“Oh, yeah?” He rests his chin on my head, and it’s comforting.
“Hell yes! Your breakfasts are the best part of my day,” I admit. He pulls back slightly to look at me, as if checking to see if I’m lying, and I blink up at him, a lazy smile on my lips. He brushes an errant curl out of my face, tucking it gently behind my ear.
“My love language is acts of service and gift giving, according to my therapist,” he says, and I melt—because whodoesn’tlove a man who’s self-aware enough to take care of his mental health that way? It makes me feel a little guilty for not making time for my own therapy this past year. “I like taking care of people, making sure they’re happy. But sometimes I feel like I come on too strong—like I’m a lot.”
I squeeze his waist lightly. “Whodoesn’tfeel like a lot? We’re dating in our thirties. We have decades of life trauma and experiences handcuffed to our wrists like beaten-up old suitcases that we drag along with us to each new partner. And then, like a sad little show-and-tell, we have to open that baggage up and share all the weird and incredible things that make us who we are, while simultaneously hoping they fall in love with us, either despite that baggage, in some cases, or because of it.”
What starts as a raspy rumble in Nolan’s chest builds quickly into a body-shaking belly laugh. It’s a sound I adore.
“That was the wisest and most convoluted metaphor I have ever heard in my life, Chloe Hill.”
“Blame Freddie,” I smirk. “And his stupidly strong cocktails.”
We stand there for a few minutes, just two people embracing on the dark, quiet deck. Guests walk by now and then, either on their way to Lunar Lounge or stumbling back to their rooms. But still, we hold on to one another.
It crosses my mind that now would be the perfect time to get back to where we had left off in the kitchen… but for some reason, I don’t want to. Not because I wouldn’t welcome the experience with opening fucking arms. But because, in this moment, there is something profoundly comforting about allowing ourselves to be “too much,” but safely, without judgment.
I’m beginning to realize that the energy Nolan radiates isn’t a uniform whisper of joy, like a sunbeam. Instead, it’s complex, ever-changing—an entire spectrum of color and emotion.
He’s iridescent.
NINETEEN
Chloe’s ‘90s Hits, Now Playing:
DON’T WANT YOU BACK — BACKSTREET BOYS
Things I did not haveon my celebrity bingo card: Tom Tomlinson being a nail-biter.
And not a subtle nail-biter, either.
No, this grown-ass man has spent the past forty-three minutes of this forty-five-minute bus ride from Catania chewing the nail off each finger, then biting it into tiny pieces in his mouth with a series of high-pitchedclick-chompnoises as his teeth slice nail.
I’m not sure if he’s swallowing the fragments, but I also haven’t seen him spit them out.
Honestly, I don’t care what weird bodily function someone does as long as it doesn’t encroach on my own peace. Whatever floats your boat, and all that.
But Tomlinson’sclick-chomp,click-chomp,click-chompfrom the seat directly in front of me is like an incessantly dripping faucet at 3 AM when you can’t sleep.
It’s driving me absolutelybonkers.
I’m imagining throwing my phone at the back of his head when Sora nudges me.
“I’m confused by this,” she says, biting her bottom lip and flipping through the pages of her crew binder. “Why are there only two male contestants scheduled for this excursion, and four women? Then it says a five-seater truck takes them to the next stop? That doesn’t make sense.”
Tomlinson bites his nail again and I wince, then try to concentrate on Sora’s question.
“Uh, yeah—they do these challenges sometimes where they’ll ‘leave’ two contestants behind,” I say, using air quotes to indicate that no one isactuallygetting ditched.
“Oh, I see…”
“The two male contestants have to pick which woman they each want to take on a private date after the tour,” I explain. “They get some one-on-one time—they’ll probably make out, enjoy the sights. Meanwhile, the two women who get left behind have to try to hitch a ride back to port. Glen always plans something funny for that, usually it’s like a pig farmer or something.”
Sora is quiet for a moment, then flips to the last page.
“Is that why I have a number here for a…circus troupe…under transportation?”
“Yup. That would be why.”
