by Ember Leigh
“Yeah, I’m alive and everything.”
“Good. I’ll tell your mom. She’s convinced you’ve already been brainwashed by the cults.”
I snort. “What cults? I’m at a destination wedding, for God’s sake”
“I don’t know, just general cults. They’re everywhere. That’s what she says, at least. You eating and everything?”
“Plenty.” Even though it’s a lie. I have so many options around me, but this rumbling stomach of mine is my own fault. I was too embarrassed to eat in front of Weston last night, which is a nervous tic from high school that I just can’t get rid of. Hot guy in sight? Oh, must pretend I don’t rely on food in any way, lest he think I’m a chronic overeater due to my natural girth. Being a woman is the most exhausting thing out there. Being a woman of size is even more fun.
“Okay, I’ll tell your mom. She’s so worried. Your dad is too, but I just tell him to shut up.”
I smirk. My dad is her youngest son. I’m thankful to have Gram on my side when it comes to travel, but she’s the only one. Sometimes, I feel like we’re a misfit pair destined for some sort of feel-good family movie. Nova & Gram Take On the Haters. Complete with action-packed meadow adventures and all.
Up ahead, Weston and Amelia have paused at the junction of the boardwalk, waiting for me. I ask Gram to tell my family I miss them and then pocket my phone.
“You joining a cult?” Weston asks. Weird that he listened in on my phone call, but whatever.
“No. I mean, not willingly. Are we ready for breakfast?”
Weston breaks off, claiming he needs to go find Elliot for something, leaving Amelia and me to breakfast by ourselves. It’s not like I miss the presence of Weston, but something definitely feels different without him. I wouldn’t go as far as saying that I enjoy when he’s near, but he does lend something when he’s around. A solidness. Stability, somehow. Which is weird, since he’s an aimless drifter who apparently wipes his ass with twenty-dollar bills.
But Gram herself said that I should go for a pirate or a shark if I wanted to have a good time. Which makes me wonder: which one is Weston?
And more importantly, should I even find out?
There’s about 0% chance Weston would even notice me in a room full of naked women, much less want to spend an evening with me. Furthermore, I don’t want to spend an evening with him.
Except I do.
Which makes me worry about something just a little bit more serious than what Gram had foreseen.
Weston is the type of man capable of plundering bodies and mauling hearts…which makes him both pirate and shark.
Chapter 6
WESTON
Tss. Tss. Tss. Tss.
The synthetic bassline pumping out of the sailboat’s speakers is the auditory equivalent of a party drug. There is something familiar and comforting in the upbeat techno, something that makes me feel like I’ve drunk way more beer than I really have.
Or maybe it’s just the rhythmic rocking of the boat. The way the entire fucking ocean is bathed in velvet red and goldenrod as the world’s most perfect sunset gets underway. I don’t know. I sip my cocktail—I can’t even remember what it is, other than it contains orange and mint. The rainbow is alive and breathing all around me, and I haven’t even taken drugs.
Nova’s sharp laugh distracts me for the fifteenth time in the past hour. She’s sitting across from me on a long row of bench seats, legs crossed, in a romper that hugs her curves in a way I’m not sure is strictly legal. Every time I look at her, I think about what it might be like to pin her to the nearest surface. Press my body up against those curves. Bury my face in the tantalizing cream of her cleavage and ask her to call me preposterous one more time.
This has to be the party-drug bassline and the alcohol talking. Has to be. Because any thoughts about actually making a move on Nova are about as preposterous as the idea of visiting the moon for tomorrow’s activity. We’ve known for four years that we don’t get along, even if we don’t entirely know why. There’s a reason we’ve never hooked up. If we were able to somehow lock lips, I’m sure I’d discover fangs inside her mouth.
“Okay, okay. I need to be the photographer,” Nova purrs, encouraging Amelia and Rhys’s sisters, Eleanor and Harriet, to crowd together on the bench. She snaps a few pictures, consulting her digital screen in between shots. She climbs onto the bench then, kneeling as she takes the picture from a different angle. The wind billows up the shorts of her romper, revealing the back of her thigh, and she gasps, a hand shooting out to corral her clothing.
“Frisky weather we’re having,” she says with a laugh, just as the end of her ponytail lifts and whips over her shoulder.
“Mate, you need a napkin?” Elliot’s voice at my ear jostles me from my stupor.
“For what?”
“You’re drooling.”
I smirk, trying to focus on anything else. I watch the captain for a few seconds, where Rhys is having a spirited conversation with him about something nautical and gesturing out to the ocean with both arms, his cocktail sloshing.
“You could just go hit on her, you know.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Nova.”
He’s drunk, so he’s being loud. I shush him, delivering a well-placed jab in the ribs for good measure. “I’m interested in photography. I’m watching her work.”
“Mm-hmm. I’d say you’re interested in the photographer.”
He’s right. Except the photographer isn’t interested in me. She makes it abundantly clear whenever I’m within four feet of her. Even though part of me has a sneaking suspicion that Nova likes what she sees whenever she looks my way, I doubt her redhead pride would ever let her indulge. I’ve seen the way she gets flustered when I’m shirtless. The way she clams up if I look at her a certain way.
She’s not immune. But she’s fighting it.
Maybe I’ve been imagining how silky soft her legs might be for too long, or maybe it’s the natural hypnotization of the bassline. Whatever it is, the decision scorches through me. Just try it. If Elliot is calling me out, I’m doing a bad job of hiding it.
“Wouldn’t that just be lovely,” Elliot goes on, throwing his head back to shout into the ocean breeze, “if everyone could hook up except me?”
Poor guy has been striking out with the ladies recently. I pat his shoulder consolingly. “You really think I have that much of a shot?”
“Mate, she talks a fierce game, but don’t be barmy. Go after her.”
Elliot is right, even though I’m not exactly sure what barmy means. I come to standing, wobbling only briefly before I adjust to the rhythm of the sailboat. All those years on friends’ sailboats in Briggs Bay in Bayshore have taught me a thing or two about sea legs. I head to the bench where Nova is examining the camera again. The rest of the girls have wandered up to the bow to join Rhys. They’re looking out at the horizon, wind blowing through their hair.
Nova stiffens as I sit beside her. “Please, no more helpful photography hints.”
“Oh, come on.” I settle into the cushiony back of the seat, resting my arm on the ledge behind her. “I only give out a few hints here and there. Otherwise I’d have to charge you.”
She laughs, but this time, it doesn’t sound sarcastic. “I’m sure your advice rivals what I learned from all the experts and leading artists in college.”
“Well, some of them had to consult me before teaching you.” I sniff. So she went to school for photography. I already knew that she and Amelia shared an alma mater. I just wasn’t sure what she’d studied.
“Be real with me. You don’t know a thing about art.”
I feign a shocked face, but deep down inside, I’m gleeful. She knows nothing about me. Nothing. And I cannot wait to rub how wrong she is in her face. “You are such an under-estimator. I have a full-fledged art degree, thankyouverymuch.”
She snorts, flipping her ponytail back over her shoulder. “Yeah, right.”
“I am right. I even spent a semester as a photojournalist.”
She eyes me suspiciously, but I’m not seeing that. All I can focus on is the plump pink of her lips and the line of her cleavage in that low-cut romper. She runs her thumb over the buttons of her camera, and then says, “What did you go to school for?”
Oh my god. She actually asked me a question, instead of just assuming something about me. Time to uncork the champagne.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asks.
“I just can’t believe you showed interest in my life.”
Confusion mingles on her face, along with something unreadable. I can’t tell if I called her out or hurt her feelings. Or maybe something else entirely. She’s as much of an enigma to me as I am to her.
“I got my degree in graphic design,” I say.
I don’t miss how her eyes lift up, something warm washing over her features.
“Oh,” she says. “That’s…interesting.”
Seems like she might say more, but she’s biting her tongue because of who I am. Honestly, this little game is fun. She wants to put me in a box? That’s fine. I can escape. I brought pliers.
“Probably weird to you, since according to you all I do is fuck strangers. But no, I actually got a degree in something other than women.”
Her eyes narrow to slits again.
“And yes, I also hold a degree in great sex.”
“Ha.” That acid edge is back in her tone. “There we are. Just when you start to act like a normal human being, the truth slides out of you.”
“Like a mutant giving birth,” I add.
She dissolves into laughter, giving me an incredulous look. “Oh yeah? Is that how the truth comes out of you?”
“Each and every time.” God, it’s so fun to just spitball with her. “Tentacles flying everywhere. Remember the alien birth scene in Men In Black? Kinda like that.”
“Wow. A classic nineties movie reference. Now your street cred is really soaring.”
The deadpan in her voice just makes me want to try harder. “I’ve got a few other tricks up my sleeve that could make it soar higher.”
This time, only one of her eyebrows arches. All the way up to the clouds. “Oh?”
Now we’re flirting. This is where I feel most comfortable. That wild and free dance that can lead to nothing or everything. With me though, it leads to everything…with a time limit. It’s the whole catch flights, not feelings philosophy. Know enough to engage; stay distant enough to be able to walk away.
And I officially want to engage. I lean into her, the side of my arm sizzling where it’s brushing against hers. “I can show you later. Once we’re back at the tiki huts. We can involve the camera a little too.”
The frown tugs at her lips. That’s not exactly the reaction I expected. She huffs and turns away from me, breaking the seal of our arms.
Okay. Flirtation scheme not going according to plan. Time to pivot.
“Fine. I won’t hit on you.”
“That was you hitting on me?”
I scratch at the back of my neck. “You really know how to make a guy question his game plan.”
She doesn’t look amused, which means my Rico Suave self-esteem is plummeting to the molten core of the Earth. “Telling me you hold a degree in great sex and then referencing a freak alien birth? If those are your pick-up lines, I’m scared to see how you get down in the bedroom.”
I smirk. She has a point. “You figured me out. I have alien sex. Secret’s out.”
She giggles. “Stop.”
I can’t tell if this is one step forward and two steps back, or just three steps backward altogether. The higher she builds this wall between us, the softer my buzz grows, exposing the glaring clarity of the situation. I’m chasing Nova. She is not reacting like any woman I’ve met anywhere in the world. And I officially have no idea where to go from here.
“Fine.” I sigh, leaning back against the bench. I run my hands through my hair, counting the seconds of my exhale as I stare up at the cloudless pink sky. I tried to get to know her, and I failed. This was my lesson: stick to the philosophy. Plenty of hot girls out there are the equivalent of low-hanging fruit. Ego boosters. Cuties who just want a night. Backpackers looking for a memory to take home with them and nothing more.
Women like Nova are complex, interesting, annoying, and untouchable. So I’ll give her what she wants.
I won’t lay a finger on her.
Even though I want to.
Chapter 7
NOVA
This trip has taught me one crucial lesson. I need to update my resume. Why? Because I have a new professional tagline.
So dense that any future employer will expend unnecessary working hours explaining seemingly obvious situations.
It didn’t even occur to me until Weston retracted his bid to hit on me that he was even hitting on me. I am not just dense, I have a nut of dark matter inside me that is absorbing all my awareness and reason. I have been paid so little—and such detrimental—attention throughout my late adolescent years, that I literally cannot tell when a sexy man is trying to make a move on me.
Because even though he said the words, I still cannot believe he was hitting on me. There’s no way that’s true. I’ve been hit on twice in my life—the first time my junior year of high school, which turned out to be an evil ruse by the popular guys that destroyed my self-esteem for the rest of my life; and the second time in college, which was my ex telling me one night at a group movie, “Hey you’re cute, y’wanna date?” approximately one year before we broke up because he was flirting with prettier girls.
All other experience with flirtation has been gleaned from movies, and it’s my understanding that there is a lot of coy smiling and batting of eyelashes that accompanies it. Weston didn’t bat his eyelashes once. Case closed.
Besides, he’s too hot for my blood. His attention reminds me of the last time I got excited about the hot guy showering me with attention. My junior year of high school taught me that if a man at Weston’s level is paying attention to me, it’s for some ulterior motive. In Weston’s case, he probably just wants to fuck. But there could be more—way more—to it than I even realize.
Ten years ago, there was way more to the situation than I realized. Garth Warren was the hottest guy in my school. I’d been in love with him from afar since fifth grade. One day, one of his friends cornered me before lunch to tell me that Garth had his eye on me. He pretended to be interested in me long enough for me to spill my heart out and fill the margins of all my notebooks with his name, which he promptly shared with the entire freaking world. I was labeled a clinger. A stalker. A desperate wannabe. A grade-A loser. After I realized I’d been the butt of a school-wide joke, one that also brought my weight and chubby face into the taunting, the embarrassment was crippling. I failed my driver’s test and cried for a full two weeks after it all came crumbling down.
And the effects of bullying don’t just magically disappear, even after ten years. It is a gift that keeps on giving—well into your adult life. Thank you, Garth.
Weston doesn’t make my prolonged, reflective silence weird. In fact, the whole thing doesn’t feel half as awkward as it should. At least there’s that. Finally, though, he speaks.
“Want me to take a picture of you?”
I shake my head. “Not really.”
“You’re the photographer. You’re always taking pictures of everyone else.”
“I don’t need any more pictures of myself.”
Weston tuts, interlacing his fingers over the waist of his board shorts as he relaxes back onto the cushiony back of the bench. “I just think you should have photographic evidence.”
My gut shrinks to a knot, imagining all the different things about me that are less than photogenic right now. My hair. My belly rolls. My thighs. My weird ankles, that aren’t technically cankles but also aren’t regular ankles either. “Of what?”
“This killer outfit you’ve got on.�
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His words prompt an avalanche of emotion. I am torn between adoration—wow, you’ve paid me a compliment, thank you, you are male number four in my entire life to do so—and suspicion—he doesn’t mean it, this is just a joke, a man like him could never be attracted to you. The operating system of my brain freezes with the high-energy demands of sorting through all the potential meanings and mines buried within his words.
And you know what wins? The same thing that always does.
“I don’t need you making fun of me,” I tell him, turning away from him.
Weston sighs again, resting his palms on the top of his head. Then he hops to his feet, coming in front of me. He gets down on one knee, holding his thumbs and index fingers together to make a square in front of his face. He squints one eye, and then makes a click sound with his mouth.
Lowering his hands, the smirk on his face is sexy enough to make me forget what I was ruffled about. If only Weston could look at me like this all the time. Like I was the only thing he could see right now, the only thing he cared about. There’s a finality in his gaze, something that tells me this is no joke.
But of course, I can’t just flip the switch. Not after so many years of believing myself to be the inherent, secret butt of the joke.
“That one’s just for me,” he says, and comes to his feet. He mimes admiring the photo and tucking it in his pocket, and then he wanders away.
And all I can do is watch him go. I’m unsure if I want to grab him by the wrist and beg him to stay, or take a blood vow to never speak to this man again until we cross paths in some other part of the world two years from now.
Because his interest in me is both a compliment and a threat. I pine for his attention as much as I am suspicious of it. This double standard is as exhausting for me as it is for anyone who has ever had to listen to me complain about it.
I decide to get lost in taking pictures. Rhys and Amelia are kissing on the bow, and I seize the opportunity to be useful and productive. I hurry toward them as much as the alcohol buzz and boat-rocking will allow and snap some excellent pictures of them against the burning red backdrop of the sunset. Elliot and Keko join in then, followed by Rhys’s sisters and my other bestie, Laney. My smile stretches ear to ear as I catch their hilarious antics on my camera. Weston hangs back, laughing off to the side. I finally wave him toward the group.