The Good Widow(30)
“We all have our demons,” he says as he places the mask over my nose, straightening the snorkel until it’s just right. I notice Adam watching us.
“You can go ahead and get in, guys,” he says, offering me a thumbs-up.
I give him a halfhearted thumbs-up in return and look over the side of the boat into the water, hating that the bottom of the ocean is so far down, the hugeness of it making my heartbeat quicken. But I push the thought away.
“I’m really going to do this? Go in there?”
“Yep.” Nick jumps in, making a large splash, then holds his arms outstretched to welcome me.
I lower myself down the ladder slowly, the cold water calling every nerve in my legs to attention as I sit on the side of the boat and awkwardly put on my fins. I widen my eyes at Nick.
“It takes a minute to get used to it, but you will,” he says.
“The temperature or putting my entire body in the ocean for the first time—ever?” I say, finally jumping into the water.
Adam drops in behind me and lets out a “Woo!”
He tells us we can join the rest of the tour about a hundred feet away, who he says are watching a pair of sea turtles.
I decide being out in the open water sounds slightly less nerve-racking, so I point toward the group. I arch my arm into the water and hear Adam remind me to use my fins to help propel me forward. It’s awkward at first, but finally I’m moving. And I’m not sure if it’s the meditation or adrenaline, but I dip my head under the surface, my mask going under but my tube still able to get air. A school of turquoise-and-yellow fish surrounds me, and I feel a surge of panic, yanking my head up and searching for Nick, whom I find just a few feet away, watching me. He points. “The turtles. All you have to do is get to the turtles.”
I turn away from my phobia and follow him.
According to Adam, Hawaii has very strict laws about how close you can get to a sea turtle. But you can get near enough to see him blink his eyes, to see his leathery skin, to guess how many decades he’s been swimming these waters. As if sensing my curiosity, one of them swims within ten feet of me, letting me take a closer look. He’s majestic. Just like Adam described.
I start to swim closer to him, but Nick tugs on my arm, reminding me that Adam is watching us. “So those tiny fish back there freaked you out, but this huge guy is making you smile? In fact”—he motions toward my mouth—“I think that one might actually be real—not that shitty fake one you’ve been giving me since we met.”
He’s right. It doesn’t make any sense that I was scared of the fish, but not of the Chelonia mydas, or green adult sea turtle, which Adam explained is about forty inches long and nearly two hundred pounds. But our fears rarely make sense, right? Isn’t that the point? That they’re irrational? I reward his insight with my shitty fake smile, and he laughs.
“That’s Bob Marley.” Adam swims up beside us. “The coolest, most laid-back sea turtle in these parts. And he loves the attention he gets from the people we bring through here. And in case you’re wondering, because most people do, he got his name because he always looks like he just smoked a doobie!” Adam laughs. “Check out those glassy eyes!”
Something about Adam’s words snaps me back to reality. And I remember why we’re here. That James and Dylan probably swam in this same spot, hearing the same story about the Jamaican sea turtle. I look at Nick, who nods. It’s time.
“So, Adam, some friends of ours told us about this tour. They said you were the best guide. You might remember them? Just a couple of months ago?” Nick says.
Adam smiles, revealing a row of perfect white teeth. “I take a lot of people out here, so . . .”
Adam must see my face fall because he quickly adds, “But maybe? You never know! What were their names?”
“James and Dylan,” I say quickly.
Adam’s eyes light up. “James and Dylan! Loved those two. James was my Costa Rican brotha from another motha! Newlyweds, right?”
Nick and I share a look, and I mouth, What the fuck? Because this, we were not prepared for.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
JACKS—AFTER
Nick and I settle into the back row of the shuttle, and I try to tune out the group’s chatter, especially the intermittent high-pitched squeals from Ms. Yellow Bikini as she looks at the unbelievable shots on her camera. I just need to think. To figure out why my husband and his mistress said they were married. Because there was no way it was true. James had many questionable qualities—one of them obviously being a cheater with no regard for his marriage vows—but I knew even he would draw the line at polygamy. It would be too messy. Too much work. Too far beneath him. It must have been the thrill—playing the part of husband and wife. Out here on this island, they didn’t have to hide. They could be together, in the open.
Or there’s another scenario, but one I don’t really want to consider: they were planning to leave us and get married.
“What’s going on in there?” Nick points to my head after we arrive back at the hotel and step off the shuttle.
“You don’t want to know.” I fiddle with my wedding band, which I’m still wearing. But that is a whole other Oprah. And I’m grateful Nick pretends not to notice me doing it.
“Oh, I have a feeling I already do. It’s probably exactly what I was thinking the whole ride back here.” Nick rolls his eyes in Ms. Yellow Bikini’s direction. “If only her cackling had been just a little louder, then it could’ve drowned out my thoughts.”