I look at the cup in her hand—peachy pink, deceptively cheerful—and something inside me tightens.
“Yeah, no,” I say lightly. “Salt and peaches… that’s a crime.”
She lets go of my hand and shrugs. “Hey, it happens. Did Luna tell you about when the bus broke down in Colorado? How the only way I could get everyone to Durango was on a school bus? And then everyone missed Mesa Verde?”
“She did,” I say, smiling faintly. “I think she called me that day—Noah had just kissed her for the first time. I barely heard a word about the bus.”
Tay laughs. “Yeah, well. The point is, don’t let the logistics bother you too much. And hey, look around. Everyone’s having fun. That’s what really matters.”
“Got it.” I laugh softly as she heads back toward the music.
I glance once more at the drink in her hand—something that should’ve been sweet, ruined by salt—and then I look away.
Not everything is what it looks like. This excursion. My marriage.
Beckett’s cryptic messages?
The boat shifts a little and the famous Cabo Arch comes into view, along with jagged rocks and glimpses of a sandy beach.
It isn’t the pristine scene I’ve seen on Instagram. There are at least twenty other boats bobbing nearby, and a dozen jet skis zigzagging between them.
Still—it’s pretty cool.
I lean my forearms against the railing and let myself just stand there, the salty air on my skin, the water sloshing gently below. Alone, managing my disappointment. I’ve gotten good at this part.
Footsteps sound behind me, but I don’t turn around.
“The boys are downstairs with your mom,” Beckett says quietly.
For a moment, I say nothing, letting the steady thrum of the engine fill the space between us.
“Okay,” I say at last.
“Blake’s counted over a hundred fish,” he adds. “Max is disappointed there aren’t any sharks.”
That gets a small smile out of me. I nod, still facing the water.
We haven’t been alone since last night.
And suddenly, I feel stiff, I hear my heartbeat in my ears and can’t stop thinking about the way I turned to him. The way that I… rubbed against him.
It was just…nostalgia, habit, born out of proximity and a few too many drinks.
And the song.
But I’m sober now.
So why does every cell in my body feel jumpy? This is Beckett, for heaven’s sake.
I feel like I have to saysomething.
I clear my throat. “I’m… sorry.”
The words feel inadequate even as they leave my mouth.
“About last night,” I add quietly. “I shouldn’t have… leaned on you like that.”
I keep my eyes on the water, pretending I’m braver than I am.
