From the Jump(36)
“It’s-ola the-ola truth-ola,” I say, pulling out the big guns.
As expected, the group breaks into Ola-Speak, everyone laughing and trying to outdo each other’s speed. Everyone except for Deiss, of course. He’s shaking his head, but I spot the relief in his eyes when he looks at me.
With an enigmatic smile, I wink at him.
* * *
—
To my relief, the rest of the day goes smoothly. Whatever weirdness might have spilled over from last night was wiped away by the reference to his past. I suppose that’s why it’s so easy to be grateful for his offer to share a room when my debit card gets declined in the hotel lobby. Or maybe I’ve simply resigned myself to the fact that Africa is a place where I end up spending my nights with Deiss. It’s the same hotel we stayed in when I arrived, so I know the room will have two beds, even if they have been pushed together.
“Should I be worried about the fact that my card was just declined?” I ask the group, despite the fact that the guy behind the desk just assured me that their machine frequently struggles with debit cards.
“You should be worried that you live in the 1800s,” Simone says. “Who doesn’t bring a credit card when traveling overseas?”
“I’ve never traveled overseas,” I say, squaring my shoulders at her tone. She’s managing to sound awfully judgmental for someone whose own credit card is tied to a family bank account. “Nor do I use credit cards. I have one, as recommended by Seeking Security, and I buy one thing each month on it and pay it off immediately, in a responsible effort to build my credit rating.”
“I have like six,” Mac says, reaching for his wallet as if he’s going to display them for me like a proud dad with pictures of his kids. “But I like to use the blue one best because it’s made of metal.”
“Quick question,” Simone says, holding a finger up in the air. “If your credit is so spectacular, why did that man just reject your payment?”
“You just heard him say a lot of debit cards are declined,” Phoebe says. “It’s a problem with his machine.”
“I need a shower,” Deiss says decisively. “Liv, let’s go.”
“Wait,” Simone says. “Not together, right? All showering is being done separately, right?”
Because I don’t appreciate her, of all people, questioning my spending, I choose not to reassure her. I arch an eyebrow instead, allowing the corner of my mouth to curl in a suggestive smile. It’s a move that makes me feel petty, but her territorial attitude toward Deiss is beginning to grate.
His hand presses against the small of my back, sweeping me away. Over his shoulder he calls out, “Downstairs for dinner in an hour.”
“I’ll need longer than that,” I say once we’re outside. The moon is full, and the lighting along the wooden-slatted path is a welcome change from the darkness outside the campsites we’ve been staying at. But the density of the jungle feels strange after several days of vast land and open skies.
“Your beauty routine for the last four days has consisted of wet wipes and sunscreen,” he says. “You’ll do fine. Plus, I’m starving. Man cannot survive on Clif bars alone.”
I nod, too pleased he hasn’t noticed my secret applications of mascara and tinted moisturizer to argue for more time. I might have learned that I don’t have to wear a face full of makeup, but I’ve also discovered that old habits die hard. As Simone keeps reminding us, pictures last forever, and a safari calls for lots and lots of camera time.
Our room turns out to be almost identical to the last one we stayed in, only this time the beds have been separated already. I wait for the awkwardness to hit, but it doesn’t come. Apparently, trading secrets during an elephant invasion is the trick to achieving comfort with someone. Or maybe it’s just that there’s no time for things to get weird. Deiss tosses his stuff on the far bed the moment we walk in and insists I take the first shower. When I get out, tugging my shirt and skirt over my damp, sticky skin so as not to risk a falling towel, he’s not even there.
He doesn’t return until ten minutes before we’re supposed to leave. I’m tempted to ask where he’s been, but it doesn’t feel appropriate. I’ve never appreciated those kinds of questions directed my way. Still, my gaze follows him covertly as he strolls into the bathroom.
I don’t understand his confidence—how he moves through life without feeling like he owes anyone anything. When I walk into a room and don’t speak, it’s because I don’t know what to say and make the choice to opt for silence over a potential mistake. When he does it, I doubt he’s thinking about anything in particular beyond the shower he wants to take, or the song lyrics running through his head. To him, a nod of acknowledgment is all that’s needed when someone else appears.
“We can’t keep teasing Simone,” he says, coming out of the bathroom as I’m pulling a brush through my wet hair. Like me, he’s opted to put on clothes in the steamy bathroom. His t-shirt has stuck to his skin and is off-center on his shoulders, pulling against his chest. I catch a glimpse of tight abs before he shifts it into place. “She’s freaking out.”
“You saw her?”
“She came by Mac’s room. We were trying to figure out what time we’re going to the airport tomorrow.”