We spend the next hour wandering through the exhibits, Emmy alternating between holding Jared’s hand and mine.
She makes me translate increasingly ridiculous fish conversations. Jared adds his own commentary that makes me laugh hard enough that other visitors start giving us looks. Though I don’t mind these looks.
“The octopus is definitely planning a heist,” Jared says with complete seriousness. “Look at him. That’s a criminal mastermind if I ever saw one.”
“Eight arms means eight times the theft,” I agree. “He’s probably already picked fourteen pockets just while we’ve been watching.”
Emmy nods sagely. “Bad octopus.”
After Emmy has demolished the bag of popcorn Jared brought with him, she spots an interactive touch pool around the corner and practically vibrates with excitement.
“Can I touch them? Please, please, please?”
“Okay.”
I sit on a nearby bench as Jared kneels to her level, seriously explaining the rules about being gentle and only using two fingers, then helps her roll up her sleeves.
There’s something about watching those big paramedic hands, the ones that can start IVs and perform CPR, being so impossibly gentle as they demonstrate to Emmy how to touch a sea cucumber that makes me melt.
That chocolate-cake voice is soft, and when he laughs at something Emmy says, his whole face transforms. I have to look away before I do something stupid, like imagine what those hands would feel like on me again.
Jared eventually comes back and sits next to me on the bench as we watch Emmy carefully touch every single creature in the pool with the concentration of a bomb disposal expert.
His thigh brushes against mine and my entire nervous system lights up like someone just plugged me into the mains. It’s ridiculous how a simple touch through two layers of denim can affect me so much.
“Why don’t you have a boyfriend?” The words tumble out before I can stop them.
Jared turns to look at me, eyebrows raised.
“Oh shit, I said that out loud, didn’t I?”
He smiles. “Yes, you said that out loud.”
“I was just thinking that you’re gorgeous, great in bed, and you rescue people for a living. Plus, you’re basically the world’s best uncle. You should have men lined up around the block.”
He laughs, but there’s a self-conscious note in it. “I don’t know. I guess I’m not really into the partying scene, so it’s hard to meet guys.”
“You were out at a club on Halloween,” I point out.
“Yeah, one of my colleagues, Ryan, dragged me out that night. It was actually his Darth Vader costume I borrowed.” He rubs his nose awkwardly. “But fair warning, I don’t normally spend my Friday nights at clubs until three a.m. I’d rather be home watching TV or hanging out with Emmy. Most guys want someone more…exciting.”
“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” I say. “And I once heard someone argue that birds aren’t real.”
He laughs properly this time. “Someone claimed birds aren’t real?”
“Government drones, apparently. But that’s not the point. The point is that anyone who thinks you’re boring is an idiot who doesn’t deserve you.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he says.
“The partying scene is not all it’s cracked up to be anyway,” I say.
I try to keep my bitterness out of my voice, but it’s difficult. I stuff my hands into my pockets. I know only too well how the partying scene isn’t all that great because I was totally into it before my accident.
It was great for my ego—being seen, being wanted, being the center of attention. But it was all surface, all performance.
All those supposed friends of mine, the ones that used to gush when they saw me, telling me I was gorgeous, blowing up my phone with invitations every weekend, half of them never visited me in hospital. The ones that did couldn’t even look at me properly and never came back. I wonder whether any of them even remember my name now, or if I’m just “that guy who had the accident” in their stories?
Jared’s studying my face, probably trying to work out what caused my mood to change so abruptly, when Emmy appears in front of us. “I’m hungry.”
