The Good Widow(28)
Beth thinks it’s because our mother taught us how to swim by throwing us into the water. “Sink or swim,” Mom had said with a laugh. I realize now that we were in the shallow end of a pool—only three feet deep, and we were never more than an arm’s distance away. But still, it was terrifying. Beth paddled her arms and kicked her legs with gusto, propelling her head above the surface the very first time. I froze, sinking quickly, my mother yanking me up before I ever reached the pool floor. The second time, my survival instinct kicked in, and I used my body to fight my way to the surface until I touched the uneven orange tile on the side of the pool. Yes, I learned how to swim quickly. But that didn’t mean I had to like it.
From the dock, I eye our boat floating in the ocean and glance at Nick. “Do you think that’s safe?”
“I do, but I also run into burning buildings for a living. So I may have a different definition of the word?” he says, sliding his T-shirt off.
When we’d walked up to the check-in point for Blue Water Rafting Adventures, I noticed a woman appraise Nick, and then me, clearly trying to figure out how we made sense. We don’t, I wanted to call out. He’s younger. And hotter. And PS: We aren’t even together. We’re trying to figure out why our partners didn’t want us anymore.
I tug at my board shorts and reach my hand behind my back to make sure my bikini top is secure before grabbing a life jacket from the shelf, wishing I’d said yes to the coffee that Nick offered me when I’d met him in the lobby at five this morning. But my head had been throbbing from one too many drinks last night as he pressed a brochure into my hand that promised an exhilarating ride as we toured grand sea caves and spectacular lava arches. “Lava whats?” I asked, my voice cracking slightly.
“Not a morning person?” He smiled, crunching his empty coffee cup in his hand and shooting it into a nearby trash can like a basketball.
My hangover combined with my unease about our boating adventure had left me feeling off. It didn’t help that James had asked me—no, begged me—to do this exact trip when we were on our honeymoon, but I’d refused, blaming my fear of the water. He’d said that I was using it as a crutch. I’d called him insensitive. It was our first big fight, and it had happened during a time we were supposed to be experiencing wedded bliss. I’d called Beth crying, asking her if it was a sign. Had I married a jerk? She’d laughed and said I needed to take a step back and look at what we were fighting about—a silly sightseeing tour, not something important. I’d hung up feeling better, and hoped our disagreement was just random. And back then, it was. But our problems began to bulge at the seams years later, his insensitivity so frequent that I almost forgot that he hadn’t always been wound so tightly. That he used to have more soft spots for me to fall upon.
I tried to talk my way out of this outing as well, but Nick used my desire for information against me, telling me he’d booked us with Adam, the same guide Dylan and James had used. And not only that, but he’d managed to get the concierge to give him a rundown of every activity James and Dylan had done together. “Answers,” he said. “Just remember that. We’ll get them if we go.”
Adam turns out to be a sun-kissed twentysomething with a boy-band haircut and shorts that are dangling dangerously low on his hips. He looks like he’s going to use the word bro and pump his fist for emphasis. I whisper to Nick, “That’s the same guy they had?”
Nick nods, and I try to imagine James taking instruction from a man who looks like a Calvin Klein model. It couldn’t have gone well. James had been a natural athlete his entire life, playing soccer and football in high school, even making the lacrosse team his junior year with hardly any experience. He was always in some kind of sports league, and shortly after we got married he took up running—competing in several half marathons. And even though he was still in good shape before he died, he’d definitely been starting to feel older, making several comments about his back feeling tight, his knee giving him trouble. So to take instruction from a younger, very fit guy about anything? That could definitely rock him.
Adam introduces our group to the two other guides, both older versions of him, then gathers us on a corner of the dock and gives us a quick overview of what our boating adventure will entail. He promises it will include secret coves filled with exotic marine life and majestic sea turtles! I suppress an eye roll and half listen as he goes through a few safety instructions, including my personal favorite: not to get out of the boat unless he says so. I size up the other tourists as he yammers on. They include the woman in the yellow bikini and sarong (sarong, really?) and an older gay couple wearing matching Bermuda shorts and zinc strips across their noses. Finally Adam gives us permission to get into the boat, where we are instructed to squat and hold on to a rope.
“Squat?” I glare at Nick, who is clearly amused as he watches me try and fail several times to twist the thick yellow rope around my right hand.
He leans over and wraps his arm around my back, causing me to stiffen even more. “I promise I won’t let anything happen to you.”
I wriggle out of his grip. “You have no business making promises like that,” I say, harsher than I intend.
“Jacks . . .”
“I’m sorry,” I say, holding up my rope-free hand. “I thought being here was going to help. But now I’m sitting on a boat I don’t want to be on, with, no offense, a guy I barely know, and it just feels wrong. Like this was the stupidest decision I’ve ever made. Maybe Beth was right.” The rope slips from my grip just as the boat jolts from the dock. I slide backward with the motion, my hands searching for traction and finding none.