2. Chapter Two
Chapter Two
Finley
I bring up the rear of the line to board the tiny seaplane from Malé to our resort, and as Luna stands in front of me, I get a whiff of her familiar scent. The floral fragrance doesn’t overwhelm me the way a perfume or body spray might. It’s just her . How she can still smell like a bouquet after a day’s worth of travel makes zero sense.
“We’re so close,” Luna says to cheer up her sister-in-law. With Carmen early in her second trimester, three flights in one trip have taken a toll on her already weary body. Lou’s a sweetheart and rests a hand on Carmen’s elbow to steady her as she boards the seaplane.
The Moores have a way of caring for each other that I never had in my own home. Not even Aaron knows half the bullshit my brother has put me through and still does, so to have my best friend’s family treat me like one of their own is quite a gift.
Lou especially looks out for people. She makes their lives better in little and big ways, helps them get comfortable, and keeps them happy. As she clambers onto the seaplane, which rocks back and forth from measured waves in the aquamarine waters, I insert my hand into the space between her head and the entryway just in time. Her skull flattens my palm with a brief pulse of discomfort.
“Oh,” she says, ducking lower. She inspects the door frame, then turns around to give me a slight smile. “Thanks.”
She’s always looking out extra for everyone, so I don’t mind looking out extra for her.
On board, I have to squat to reach the last open seat: the one next to Luna in the fourth and final row. I’ve never flown in a plane this tiny. We’re crammed in with a few other travelers, and my knees knock the chair in front of me. From where I sit, three steps forward would get me into the cockpit, which has no door, allowing us all to peer at the equipment.
They could put me on a rowboat to the hotel and I’d be fine—I’m due for a change of scenery. The paperwork has been processed, and my app was acquired a month ago. My deal earned me enough to live comfortably for the foreseeable future, but I despise sitting still. Work gives me purpose, makes me valuable, and ensures that I don’t need to depend on anyone else. So, I’ve spent the last four weeks banging my head against my computer to figure out what’s next, with lots of late nights and nothing to show for it. If I fly back to Chicago with no new project in mind, perhaps that job offer in California is the way to go.
Once the pilot explains the safety protocol and ensures we’ve fastened our seatbelts, she takes her spot next to the copilot, and we move. This plane floats like a boat, though I don’t dwell on how strange that is. Not that I can think much with all the noise.
“This water is insane,” Luna says, her attention glued to the ocean outside our window.
“What kind of blue would you call that?”
“All kinds. Turquoise. Cerulean. Your eyes sort of match it too.” She turns to me. “Yeah. Finley Robertson blue.”
I catch her eyes, a decadent shade of brown with flecks of gold.
I’m no idiot with women, and I’ve had a couple of long-term girlfriends, but Lou confuses me sometimes. Most times, really. I’m not like the confident—no, cocky—guys who appear to be her type. She’s my best friend’s little sister, and she gets me tongue-tied in the most infuriating way. I often leave our interactions knowing I said the wrong thing or didn’t say enough. That’s how our dynamic has been as long as we’ve known each other. Even more so since that kiss three years ago, which I had figured she forgot about.
But after Aaron’s birthday this year, she made it clear that she does remember that kiss, at least when she’s had something to drink. I don’t know what to make of her anymore.
“Finley Robertson blue?” I repeat to her, and a pretty pink fills Lou’s cheeks.
She whips her head back to the window. “And there’s navy. Sapphire. Every shade.”
“Hey,” Melissa calls from the front row. “Pic, everybody, quick. Look up here!”
Aaron holds his cell phone out for us to pose, bleary-eyed and excited, as the engine roars. The four other passengers take photos until the plane’s abrupt forward motion pushes everyone to the backs of their seats. The din makes conversation near impossible. Then, like sorcery, the plane skims the sea until lifting effortlessly into the sky. The land shrinks, and soon, groupings of atolls become visible—dark patches of emerald earthiness encircled by thin strips of blinding white sand that bleed into the ocean.
With my noise-canceling headphones on, I play some indie rock, close my eyes, and ignore Lou’s delicate, intoxicating scent. The peacefulness doesn’t last long, though. A few minutes into the flight, we hit turbulence, and unlike a larger plane that absorbs a lot of the shaking, we feel everything that hits this minuscule aircraft. Every air pocket and every pilot redirect. When I check on Lou, the color has drained from her face, and she has a death grip on the armrest. I hadn’t noticed the rain because of my music, and our surroundings have become so foggy that the ocean below has disappeared.
“You gonna puke?” I ask.
This elicits the laugh I was hoping for. “No. But, um…” Her face flicks to me, then straight ahead. We bump up and over another pocket of air, this one substantial enough that my stomach drops. “Ohmygod.”
“Think of it like Jell-O,” I say, leaning into her to talk over the aggressive hum filling the cabin.
“I hate Jell-O.”
“I know. But imagine our plane flying along in a big Jell-O mold in the sky. Any rocking or shaking makes the plane move, but we don’t fall.”
“But that Jell-O mold is hovering over the Indian Ocean,” she says, her focus flitting out the window for a millisecond. “An ocean that could swallow us whole.”
“That’s the beauty of this plane. It floats.”
We hit another intense patch of turbulence, and some of the other passengers cry out in uncertainty. Lou reaches out and grabs my forearm like a claw. I readjust so my hand cups hers and tuck her arm under my own, acting as her armor against the weather.
“Thanks,” she says.
I nod, pleased to put her a bit more at ease. Her hand is soft, nestled in my own as if we sit this way all the time. I wish. She shifts her weight into me, and I resist the urge to rest a reassuring hand on her thigh.
She has a boyfriend. A shitty boyfriend, but a boyfriend nonetheless.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the copilot calls behind him. “As you can see, we’ve got some reduced visibility and turbulence due to this storm. To let it pass, we’ll land at a nearby island and refuel until conditions improve.”
The left wing dips down, causing more folks to yelp in surprise.
“This is fine, I’m fine, it’s fine, we’re all fine,” Luna repeats under breath. With every jolt of the aircraft, she hisses in discomfort.
I can’t take her out of this situation, but I can distract her. “What are you most excited about?” I ask.
“Hm?”
“On the trip,” I say, leaning close enough that my lips brush the shell of her ear. “What are you looking forward to the most?”
“Um.” Another jarring rock of the plane as we descend. Another gasp from her. “I don’t know. Swimming.”
“There’ll be good swimming there. And snorkeling.”
“Sounds nice.”
“We’ll find all kinds of sea creatures.”
“Mhmm.”
“What animal do you want to see the most?”
She pauses, not giving me an answer. Our plane coasts lower, and her eyes drift to the turbulent waters approaching.
“Jellyfish? Stingrays? Sharks?” I ask.
“What? Sharks?” She shakes her head in a rapid, jerky motion. “No, not that.”
“The ones we’ll see’ll be harmless. Mini.”
“Definitely not sharks.” Her hand squeezes mine with the strength of a boa constrictor.
“Then what?”
“Sea turtles,” she blurts out on another bump of turbulence. “Really hope I see a sea turtle.”
The plane touches down, and the friction of the water drags us to a near-stop. Lou exhales, which sounds like pressure seeping out of a tire. She doesn’t let go of her vise-grip on my hand, not until we climb out of the seaplane and wait in a covered area with picnic tables.
“We all okay?” Lou’s mom asks once we’ve deplaned. Melissa comforts Aaron, who, poor guy, made use of that doggy bag on the plane. Everyone else is fawning over Carmen, who assures us she’s fine. Lou walks back from the vending machine with water bottles and passes them out to her family.
She sidles up next to me last, and her hand shakes as she offers me a bottle. I twist the cap off and hold the container out to toast, but she struggles to get hers open.
“Here,” I say, turning the lid. “Sit. You’re shaken up.”
“I’m good.”
“Sit anyway.”
“O-okay.” She taps her water against mine as I find a spot next to her. “That scared the shit outta me.”
“Nothing those pilots haven’t seen before.”
I overhear Cass talking with the lead pilot, who admits that these storms happen once a year or so. We’ll wait here for better weather before we take off again. So Lou watches the rain fall, and I watch Lou.
Ten, maybe fifteen minutes pass in comfortable silence as I steal looks at her any chance I can without coming off like a total creep. Lou’s so beautiful—something I’ve never outright said to her before. I’ve alluded to the fact, the way an older brother might hype up a sibling. But I haven’t ever looked her in the eye and told her that she’s pretty all the time. Even when she’s freshly woken up, sporting a haphazard bun, and still sleepy-eyed while grabbing breakfast in the kitchen. Even when she’s holding back a dam of tears during one of those heartbreaking artsy movies she loves so much. Even when she’s jet-lagged and the rain has dampened her hair.
“What’s up?” she asks, probably because I’ve been staring at her for who knows how long.
“Nothing.” I examine the ocean instead, which, yeah, still blue. But the world already looks brighter, water coming down less in buckets and more in a steady trickle. Despite the gloom, a pulse of yearning flares inside me, wishing I were here with Lou—just the two of us. Wishing she weren’t attached to some guy I can’t stand.
“So,” I say, avoiding direct eye contact with her. “What’s this work thing Tanner’s got?”
“Oh, some kind of meeting with a client. Super important.” She takes a swig of water, not looking all that disappointed that her boyfriend of over three years has skipped out on quality time with the Moores. Tanner never helped with Dave’s chemotherapy. Not that he needed to. Technically, he’s not in the family yet, so he might feel less of a sense of responsibility to them, even though they’ve only ever welcomed him with open arms.
Because Lou likes him. Loves him.
The thought of him proposing and marrying her sends a tsunami of nausea to my stomach. Guess if I’ve got one thing on him, it’s that I’m a Moore like he never could be. But if I want to keep things that way and always have this surrogate family of mine, that also means he gets to have what I never can.
Not that I’d ever be what she wants, anyway. She views me as an opportunity to win some game at a bar, a memory that comes up only when she’s drunk.
“He wanted to reschedule but couldn’t. Some bigshot client,” Lou goes on. “I didn’t get details.”
And because I can’t shut up about the lucky piece of shit, I add, “Sorry he won’t make it.”
The pilot waves us back to the plane as the weather has lightened up enough, so we both head in that direction.
“It’s whatever.” She shrugs. Then, with a flash of her smile, I almost stumble as she adds, “Glad you’re here, though.”