“Khalifa!” I shrieked, smacking his shoulder.
He chuckled, and of course, my irritation collapsed like wet paper. Who knew Khalifa Nasser had a playful side? Certainly not me. Certainly not my heart, which was now performing stunts no cardiologist would sign off on.
We rolled to a stop at the red light. He popped open the console, grabbed a tissue, and angled himself toward me. “Come here.”
I leaned closer, and he braced my chin, gently blotting away the black streak.
“Perfect,” he murmured, lingering a beat too long, long enough that the air thickened, warm and fizzy, and I forgot what oxygen even was. For one giddy, downright irresponsible second, I was certain he wasn’t talking about my freshly de-mascaraed nose at all, butme.
A horn blared behind us, shattering the moment, and we jolted apart like two teenagers caught doing something that was only technically innocent. He faced forward and started driving. I stared out the window, pretending my pulse wasn’t attempting to break the sound barrier.
After what felt like forever, he finally slowed down. I didn’t realize where we were until we parked next to a deep valley with a silver ribbon of river flashing far below. A bridge was suspended in the sky. I leaned forward, reading the sign up ahead.
Whistler Bungee.
My heart stopped. “No.”
“Yes.”
“Absolutely not,” I said. “I draw the line atbungee jumping. I’m a doctor. I know exactly how bones break.”
He turned off the engine and faced me, completely unbothered. “Good thing we’re not here for the bones. We’re here for the fun.”
“I don’t dofunthat involves physics.”
“You’ve spent all day punishing yourself for something that wasn’t your fault. You need to stop thinking.”
“By throwing myself off a bridge?”
He shrugged. “Preferably with a rope attached, but ultimately, the choice is yours.”
I stared at him, torn between horror and humor. “You’re crazy.”
He smiled, that slow, aggravating, melt-you-from-the-inside smile. “Maybe. But I promise, when it’s over, you’ll feel better.”
I stayed seated, clutching my seatbelt.
He opened my door and said, “Come on,Dr. T. Time to trade in grief for adrenaline.”
And for reasons I didn’t understand yet—maybe because of the way he said it, or the way the sunlight hit his eyes—I followed.
Minutes later, two waivers were signed, and I found myself in a harness, staring down at the canyon as a gust whipped around my scarf. I could hear my pulse in my ears, could feel the tremor in my hands that I hoped no one else noticed.
“You’ll be fine,” Khalifa said, his voice calm in a way that only made me want to punch him.
“Easy for you to say. You don’t have a paralyzing fear of dying midair.”
“They don’t let you die midair,” he assured me. “That’s bad for business.”
I squinted at him. “I’m surprisedyou’redoing this. You can’t handle turbulence on a safely secured plane, but free-falling off a cliff tied to a glorified shoelace is fine?”
He perked up like he’d been waiting his whole life for this exact accusation. “Okay, think of it like this. Remember how you told me flying was like being in a cup of Jell-O someone shook at a kid’s birthday party?”
I made a face. “That’s not how I—”
“Well,” he barreled on, “bungee jumping is like...being trapped in a soda can. You’re the bubble. But like, theleadbubble. The one that guides the other bubbles to—no, wait. You’re not the bubble. You’re the carbonation. Or gravity is the carbonation? Actually, hang on, you might be—”
I pressed a finger to his lips, shushing whatever bizarre, life-altering metaphor he thought he was on the verge of inventing. “Stop talking.”
