From the Jump(26)

“No,” Simone says firmly. “If she wasn’t the love of his life, he would’ve cheated on her instead of breaking up with her.”

I roll my eyes. “Am I supposed to be impressed by his restraint?”

“Yeah, actually. They’d been together since they were kids, and they both needed to see what else was out there. You know Mac. He’s all impulse. That might be the only time in his life that he thought a situation through and did the right thing.”

I open my mouth to argue but am cut off by someone yelling about hippos. The guide points to the other side of the boat, and like everyone else, I find myself running to the other side. It’s a whole pod of them. I’ve never seen a hippo before. I’ve never even thought of them as real. They’ve always been cartoons in my mind, but there’s nothing cartoonish about them. They look old, even the baby at the edge of the water. Their skin is like thick, weathered leather. They’re massive, bigger than I imagined, and the thoughts of Phoebe and Mac fade against their enormity.

I take a couple of pictures, but it seems silly. I’ll never forget these animals. I’ll never forget any of this. It’s hard to imagine that I’ve gone from my cubicle to here in a matter of days. Not one of my books told me what it would be like to hear the lap of water and feel the sun on my face as I float down an estuary. They didn’t describe the awe of seeing things I’ve only ever seen on TV. But they should have.

I leave the crowd and return to the empty side of the boat, leaning against the railing to search for my own discovery. Wind ruffles my hair, and I pull my sunglasses to the top of my head to keep it back. With the blanket of jet lag still hovering over me, it feels like this could all be a dream. A bird trills above as I search the water for a crocodile. When I don’t find one, I scan the banks for another exotic bird. Instead, I spot more monkeys.

“Having fun?” Deiss appears beside me and leans against the railing. His eyes follow mine to the monkeys.

“I’m supposed to be working on a project about bone broth right now,” I say. “So, yes. This feels particularly fun in comparison.”

“Bone broth? No wonder you jumped on a plane.”

I turn to look at him. “Have you come over because of Phoebe’s challenge?”

He glances over with a small grin, but then his eyes return to the monkeys. “You’re safe. I think I got it all out of my system with her.”

I feel a twinge of disappointment that I don’t approve of at all. “Too bad. I was curious what it was like when you actually made an effort.”

He laughs. “What is it, exactly, that you think I don’t make an effort at?”

“Anything.”

“Fair enough.”

“See?” I turn to him triumphantly. “You can’t even make an effort to defend yourself.”

“What’s there to defend?” He turns to meet my eyes.

He’s taken off the mirrored glasses, and it’s strange, being this close to him and having his full attention. The blue of his eyes is so different from the lightness of Mac’s. It’s dark and swirling with all of the things he never says aloud. I find myself leaning a little closer, wishing I could read something in them.

“Your hair looks different today,” he says quietly. He’s not looking at my hair, though. He’s still looking into my eyes.

“Does it?” I ask, even though the fact that I didn’t style it was a pressing concern merely an hour ago. I pat at it without thinking.

“I like it.” He reaches up and runs a lock of it through his thumb and forefinger slowly. As his hand gets lower, the back of his thumb trails lightly down the side of my neck. Goose bumps break across my skin, and my skin flushes hotly. “It’s pretty. You always look beautiful, though.”

“I do?” I ask, too distracted by whatever is happening to realize I’ve spoken at all.

“I can’t keep my eyes off you sometimes.” As if to demonstrate his point, his eyes drift over my face like a caress. “You’re like this serene, brilliant pool, with all of these things swirling below the surface, just out of view. Sometimes, when I see one of them, it feels like treasure.”

His tongue slips out over his bottom lip, pulling it in, and my eyes finally leave his, locking in on his mouth. His thumb traces my collarbone, and my hair moves with it, tickling the skin on my chest. My stomach flips, sharp and hard.

He leans closer still, and his thumb breaks free of the lock of hair and lifts to my chin, tilting it up. His mouth comes closer before moving past mine, the stubble delightfully rough against my cheek. And then his hot breath is tickling my ear.

“That’s what it looks like,” he whispers, “when I’m making an effort.”

His words filter slowly through my mind. Once the meaning of them works its way through my brain, I brace myself for embarrassment. But it doesn’t come. I’m disappointed at the realization I’m not the treasure he’s described, but more than that, I’m caught up in the wonder of what Deiss has just done. I can’t remember a single time of my life that I’ve so thoroughly forgotten myself. And the skill he’s exhibited. As someone who spends most days pretending, I’m in awe of his mastery of it.

“Lucas Deiss,” I say admiringly. I pull back, but I have to grip his arm to steady myself. “You are good at that.”