I’m nervous and tingly that I’m about to be deep in a lie. I remind myself that I know everything about my sisterandthat these people don’t know her at all. They will have no idea. I place her ID strategically at the front of my wallet in case I need it when I board the boat. I step in line behind the other tourists queueing for the bus. An older couple takes their place behind me. They bicker softly until one of them laughs. When I glance behind me, they’re holding hands. I feel a tug at my heartstrings – they have what I want one day.
We barely have to wait five minutes before they start to load us onto the bus. I’m last to board because I need to physically kick my suitcase into the space underneath the bus (it barely fits, and I feel my face heat with embarrassment). But I end up with the front seat to myself, and as I unpack my water bottle to take a large sip, I think to myself,I did it.I actually made it all the way to Australia. I’m about to dive the Great Barrier Reef. Just as I’m about to take another sip, cheersing myself as I do so, a straggler boards the bus and throws his backpack between us before taking his seat. I jump at the sudden movement and spill water down the front of my shirt.Great,I think, giving the man serious side-eye. He’s fiddling with his wallet, so he doesn’t even notice. I roll my eyes. I know I’m one of them, but why do American tourists seem to suck so much?
As soon as we pull out of the parking lot and onto the main road, sunlight streams through the windows. I dig out my toiletry bag to rub some sunscreen onto my face, no sense in getting burned before my trip even starts, and try to enjoy the ride. Air is rushing through the cracked windows and it smells like the ocean. I can barely contain my excitement.
We haven’t even been driving for five minutes before I notice the man next to me is staring at me. Well . . . not exactly at me . . . he’s staring at the toiletry bag that’s resting in my lap . . .reallystaring at it. I watch him studying my bag, weirded out that he’s taken such an interest in my lap, but he doesn’t notice. He has shaggy blond hair and tanned skin. He’s wearing a loose-fitting slate-grey T-shirt. He looks . . . familiar . . . but I can’t place him. I quickly remind myself that I’m extremely jet-lagged and know nobody in Australia. Maybe he looks like a famous person.
I stare at his nose, which slopes perfectly straight, like the profile outline of Prince Eric fromA Little Mermaid.
He catches me staring and we make direct eye contact. I feel the back of my kneecaps prickle with sweat. Suddenly, my heart is pounding, and my throat is dry. I clear my throat awkwardly and look away. I resolve not to let my new-found singleness make me extremely nervous around every hot guy I encounter. I remind myself of my goals –not even perfect Prince Eric noses will distract me.
Before rotating my shoulders to completely face the window, I steal one more look at his eyes, which are a dark, grey-ish blue that reminds me of a rainstorm. They’re not the aquamarine that Prince Eric has. They’re almost the colour of the skin of a dolphin. And he looks angry.
It clicks. He reminds me of Hugh Harris. I dismiss the thought as soon as it crosses my mind.There’s no way.It must be the jet lag.
I almost ask if there is something I can do to help him but think better of it. Maybe he had to sit next to a crying baby on his flight. I look out the window instead. We are passing palm trees that sway in the wind. In the distance are huge, vividly green mountains. Some are shrouded gently in fog. The whole place is lush and breathtaking. Occasionally, water appears in between buildings. It’s bright blue and calm. I’m in paradise.
The bus clanks over a huge pothole, sending his backpack and my bag straight up in the air. I attempt to catch my toiletry bag and fumble, sending it straight into his lap. He looks at me with fury, his eyes even darker than they were a second ago, his brow furrowed.
‘Here.’ He thrusts it into my hands. He has an Australian accent, so it sounds like ‘heeya’.
‘Thanks.’
‘You know they make reef-friendly sunscreen, right?’
I almost point out that he’s so tanned it looks like he’s never used sunscreen in his life, but instead I diplomatically say, ‘OK.’
‘And yet you brought that.’ He gestures to my bag.
I am grateful Australians speak English, but man, this guy is hard to understand. He sounds like he’s trying to talk with rocks in his mouth. It takes me a moment to decipher what he’s trying to say, which is:Why do you have non-reef-friendly sunscreen when you’re at the biggest reef in the world?Instead of thinking of a response, I panic. I stare at him, blinking, thinking,Oh my God, how is this already happening? I’ve barely left the airport parking lot and they already know I’m a fraud.
He raises his eyebrows at me and the space between his eyebrows crinkles. As I clock his disgust, my thoughts shift from embarrassment to annoyance.Is this guy serious?He continues staring at me. ‘I forgot my other sunscreen,’ I say finally, unsure of why he thinks I owe him an explanation.
He nods but I can tell by his face he doesn’t believe me. ‘I’m serious!’ I double down. ‘I really did. I looked for a different kind at the airport before I came.’
‘Sure,’ he says. He turns his attention forward.
‘What, you don’t believe me?’ Immediately upon asking, I blush. I don’t know why it’s important to me that a stranger believes I wouldn’t willingly bring reef-harming chemicals to the Great Barrier Reef. Maybe because he’s Australian, and I don’t want to enter the country and get off on the wrong foot. Maybe because he is undeniably very cute. Maybe because I’m pretending to be somebody who would never make the mistake I just did.
‘Sure,’ he mumbles.
All right, asshole, I think.
We sit in silence the rest of the bus ride. I try to focus on absorbing every bit of scenery. I take a picture to send to Millie. I double-check I have her ID. I try not to look at who I’ve now labelled as ‘angry suntan man’, even though, despite his temperament, he’s nice to look at. He’s muscular in a gentle sort of way. Not like he goes to CrossFit, but more like he goes on runs and helps his neighbours move their furniture when they need it.
We’re in line to get off the bus when I see his backpack. He’s so much taller than me that I’m face to face with the logo: University of Sydney Marine Biology Lab.There’s no way. . . I think, shaking off the unease in my chest.
I debate asking if he knows Hugh but think better of it. He’s so unfriendly, if I tapped him on the shoulder, he would probably have a panic attack at the idea of talking to me again. Plus, I realise, I don’t want Hugh to know that I was using the wrong sunscreen.
Chapter 6
Day of the first dive
I walk in a large circle before I realise I’m completely lost. I’m looking for Coral Sea Dreaming’s boat, but I can’t seem to find it anywhere. All the other bus passengers have either disappeared inside the port building or are lining up outside their boats. Even the old couple have found their way to where they’re supposed to be. The only other person that looks as lost as me is angry suntan man.
I huff and sit down on a bench to pull up my email and see if that will give me any direction, but I can’t connect to the Australian network, and my phone is stubbornly refusing to show any of my inbox without connectivity. Angry suntan man looks as stumped as me, but I figure he must have service – he is Australian after all.
Lugging my bag around the docks has made me slightly sweaty, and I wipe at my hairline before turning to him. ‘Excuse me?’ I try to ask sweetly, hoping he will forget our bus conversation for long enough to help me out.
