his medical bills instead.
Considering her fear of sharks and her complete inability to swim, maybe that wasn’t all for the worst.
“Not exactly,” Joanna answers. “I’m spearheading a program to get local communities involved in coral restoration off Narara Island.”
“Narara,” I try, and probably fail, to pronounce. “Is that—“
“Tiny? Secluded? Absolutely crawling with sea snakes?” she asks. “Yes, it is. But it’s paradise. It’s up in the Yasawas—a few days’ sail. I’m just here on a surf and supply run.”
She nods to a skinny man untying lines in a small blue boat a few yards away. It’s loaded with several surfboards and has the letters FMCC painted on the side.
“Is it your first time visiting the islands?” she asks.
I nod.
“I’m on a boat trip with my sister.”
“Sounds wonderful! If you’re heading our direction, you should come visit us! We’re no Marriot, but I’d be more than happy to show you around the center. Maybe even take you for a dive!”
“That would be amazing!”
I don’t tell her how unlikely it is to happen—I haven’t been here long, but the chances of the Warrens adding a marine conservation station to our jam-packed itinerary of drinking and gift shopping seem pretty slim.
The skinny man in the blue boat whistles, and Joanna hops up like an acrobat.
“Ah, that’s my cue,” she says. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Stella.”
“Likewise,” I tell her say, wishing she could stay longer. There’s so much more I want to know about her work. “Seriously, I can’t thank you enough.”
The panga pulls up a few feet away, and she hops in, smiling.
“Sota tale, Stella!” Joanna says as she climbs in between the surfboards. “And remember, you’re smarter than a lizard!”
It doesn’t take long for me to find Matthew after Joanna leaves.
He’s posted up on a set of loungers surrounded by a characteristically attractive group of girls who look like they’re barely pushing twenty-three.
Steven looks on apathetically from the corner as Matthew pours a steady stream of dark liquid straight from the bottle into the open mouth of a barbie-blonde in a white bikini and matching Bridin’ Dirty sash.
“There you are,” Steven smiles as soon as he sees me. “Matthew made some friends.”
“I can see that.”
The bride pulls back, but Matthew keeps pouring until her entire chest and stomach are splashed with dark, sticky rum. She and her gaggle burst into near hysterics.
Here we go.
“Stella,” Matthew says. He points to the blonde and her nearly indistinguishable, spray-tan addict friends. “This is Helen, Rita, and Liz. They’re from Sydney.”
“Hi Stella,” Rita or Liz greets me, beaming her unnaturally white teeth. “Want a shot?”
“No thanks,” I tell her. “Not really a shot girl.”
“Me neither,” Helen slurs as she wipes alcohol off her chest. “Wanna colada? They’re soooo yummy.”
“Doubt it,” Matthew smirks, and it sounds very much like a challenge. “Something tells me Professor Olsen is very much on the wagon.”
Matthew may be an ass, but he’s not entirely wrong. I don’t even remember the last time I had a drink that didn’t accompany a two-hour cry sesh. Maybe, just maybe, it won’t kill me to actually let my guard down and enjoy myself.
That, and there’s no way I’m going to let him have the last word.
“Screw it,” I announce. “I will have a colada.”
Matthew’s eyebrows look like they’re about to jump off his forehead. His lazy grin turns into a full smile.
“One Pina Colada, coming right up.”
Matthew passes me a foot-tall cocktail with a pineapple wedge and colorful umbrella perched inside. But before I can reach out to get it, he dumps one of the rum shots on top.
“Tastes better with a float,” he winks. “Cheers.”
Three ridiculously strong drinks and a table dance with Helen later, I’m starting to realize why Matthew likes these so much.
“I love this song!” I scream to my new bff as the DJ starts up a remix of Shania Twain’s Man, I Feel Like a Woman.
She leans towards me, mascara covering her lower lids like a panda from the swim I took with her a few minutes ago.
If you think waiting drunk in a bathroom line creates the ultimate girl bond, try chicken fighting on a floating trampoline in the South Pacific.
“What?” she screams.
“I said,” I lean forward and feel my bare foot slip on the slick wood. I reach out to catch something, but Helen jumps out of the way and I find myself falling into something hard behind me. It’s not the floor. Two hands grab my shoulders and lift me to the ground.
“Hey!”
“Ok, cowgirl,” my rescuer interrupts me. “That’s enough head banging for you.”
I turn around at the sound of the familiar accent and find myself eyes to chin with none other than Captain Crankypants. I glare at him.
“What are you doing here?”
“The Warrens are all waiting for you in the tender. Unless you’d like to go home with these upstanding citizens.”
I look over to the lounges to see Rita and Liz taking bodyshots off one of the beer-bellied men from the table next to us. But Matthew and Steven are gone. They left me here? Worse, they sent my mortal enemy up to collect me like an escaped sheep?
“Let go of me,” I tell him, grabbing my sea water-soaked t-shirt and marching towards the exit. This is definitely not what I needed to prove to Caleb I’m not a wreck. It takes all my concentrated effort not to faceplant on the uneven boards.
“Whatever you say,” he groans.
“There she is!” Harry calls out as we reach the tender.
He’s wearing a brand-new Cloud Nine hat to cover his sunburnt forehead.
I’m about to step down to join him when Caleb shoves himself in front of me, blocking my way until he’s already down the ladder.
He offers me his hand to help me in, but I smack it away, refusing to accept help from the man who, just a few hours ago, suggested throwing me overboard.
Instead, I try to climb onto the rollicking dinghy myself.
“Stella, be—“ Jules starts. But I barely make it to the last step before I lose my balance and catapult straight into Caleb’s hard body.
“Shit,” I groan into the fabric of his shirt, cringing as my cheek smooshes into his armpit.
I try to breathe through my mouth, expecting him to smell like brimstone and virgin’s blood and whatever other odors might suit a villain of his caliber, but I catch a whiff of something intoxicating instead.
He smells like driftwood and salt and a hint of mountain pine.
Caleb tilts me upright and I peel my face off his uniform. He gives me a disgusted look, like I’ve just thrown up on his shoes. Which, to be fair, I might soon if I don’t get back to the Vela Bianca.
“Watch your step.”
I let go of Caleb’s arm as quickly as possible and throw myself down onto the seat beside my sister. He says “watch your step,” the way someone might say “watch your back,” or, “My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.”
I glare at him as he starts up the jet to steer us back to the ship. If his goal is to prove to the Warrens what a moron I am and get me sent home, he’s doing a bang-up job. I can practically see the scoreboard flickering behind my drooping eyelids.
Caleb: 3. Stella: 0.