Page 12

12

A BARISTA, A HOCKEY PLAYER, AND A TURTLE WALK INTO A BAR…

FULTON

“ I think I’m starting to regret this!” Shiloh shouts over the whiz of the Jet Ski, her arms wrapped so tightly around my torso that they dig into my ribs.

Ever since our heart to heart, things have been…weird. Not strained, per se, but not the same as they were before. A part of me regrets letting all my emotions spill out. It wasn’t an easy conversation to have, and I don’t think I made it any easier by divulging my true feelings. Any compliments I’ve given Shiloh in the past have been watered down by humor and flippancy—at least, in her perspective. I’ve just dug myself a cozy-looking grave.

My eyes cut to the miniscule-looking shoreline in the distance, bisecting sand and water with a foamy divide. “Uh, we’re already out in the middle of the ocean.”

I don’t need to see Shiloh’s face to pinpoint her hesitancy—the tension in her body decries every little worry archived in the recesses of her brain. “What if I fall off?”

I know some part of her is joking, but the drumroll of my heart is a counterweight to my disposition’s seemingly lax nonchalance. “I’d never let that happen,” I insist, throwing a reassuring look over my shoulder.

Even though the temperature is in the comfortable eighties, her frame still shivers against mine, as if there’s an ice-laced wire crackling underneath her skin. She’s crushing me with enough force to bruise, and I feel this inherent need to protect her. I mean, of course I want to, but it’s more than that.

Everything is more with Shiloh.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have listened to Gage. He and Cali are adrenaline junkies. They’d rock climb without ropes.”

“It’s not your fault. I just need to…get out of my comfort zone more. I’m being crazy. There’s no way I’d fall off this thing, get crushed by eight hundred pounds of fiber-reinforced plastic and polypropylene because you didn’t notice, then have an ecosystem of fish eat my horribly disfigured, decomposing body until there’s nothing left for the police to retrieve, right?”

Jesus. If that imagery wasn’t so disturbing, I’d actually be a little relieved that Shiloh’s prone to implausible overthinking just like I am. The sensible part of me wants to ease her concern, but the other part of me is too focused on the contact happening between us. Her arms are buttery-soft, and her product-free hair tickles the ledge of my shoulder. Even with an obnoxious life vest in the way, her breasts are squished against my back in another aneurysm-inducing one-piece.

My usual words of consolation are stripped of their comedic effect, and that possessive animal that’s been hibernating inside of me has stirred awake once again. “Even if that did happen—which it wouldn’t—I’d notice.”

“You would?” she asks, her voice barely audible over the jet’s cough of bubbles.

“I notice a lot more than you think I do.”

Her death hold loosens the slightest bit. Like a wind-up toy, her breath slithers out in one long heave, cooling the back of my nape that’s been brutalized by the sun.

“It is kind of cool being this far away from civilization,” she relents, resting her head against my spine. “I’d never swim all the way out here.”

Despite the noisy hum of the Jet Ski and the metronomic thrash of the sea, it’s quiet out here. There’re no children screaming at the tops of their lungs, no stir-crazy parents berating said demon spawns, no syncopated rumble of car engines, not even the overhead caw of seagulls. It’s idyllic. The motion of the waves creates this out-of-body floating sensation, and that’s exactly how I feel when I’m in Shiloh’s presence.

Something queasy tugs at my stomach—like butterflies, if all the butterflies had miniature knives. I turn off the Jet Ski’s engine. “I like being alone together.”

Now that there’s no irksome vibration in the background, Shiloh’s giggle is as clear as day. “Isn’t that an oxymoron?”

“An oxy what ?”

“An oxymoron. It’s a figure of speech that contradicts itself.”

I have no idea what that means—even dulled down—but Shiloh’s always right. And ridiculously smart.

“Keep doing that,” I beg, grabbing her hand that’s resting on my stomach. Her fingers flinch, but she doesn’t dare move her arm. She’s magnesium to my open flame of oxygen, heating up my whole body without even lifting a finger.

“Doing what?” she asks.

“Educating me.”

Righting my footing—and being sure not to nudge her—I flip my body to face her, drinking her in like she’s a tall glass of water. With my hands on her waist, she scooches closer to me, her legs bookending either side of my hips, and the gusset of her swimsuit cinches enough to show me her hot-as-hell tan lines.

A vixenish grin overtakes her lips. “Fulton, you don’t have a secret teacher kink, do you?”

I pull her into me so that her front is crushed against mine, and I drag my hands down to the curve of her butt. “Maybe I just like listening to you talk,” I counter, loving the way the lower half of her responds with a frisson.

“Did you know that a Jet Ski can reach up to seventy miles per hour?” she whispers, her fingers featherlight as they trace the bend of my collarbone. She’s got me balancing on a knife’s edge, and I’ll probably need a cold plunge in the water if her hands get any other ideas.

“Fuck, you’re incredible.”

I consume her in a breath-robbing kiss, my tongue skating the ridge of her teeth, and my fingers growing hungrier the longer her dew-smattered skin glistens like starlight in my periphery. She’s ravenously accepting every lick and every bite with an equal amount of enthusiasm, squirming her pussy until it butts up against my hardening erection. Her hands are nestled in my hair, and her legs are slung around me to the point where our combined weight is tipping the Jet Ski’s center of gravity.

I’m like the cat that’s caught the canary, and then it happens—my heel slips on a cumbersome patch of water. I’m submerged beneath the surface within a second, and the white noise in my ears is impeded by frantic shouting.

When I breach for air, I smear a hand down my dripping face, still met with a disconcerting number of shrieks. Shiloh’s a hazy silhouette in my waterlogged vision, and although I’d never admit it, I’m glad my fall managed to shrink the half-chub in my swim trunks.

“Oh my God, Fulton! Are you okay?”

She’s reaching out to help me— a rookie mistake —and instead of using her outstretched hand to pull myself up, I yank her into the ocean with me. Dick move? Maybe, but that Jet Ski was getting uncomfortable.

She splashes beside me in a circlet of droplets, only buoying a few moments later with some paddles from her hands and feet. When I can intercept the flailing without sustaining a black eye, I hold her close to my chest for security, and she instinctively hooks her legs around my torso even though she’s pissed.

I can’t get over the way our wet bodies slide against one another, how the ocean rocks us in a sensual motion. It’s a fast track to Make Out Metropolis, and if we weren’t stranded in the middle of the ocean, I’d spend the rest of the afternoon claiming every inch of her as mine.

“Fulton!” she screeches, her glare sharpening as she shakes like a wet chihuahua. “I thought you were going to let me?—”

I don’t let her finish that sentence. I never want her to second-guess my reliability. I never want her to doubt the extent of my feelings for her.

“I’ve got you, Sunshine. On land, in water, wherever the fuck we are. I’ve got you. ”

When we head back to the beach under a curtain of nightfall, that’s when the real surprise date begins. I had a feeling Shiloh doesn’t like surprises, so I didn’t tell her I planned something else after our Jet Ski antics. I made sure to plan our arrival at the perfect spot, and as we disembark, my diligent decision-making is confirmed when we come across a half circle of eagle-eyed spectators.

“What’s going on?” Shiloh asks, allowing me to help her down from the Jet Ski.

Before I can answer her, I see it—a flash of movement scintillating in a glade of moonlight. Something small and dark makes its way toward us, carving a pathway in the sand and tailed by what looks like a moving horde of black spots.

My pulse is an endless sprint waiting for Shiloh to piece the puzzle together, and the confusion plastered on her face quickly evolves into awe. Olive ridley and black turtles shuffle down the slope of sand with their bumbling flippers and snail-like pace, heading out to the water just as Shiloh mentioned on the plane.

We slowly traipse over to the marine biologists, and Shiloh’s eyes double in size while we pass the tiny parade of variegated shells. God, she’s otherworldly. In beauty, in intellect, in compassion. She’s like a camellia blossoming despite the cold, thriving despite her tribulations with a grace that most people strive for but can never achieve.

Shiloh clings to my arm, squealing quietly. “Fulton, look at them! Oh my God, they’re so cute!”

This is the best decision I’ve ever made.

Adoration threads through my muscles as I memorize her smile—the exaggerated swell of her cheeks, the scrunch of her nose, the stretch of her carnation-pink cupid’s bow. Shadows play over her pronounced bone structure, the gibbous moon’s alabaster radiance practically bioluminescent as it emanates off the undulating sea.

Something tickles my bare feet, and I look down to catch a baby turtle’s fin brushing against my sand-crusted skin while it tries to navigate toward the approaching tide. My whole body freezes up, my breath dies in my throat, and my heart quiets as if the staccato beats are loud enough for their little ear holes to discern.

That had to have been some freaky fate or miracle thing, right? That was, like, a once-in-a-lifetime experience. I read somewhere that humans can’t touch baby sea turtles because we might disorient their natural path and lead them away from the water.

I know this sounds stupid, but everything is alive tonight. The electricity arcing through the air, the rustle of palm trees in the distance, the rise and fall of the water, even this inexplicable hum existing beneath the sand like a fault line waiting to make its presence known. For once, the air is cold as it collars my neck—a marine layer that’s swaddled our temporary home in vaporized brine.

“You knew? You planned this?” Shiloh asks, her wide eyes twinkling, my disproportionate reflection rippling in her pupils.

I grab her hand and interlace our fingers together. “I just wanted to give you a day where you didn’t have to worry about what was happening next—where you didn’t feel responsible for every activity.”

“I don’t know what to say. This is incredible. Nobody’s ever done anything like this for me before,” she breathes.

“Being out of control isn’t always so scary,” I say, bringing her knuckles to my lips before peppering kisses on her chilled flesh.

The hatching procession seems never-ending. There are hundreds of these little guys taking their first steps, embarking on the rest of their lives, and being here to witness it is so incredibly gratifying.

Shiloh isn’t focused on our aquatic friends anymore—no, she’s teetering on her tiptoes so she can press her forehead to mine, and I lean down to accommodate her, so infatuated with this girl that I can’t remember what life was like before her.

She tips her chin up an increment, her lower lip brushing against my top one, our breaths mingling in a visible plume. “Maybe it’s not,” she whispers.

Neither of us makes a move. We both just linger in the moment, soaking up each other’s existence, and my whole body prickles with adoration, similar to how static swarms a sky right before a storm. We’re moving so fast. My brain can’t conceive of this girl. She’s not real. What I feel for her…it can’t be real. It’s so much bigger than the both of us. Uncontrollable. Unconditional. Unconquerable.

With the breeze slipping in a figure-eight around us—lashing our hair and pelting our naked skin with goose bumps— our lips crash into each other, and my heart nearly withers on the spot from the burst of adrenaline. The kiss is a contact sport in every sense of the word, but there’s a softness, a chasteness, a deepness that can never be matched by fighting tongues or exploratory hands.

Shiloh Nguyen has made a home in my bones, carving a cavern out of my chest to lay right where my heart is. She drapes her arms around my neck to invite me closer, and I link my hands on her lower back, lifting her just slightly in the makeshift sling of my arms. Time stops. The world ceases to exist. We’re nothing but a conglomeration of lost souls, blood vessels, and beating organs floating amongst a canopy of stars.

When she breaks away from me, she tugs me by the arm, maneuvering me past the sea turtles and over to the vast expanse of beach that stretches on for miles, unoccupied.

And we run. With no destination.

We just… run .

I chase after her as she giggles and dashes like a long-distance sprinter. Given my long legs, it only takes me a few strides to catch up with her. All my worries dissipate with each foot of land I cover, and even with the punishing burn in my thighs, it’s not enough incentive to slow me down.

Closing the distance, I tackle her, wrapping my body around hers to bear the brunt of the fall. Her syrupy laughter echoes into the night, and when we unravel after a few rolls, she’s underneath me while I’m kneeling on all fours. Her windswept hair is mussed around her face, small splotches of sand dot her cheeks, and her nose is red from the frigid temperature.

I’ve never met anyone like her before. She’s sunshine in a goddamn bottle. I want to tuck this memory into the back of my mind for safekeeping so I can revisit it whenever I need a reminder that life’s worth living.

But then she says the worst thing I could possibly imagine .

“Fulton, you know this is just a three-week thing, right?”

World: crushed. Heart: shattered. Dignity: hanging on by a thin strand.

“Yeah, of course,” I lie, scrambling off her so quickly that I accidentally kick up a fuckton of sand. Some of it gets in my mouth, but I feel like choking would really ruin the mood right now.

I don’t want Shiloh for just three weeks, and I don’t know what I’m going to do once our world of play pretend is finally up.