Chapter 12
jett
“We’re driving those?” Sofía asks, beeping the lock on the LandCruiser in the parking lot in Hervey Bay. “I figured we would get a sedan.”
The key sparkles in the sunlight as it spins around my finger. “I’m driving. You can give directions.”
Molly and Doug hop into the other vehicle we rented to drive to K’gari and camp for the night. I’m shocked Sofía agreed to the camping aspect when I suggested changes, but it’s only one night, and she splurged on rooftop tents rather than sleeping on the ground.
Our luggage is lighter now that I’ve shipped Sofía’s old clothing back to Los Angeles, and I throw the suitcases into the trunk.
Sofía attempts to climb into the passenger seat while I round the car, her ass hanging out as she tries to wiggle up.
With a huff, she hauls herself up, and I avert my gaze, trying to calm the quick beat in my chest.
Staring at her is rude, but I find it hard to look away.
“Jett,” she calls out, “turn the car on. It’s hot.”
It’s an older vehicle, but this baby was made to last, and the engine roars to life. The radio kicks on, seventies music pouring from the speakers.
Doug pulls up next to us, window rolled down, arm hanging out. “Grab the groceries and then head to the ferry?”
With a thumbs-up and a honk, we depart, detouring for groceries before we head to the beach where the ferry picks up the 4WD vehicles headed to K’gari.
“So, what’s the plan when we get to the island?” I ask, tapping my fingers against the steering wheel to the beat of the music.
The roar of the engine and the indie-rock music are my only response, so I steal a glance at her, finding she’s focused on my fingers. I pause the movement, and her head jerks up.
“What?”
Weird.
“I asked about the plan.”
“Oh, right.” Her cheeks morph into a fire-hydrant red, and I crank the air-conditioning so she’s more comfortable. “The plan is that I have no plan.”
“Repeat that?”
No way I heard her right. Sofía always has a plan. It’s one of the most charming things about her.
“I figured we would go with the flow after we find somewhere to camp for the night.”
She chokes out the last four words.
“And you’re cool with that?”
“Yes.”
I don’t believe her. But I allow her to believe she can go along with no plan and quietly formulate one in my mind. I can guess how this will go. We’ll get there, and she’ll look around, confused, and then I’ll swoop in and surprise her with a super awesome plan.
Once I think of one.
Swimming could be fun. We could search for bugs, but I don’t think she’ll be fond of that. I know I want to film the shipwreck at low tide, and maybe we can scour the beach for seashells, too.
A million ideas rattle through my mind as we reach the beach and go from a proper road to sand. The tires grab for purchase, eliciting a yelp from Sofía, and I let out a deep laugh when she clutches the handles for dear life.
We had four-wheelers when I was a kid, and Doug and I have done a few videos where off-roading was required; otherwise, there’s not a chance I would have agreed to renting the cars ourselves.
K’gari is not the place for newbies to try out off-roading—not with the possibility of getting stuck in the sand.
“Today is going to be so much fun,” I say as we roll onto the ferry.
“So much fun,” she replies, with more dread than anticipation.
That seems like a challenge, if you ask me.
***
In the list of things that could go wrong this morning, we’ve crossed off every possibility.
Sofía got seasick on the ferry. Spent the entire ride clutching a paper bag to her chest and waving me off anytime I tried to get close to her.
If she wants to suffer in solitude, who am I to deny her that?
Back on land, we followed the other four-wheel-drive vehicles to the small town in search of a place to stay.
Sofía may have said camping was fine, but after being seasick, I figured the last thing she would want to do is sleep in a tent.
Turns out, the hotel is booked full, and our only option is camping.
After that, Sofía’s mood soured, and I can’t blame her.
Even now, as we drive to the beach with the SS Maheno shipwreck, she’s quiet, holding her stomach every time we hit a bump in the road.
I have to give her credit. She’s a trooper and hasn’t complained once, even though it’s clear she’s miserable and on the brink of a breakdown.
Taking a hand off the wheel, I dig my camera out of my bag and hand it to her.
“Can you film?” I ask, hoping it will distract her from her roiling stomach. “This would make for an epic short clip on social media.”
“Uh, sure,” she says, taking the camera. “But it probably won’t be good.”
“Let me be the judge of that.”
Sofía is incredible at everything she does, so I’m sure this will be no different.
“Flick the settings to video, then press down on the shutter to record. Take long videos. It’s better to cut the clip than to wish you had filmed more.”
She fiddles around with the strap, securing it around her neck, and then points the lens out the rolled-down window.
Fear takes me by the throat, and in the calmest voice I can muster—which is difficult when she dangles my favorite lens out the window of a moving vehicle—I say, “Please keep the camera in the car.”
“Oh, right.” She blushes, pulling it back to safety, where I can breathe properly.
I turn up the music, and Sofía takes dozens of videos of the forest. I slow my speed in some sections for her, then screech to a stop when she spots a rainbow lorikeet and screams so loudly my heart stops in my chest.
The woman has quite the set of lungs.
“I got it,” she yells, outstretching the camera to me.
Foot pressed on the brake, I select the most recent video in the gallery.
Her hand is surprisingly steady, and the video clip zooms in on the bird perched in a tree, its bright rainbow feathers a beacon between the green leaves.
It flaps its wings, readjusting itself on the branch to pick at berries.
“This is incredible.”
“You think so?” she asks, leaning over the center console. I turn the camera in her direction and replay what she recorded. Her eyes flick between me and the screen.
She’s watching me, I realize, to decipher my reaction.
“It will make the final cut, for sure.”
She tugs her lips together to hide what I know is a pleased smile, and after Doug honks behind us, I resume our adventure, handing her the camera.
By the time we reach the beach where the popular shipwreck is visible at low tide, there are a dozen other LandCruisers in the sand. A tour group takes photos of the dilapidated, rusted vessel, and I park farther down the beach.
Camera wrapped around her neck, she scrunches her nose at the distance.
“Doug’s going to want to get drone footage,” I explain. “It will be easier to do from here than in that chaos.”
“I thought you loved chaos,” she teases, leaping from the passenger side and into the sand.
She stumbles but rights herself before she face-plants. Doug and Molly park beside us and jump out.
“Did you see that bird?” Molly asks. “It was adorable!”
I’ve seen many beautiful things in my life, but the joy and pride that spread across Sofía’s face as she shows Molly her video is in the top five. I’m enraptured by the soft glow of her cheeks and the way she nibbles on her plush lower lip—until a voice clears beside me.
“You’re doing it again,” Doug says, unzipping the bag that houses the drone.
“Doing what?”
“Looking at her like you did on the research vessel.”
I gulp. “I don’t know what you mean.”
He clarifies, though it’s unnecessary. “Like she’s at the end of every road you drive down. Your center point. It’s how I look at Molly.”
Doug glances over to his wife, who’s waving her hands through the air as she chats with Sofía, the both of them animated while they gush over her video.
I never quite understood what Doug meant on the research vessel when I told him I liked Sofía. Not quite an attachment, but an intense curiosity and urge to learn everything about her.
He told me it was a dangerous game to play.
Sometimes you learn what you don’t want to know, but in that rare, once-in-a-lifetime encounter, you meet someone, you learn everything about them, and they become the end of the road—the person you’re always moving toward, no matter where you are.
You could be a thousand miles away, but every path you take will lead to them.
For Doug, Molly is that end.
“We’re friends,” I say, hating how the words sour in my mouth.
She’s also my PR girlfriend, but we haven’t shared that tidbit of knowledge with them, and I refuse to tell them and face scrutiny or innuendos. She held my hand once. Unless this is 1654, it means nothing.
Molly and Doug have an impressive knack for turning nothing into something.
“Just…protect yourself,” he advises. “I won’t tell you not to go for it if that’s what you want. Molly might, but it could be messy if it goes wrong.”
“But if it went right?” I find myself asking, even though I shouldn’t.
“Magical.” His focus zeroes in on his wife. “Every moment after would be pure magic.”
The blades of the drone whirl as he deploys, expertly positioning it for wide frame shots, then weaving closer to show the details of the wreck, the rust on the sides of the hull, and where the sand has consumed it after it ran aground.
I scan the footage from my phone, offering direction, and the scenarios of how to edit the footage appear like mini movies in my brain.
“Can you fly over the trees and then zip to the coastline over the wreck?” I ask, the visualization clear in my mind.
It may not work. Sometimes the shot is magnificent; other times it’s the worst thing we’ve seen, and I send it to the graveyard folder on my computer, where it goes to die.
He tries it, and the vision comes to life as he zooms closer to the water. Doug is the best drone operator I’ve ever met and worth every penny. Hell, I can barely get it into the air. I know my strengths, and operating a drone is not one of them.
That’s why he makes the big bucks.
We walk over to the shipwreck, getting close-ups of the waves meeting metal, and wait for the tide to roll in. The sun lowers, and we take our cue to head to the campsite before it’s too dark.
“Should we watch the sunset?” Sofía asks, wrapping her arms around herself as the wind picks up.
“Oh, yes,” Molly cheers, grabbing a few blankets from the trunk and laying them out.
While Sofía helps, I rummage through my bag and dig out a sweatshirt. There’s a spot on the blanket beside her, beckoning to me, and when I sit, I lay the clothing in her lap.
I squirm beneath the intensity of her gaze, bouncing between me and the sweatshirt. There’s a pinch in her brow as she plays with the frayed edges of the collar.
“You seemed cold,” I offer, if only to quell the churn of my stomach.
“Oh. Thanks.”
Cherry perfume travels with the sea breeze as she pulls the fabric over her head.
The sun makes its daily departure, and Sofía records the magnificent colors.
While she films, and as if nature knows she suffered today and needs one last pick-me-up, a wild dingo runs across the beach, close to the waterline.
Backdropped by the sunset, it makes for a phenomenal shot, and she squeals when she captures it, twisting the camera to me. I lack the strength to fight my smile or battle the electric jolt shooting down my spine when her body grazes mine.
A loud giggle slips from her lips when I wink at her, the apples of her cheeks glowing with warmth.
The recording ends, and she leans back on her palms, foot touching mine. In a low voice, she whispers from the side of her mouth, “Do they always show that much affection?”
Tracking her focus, I land on Doug and Molly, who are so intertwined I can’t distinguish where one of them starts and the other stops. I shrug, and she rustles even closer, her shoulder grazing mine as she stifles a laugh with the sleeve of my sweatshirt.
I shouldn’t enjoy the image of her in my clothing as much as I do.
“Always. Two obsessed, mildly nauseating lovebirds.”
“I think we’d be lucky to find something like that one day,” she admits. “But they do make it easy to mirror them for the fake-girlfriend plan. Should we take another photo for socials?”
“If you’d like.”
“I am wearing your sweatshirt. Your fan club will eat this up.”
My what?
I don’t have time to ask a follow-up before the air rips from my lungs when she presses against me, wraps her leg around my calf, and points her phone at us.
Streaks of pink and orange decorate the sky, the golden light illuminating her features, and she tips the angle until our faces are partially cut off but my branded sweatshirt is visible.
She moves closer—I wasn’t sure it was even possible—and I wonder if she can time the erratic beating in my chest, the thud, thud, thud that’s persistent in her presence.
The tips of her fingernails scrape against my jaw, her thumb pausing over my bottom lip, tugging at the skin. I inhale a sharp breath, enraptured by the swirls of burnt gold in her eyes. Her pupils dilate, and she snaps the photo.
It’s over in an instant.
Cool wind whips through the space Sofía creates between us when she retreats to the far edge of the blanket. I refrain from chasing her, from demanding she touch me again, or begging for something idiotic, like a kiss.
“That should do,” she says, low and breathy, fixated on the photo.
This PR dating thing might kill me.