From the Jump(17)



The vegetation around us changes just before the road turns to dirt. It’s tropical, but not like the well-spaced palm trees on the beaches back home. It’s more like a jungle, wild and interwoven. The air is ripe with the collision of earth and sea. It feels thicker, like it’s filling my lungs with something alive.

Deiss eases the car over a pothole. “We’ll pass our cabanas to get to your guesthouse, but it’s a small town, so they can’t be far apart. Would you rather stop and see everyone first or get checked in?”

I’d kill for a quick shower, but obviously it’s more appropriate to stop and say hello first.

No.

The word pops into my head, unexpected and insistent. I don’t want to do things because I’m supposed to. These are my friends, my family even, and I am on vacation. There’s no reason to temper my desires here. Especially not with them.

“I’d prefer to get checked in first.” The words come out so confidently, I can’t even hear the question in them myself. But I find myself waiting for Deiss’s permission anyway.

Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t come. He merely nods and leans a little closer toward the windshield before turning sharply. And then there’s a glow of light that gets brighter as we move into the town. Still no road lights, but a strip of restaurants and lodges lights the street through their windows. Up ahead, shadowed people shuffle down the strip with the lazy saunter of vacationers. We pass a restaurant lined with tables. Its door is propped open, lively music spilling out. A string of Christmas lights is haphazardly draped along the front wall, more likely decor than leftover holiday cheer. In the distance, I hear the roar of the sea.

Then, almost as quickly as it appeared, it’s gone again and we’re back in the jungle as if the stretch of civilization was merely a mirage. Ten minutes later, Deiss pulls the car to a stop in front of my soon-to-be home. Neither of us speaks as we collect my luggage and approach the front door. The jungle around us rustles with the sounds of living creatures, but the building itself shows no signs of life.

“Are you sure this place hasn’t been condemned?” Deiss eyes the sagging wooden building doubtfully. Unlike the other places we’ve passed, there’s no welcoming light over their door. The only sign we’ve arrived at the right place is the piece of cardboard propped against the wall with the words Holiday Guesthouse written in block letters across it.

My stomach drops. “Since Friday when I made the reservation?”

His look of doubt remains.

“No,” I admit. “I’m not at all sure.”

He sets my bag on the gravel porch and raps loudly on the door.

My breath catches in my throat as I wait for it to open. I can’t believe this is the place Elena chose to book for my first trip out of the country. I’d be furious with her; however, since I opted to get drunk on alcoholic creamer instead of dealing with logistics, I probably shouldn’t place blame.

Deiss lifts his hand to knock again, but the door opens before he makes contact. A small, wiry woman peers out, seeming to look past us. Slowly, her bright eyes focus, taking us in. She has a distracted air, making it impossible to determine if she’s pleased or annoyed to see us. I suspect she’s neither, and that she’d be perfectly content to see us in a room or back on the road, as long as the chosen option removes us from her doorstep.

“Hi,” I say, wishing I’d thought to at least learn the local greeting. Shifting my tote bag to the other shoulder, I proceed in English because, sadly, that’s the only language I know. “I’m Olivia Bakersfield. I’ve booked a room for tonight.”

“Here?” She glances behind her as if she’s checking some invisible registry in the air. “Oh, right. My brother mentioned trying that out. I suppose he’s giving you his room.”

“His room?”

“I hope you didn’t pay him much for it.” She wags a finger at me. “I guarantee not one cent of it will go toward keeping this house running. Do you know he showed up two years ago and still insists he’s my guest?”

I position my face into an appropriate expression of disapproval but am spared the effort formulating a reply when Deiss speaks up.

“The thing is,” he says, “Olivia’s only here to confirm that her reservation was canceled. She wouldn’t want any confusion that might result in her having to pay for the mistaken booking.”

“I see. Well, there’s nothing to worry about there.” The woman waves her hand in a way that seems to brush both any potential confusion and us away in one swoop. “My brother takes payment in cash. Unless she already gave it to him? If so, that was your mistake, girlie. Getting money out of him is like trying to pry your hand out of a crocodile’s mouth.”

Deiss looks at me, and I shake my head. I’m incapable of saying more. Obviously, there’s not even the tiniest part of me that wants to stay in some strange man’s bedroom. On the other hand, I’m nearing fifty hours without any real sleep. Without the distraction of small talk, exhaustion has reared its ugly head, rendering me wobbly.

“We’re good then,” Deiss says firmly. “Sorry to take up your time.”

Before he’s even done speaking, the woman is nodding and offering a kind smile as she slams the door in our faces.

I stand there stunned for a moment, my eyes tracing the worn wooden rectangle in front of me. The touch of Deiss’s hand on the small of my back jolts me out of my reverie. It’s warm and firm, and completely unexpected.

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