Chapter 5 #2
“They’re a crowd-pleaser. Did you know,” he asked the three of them, though the cephalopod biologist ignored him, “that aquariums in Tokyo and Dubai have paw-sized holes bored into the otter exhibits’ glass, so tourists can stroke their toes? Cute little jerks.”
“Interesting. . .” Brianne tapped her nails on her water bottle. Her head tilted, attention fully redirected. “The Monterey Bay Aquarium could do something similar to supplement its funding. Marketing could sell the encounter as an exclusive experience and—”
“But the otters in Tokyo and Dubai are river otters,” Isabel interjected.
She trailed after Wes and their guide back through the labyrinth of seawater pipes, past a volunteer hauling a bucket of algae—who started to wave at their group, before slipping on the wet floor near a pool of leopard sharks, yelping, and grabbing at a mop to stabilize himself.
She continued, “They aren’t endangered. The Pacific’s sea otter population is.
Even if it’s not banned in other countries, a germ-exchanging interaction like that—when the animals are already vulnerable to infections like Toxoplasma gondii transmitted by domestic cats—would likely be illegal under the Marine Mammal Protection Act. Under California’s state laws, too.”
She knew those laws very, very well.
Apparently, she knew them better than Brianne seemed to understand the environmental and legal ecosystem in which MORI conducted its research. Maybe that wasn’t surprising. Isabel glanced back at the octopus tank, its biologist motionless beside the glass.
“Well, if I can’t get an otter fix in the aquarium,” Wes held open the lab door now, waiting for her, “I’m going down to the beach to scout. Want to join me? Or stay inside? The wind’s cold out there.”
It was.
But now the biologist was upping the day count on her tank’s erasable sign: 27.
With a lifespan of under two years, those paralarvae would have passed their prime of sexual maturity by next August, well on their way to death.
Chase’s ring cut into her skin when Isabel’s hands fisted under her sleeves.
In her pocket, her phone vibrated; a new spasm of anxiety jolted up her spine.
I have to make a choice, make a plan—
“No, I can’t stay.”
Isabel moved off a winding boardwalk and across the tide-sculpted dunes of Sandholdt Beach so lightly that her feet barely left impressions in the sand. Her silence was a heavy thing, however, the brightness of her enthusiasm in the lab just minutes earlier snuffed out. Her eyes were smoke.
Wes’s own gait left wallows, scattering saltigrade sand fleas. He couldn’t keep pace. “Isabel—wait.”
She stopped. She dug the toe of her right sandal into a lump of marine detritus.
But at least she was listening. Maybe. At least she was aware of him.
Removed from the distractions inside MORI, though, she seemed to be dwelling again on the events of last night—plus this morning’s revelations.
Honestly, who wouldn’t be anxious or depressed in her circumstances?
Who wouldn’t kick sand? He’d never been in a position to protest if a partner of his had wanted to open their casual relationship to other people.
But Isabel’s engagement to Ethan’s brother wasn’t remotely comparable to his arrangement with his temporary friends.
A caterer at the wedding shower? What an asshole.
He managed to stop himself before he blundered through some stupid question like Are you all right? yet again. Could he distract her instead, tempt her into emerging from beneath the snarled curtain of her hair? He could try.
“It seems like you’ve got expertise on the whole enchilada,” he hazarded. “The practical and the legal sides of marine biology research.”
Isabel continued to work at the sand with her sandal, frowning and digging down to where the ambient water table oozed moisture toward the surface.
So he went for the direct approach: “You do know you don’t have to marry a guy who’s cheated on you, just because you’ve got a wedding date set. Right? That’s what cancellation fees are for. It’s not a life-or-death situation—”
“Yes.”
“Yes?” He stopped.
Her voice was low and tight, her lips taut, with lines scoring her cheeks. When her gaze broke away from the sand, the wistful gray of her irises had hardened to steel.
“Not life-and-death. Not completely. But I am in a Phase Three clinical trial to confirm the efficacy and safety of a new drug therapy.” Despite the grit gusting up around them, she didn’t blink.
“I take an experimental medication to control my migraines and nerve pain. Ceretobicin. It’s the one drug that actually manages my symptoms. For insurance and liability reasons, the trial is only available to United States residents in California.
Which I am. But my NAFTA work visa won’t be renewed next August. Not after my migraines made it impossible for me to continue working at the Seattle Aquarium: my job sponsor.
I have until next summer before I’m deported.
Eleven months with a chronic illness that’s largely controlled.
But then I’ll lose access to the medication.
So it—it does currently feel close to life-and-death—”
Shit.
Suddenly, so many of the mysteries about her made sense.
“That’s why you’re still planning to marry the jerk,” Wes said. “You need permanent residency status. You need a Green Card to stay in the United States, where you’re eligible for your drug trial.”
Her sandal dug back into its hole. “If everything goes well, the application process takes ten months. That’s why I have to marry Chase in September of this year.
Otherwise, I won’t have a new spousal visa approved before my current professional one expires.
The system doesn’t care what happens to me if I can’t get a renewal.
There’s no appeal process. I’m just a number for both the United States government and the Ceretobicin trial—because they have to be objective, and I understand that, even if I.
. . But you must think I’m a terrible person. ”
Dig, dig.
“What?”
“For using Chase like this. For not. . . loving him. When I should. He’s handsome, and he’s charming, and he’s a doctor. He’s perfect. Shouldn’t it be easy?”
“Isabel. This asshole fucked a caterer in a bathroom last night, then jetted off to Las Vegas—Vegas!—without apologizing, and stranded you here to deal with the fallout.”
Somehow, she thought she was the problem?
That fucker—
“That’s not true.”
“What the hell did I just say that isn’t true?”
“He did apologize.” She extracted her phone.
Isabel opened a catalog of what must be Chase’s latest messages.
Scrolling past assertions of misunderstanding, justifications, and requests for her to call him—which veered between persuading, guilttripping, and outright demands—she highlighted the text in question. “See?”
Dr. Chase Meyer Jr.
I get it. You need some time to cool down. I respect that. And I got upgraded to first class on an earlier flight to Vegas yesterday. I’ll give you space.
Chase
Sorry we couldn’t talk about my itinerary last night. You weren’t around for most of the party.
Chase
But I need you to call me back, babe. We have to talk about this. Once you’ve calmed down again, you’ll be glad you didn’t do something rash.
“You’ll be glad you didn’t—That’s not an apology!”
“Chase said he was sorry.”
“No, he said—”
Her ring knocked the screen. “I need to call him back. I—I need to fix this. I have to try—”
No.
A hot, visceral recoil punched through his gut.
She’d return Chase’s missed calls and accept the blame, when that man should be the one groveling.
Knees, pleas, the whole fucking deal! But she’d do it, because Isabel thought she had to.
When she shouldn’t need to make the damn call at all.
She shouldn’t need to take bullshit from bullies like Dr. Chase Meyer Jr., who imagined that good looks, fancy degrees, and thick bank accounts gave them a license to misuse women, then treat them like they were stupid and overreacting when they dared to—not even complain, but just to speak.
Wes had dealt with bullies before. He’d fought for his siblings on the playground, and fought for himself, too.
If they’d mocked him for his spelling grades and class read-alouds, if they’d mocked Erin for her glasses and her brainiac mastery of math and science, mocked Adrian for being a ten-year-old policy wonk with nightmares about the ozone layer, they’d never mocked his fists.
Detention had been worth it.
“Don’t—please don’t call him.”
“I don’t have a choice! I don’t know what else I can do.”
“I do. And you do have a choice,” he told her.
“W-what choice?”
“Isabel Wright, marry me instead.”