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The tension between us right now will never translate into anything real and lasting.
At the end of this week, he’ll go back to Utah. I’ll go to New Hampshire. We’ll have to pretend this—whatever it is—never happened.
We’ll go back to annoying each other via email, disagreeing about work, and?—
“Hey, Hazel…” his low, rumbly voice yanks me out of my spiral of worry. “My bike’s a thousand miles from here. You don't have to worry about it.”
“That’s not what I’m worrying about.”
I look back out at the water of the lagoon.
The surface is glassy and still. The breeze coming in off the ocean died down when the sun set. Even the birds are hushed, for the most part, now that we’re nearing their sleeping hours.
I can’t find Chester the Sea Turtle. Where did he go?
I search for movement in the lagoon and finally spot a silvery dot. The dot gives way to the sea turtle’s nose, then his body.
Chester keeps his head up momentarily, probably sipping some much-needed air.
“I’m glad this place has turtles,” I say. “Did you know they live up to a hundred years? This resort protects and feeds this pair as part of some program. I’m pretty sure this is the one I’m calling Chester. His shell has a little more yellowish color than the others.”
“If it is, I’d like a word with him.” Jack’s deep voice is incredibly soft now. Thoughtful. Gentle. “My bike is far off, and that’s my usual way to cope. Maybe a word with a wise soul would do me good. I sure do miss Nola.”
He looks out at the water. His profile is striking: wild hair, straight nose, full lips, and strong jaw. “Chester, bud, you got a sec?”
When the turtle swims toward us, Jack looks at me with raised brows. “Are you seeing this?”
“He likes voices, I think. Maybe he thinks we have food, too. The last time I spent time with him, I was like a vegetable dispenser.”
Jack turns to face the water. “Bud, hate to disappoint you, but this lady’s not your feeding crew.”
I drop my gaze and consider the turtle. His dark eyes study me right back. His shell is an intricate pattern of dark green and pale yellow.
“I don’t mean to take all your time with him,” Jack says.
“I think he’s here for both of us,” I say. “You go first.”
“Okay. Chester, buddy, what’s a guy supposed to do when he gets into a tricky situation, romantically speaking?”
Chester blinks. Then he dips his head underwater and comes up with a mouthful of slimy, dark seaweed.
Jack clasps his hands together. “Great. You have your snack and think about it.”
“So, you’re in a tricky situation…” I twist so my back rests on the railing.
“Very tricky.” Jack studies me. That stormy, troubled look flits behind his eyes. “Hazel… the work situation aside… I’m not exactly—” He stops there and drags his fingers through his hair.
Not exactly what?
I want to know.
I could ask him to go on.
Or I could wait.
He examines the murky water. “I’m just… I dunno. I guess… I’ve gone through it. You know—the wringer. I guess you don’t get to thirty-two without ups and downs.”
“I know,” I say very quietly.
