“Porter?”
He doesn’t respond.
“You’re hurting my hand,” I whisper.
It’s like he doesn’t even know I’m there. Now I’m getting freaked out. I forcibly pry my ngers out of his, and it’s beyond difficult: It’s impossible. He’s got me in a deadlock, and he’s crazy strong.
For a brief moment, I panic, looking around, wondering what I should do. Wondering if anyone else notices what’s going on. But it’s dark, and there’s barely anyone in here. He’s suffering in silence.
What do I do? Should I slap him? Shout at him? ?at would only draw attention to us. I can’t imagine that helping.
“Hey,” I say urgently, still working on loosening his ngers. “Hey, hey. Uh, what kind of shark is that? Is that the same shark that bit you?” I know it wasn’t, but I’m not sure what else to do.
“What?” he asks, sounding bewildered.
“Is that your shark?”
“No,” he says, blinking. “No, mine’s a great white. ?at’s a Galapagos. ?ey rarely attack humans.” I nally break our hands apart. He looks down between us for the rst time and seems to notice something’s wrong. “Oh, Jesus.”
“It’s ne,” I assure him, resisting the urge to shake out my throbbing ngers.
“Fuck.” His face goes cloudy. He turns away from me and faces the tank.
Now I’m worried our beautiful, perfect date is ruined.
I have to summon all my willpower to push back the wave of chaotic emotion that threatens to take me under, because the truth is this: I’ve never been on a date before. Not a real one. Not one that someone planned. I’ve been on a couple of double dates, I guess you’d call them, and some spur-of-the-moment things, like, Hey, do you want to go study at Starbucks after class? But no real dates. ?is is all new territory. I need this to be okay. I need this to be normal.
Do not panic, Bailey Rydell.
I keep my voice light and tug on the leather key strap that dangles at his hip until he turns to face me again. “Hey, remember how freaked I got at the bon re? Please. You aren’t half as screwed up as me.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Sorry, I do. ?is time you’re going to have to trust me.”
“Bailey …”
?e shark swims by again, a little higher. I jiggle his keys in my palm. “I will admit, though, despite what I’ve been through, Greg Grumbacher looks like a dandelion compared to that beast. Now tell me how big your shark was compared to the Galapagos.”
His shoulders drop, his Adam’s apple rises and falls, and the way he’s looking at me now, suddenly clear-eyed and sharp, satis ed—as if he’s just made an important decision—makes me feel all funny inside. But I’m not worried anymore—not about him, and not that our date is ruined. ?e danger has passed.
We both face the window, and he begins to tell me in a low, steady voice about the Galapagos and another impressive shark that swims by, a hammerhead, telling me sizes and shapes and diets and endangered status. And as he talks, he moves behind me and wraps his arms around my waist—questioningly at rst, but when I pull him in tighter, he relaxes and rests his chin on my shoulder, nestling into the crook of my neck.
He knows all about these sharks. ?is place is therapy for him. And sure, he got stuck there for a second, but look at these things. Who wouldn’t? Not for the rst time, I’m amazed at what he went through. I’m amazed by him.
“In Hawaiian mythology,” he says into my hair, his voice vibrating through me, “people believe spirits of their ancestors continue to live inside animals and rocks and plants. ?ey call an ancestral spirit an aumakua—like a guardian spirit, you know? My mom says the shark that attacked us is our aumakua. ?at if it had wanted to kill us, it would have. But it was just warning us to take a good, hard look at our lives and reassess things. So we’re supposed to honor that.”
“How do you honor it?” I ask.
“Pops says he’s honoring it by admitting that he’s too old to be on a board and that he’s better off serving his family by staying on dry land. Lana says she’s honoring it by being the best surfer she can be and not fearing the water.”
I trace the scars on his arm with my index nger. “And what about you?”
“When I gure that out, I’ll let you know.”
As the silver of the hammerhead shark glides past, Porter slowly turns me around in his arms. I’m vaguely aware of the silhouettes of the people who stand farther along the viewing window, but I don’t care. In our little corner of peaceful darkness, it feels like we’re alone. With my arms circling him, I dare to dip my ngers under the loose hem of his untucked shirt, reaching upward until I touch the solid, bare skin of his back. Right over the same place on me where one of my own scars is, though I’m not sure if I subconsciously mean to do that or if it’s an accident.
He shivers violently, and it’s the sweetest victory.
