When Jules was younger, all she could talk about was becoming a dolphin researcher. But that dream died when all the money our dad saved up for our college education went into paying his medical bills instead. Considering her fear of sharks and her complete inability to swim, maybe that wasn’tallfor the worst.
“Not exactly,” Joanna answers. “I’m spearheading a program to get local communities involved in coral restoration off Narara Island.”
“Narara,” I try, and probably fail, to pronounce. “Is that?—“
“Tiny? Secluded? Absolutely crawling with sea snakes?” she asks. “Yes, it is. But it’s paradise. It’s up in the Yasawas—a few days’ sail. I’m just here on a surf and supply run.”
She nods to a skinny man untying lines in a small blue boat a few yards away. It’s loaded with several surfboards and has the letters FMCC painted on the side.
“Is it your first time visiting the islands?” she asks.
I nod.
“I’m on a boat trip with my sister.”
“Sounds wonderful! If you’re heading our direction, you should come visit us! We’re no Marriot, but I’d be more than happy to show you around the center. Maybe even take you for a dive!”
“That would be amazing!”
I don’t tell her how unlikely it is to happen—I haven’t been here long, but the chances of the Warrens adding a marine conservation station to our jam-packed itinerary of drinking and gift shopping seem pretty slim.
The skinny man in the blue boat whistles, and Joanna hops up like an acrobat.
“Ah, that’s my cue,” she says. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Stella.”
“Likewise,” I tell her say, wishing she could stay longer. There’s so much more I want to know about her work. “Seriously, I can’t thank you enough.”
The panga pulls up a few feet away, and she hops in, smiling.
“Sota tale, Stella!” Joanna says as she climbs in between the surfboards. “And remember, you’re smarter than a lizard!”
It doesn’t take longfor me to find Matthew after Joanna leaves. He’s posted up on a set of loungers surrounded by a characteristically attractive group of girls who look like they’re barely pushing twenty-three. Steven looks on apathetically from the corner as Matthew pours a steady stream of dark liquid straight from the bottle into the open mouth of a barbie-blonde in a white bikini and matchingBridin’ Dirtysash.
“There you are,” Steven smiles as soon as he sees me. “Matthew made some friends.”
“I can see that.”
The bride pulls back, but Matthew keeps pouring until her entire chest and stomach are splashed with dark, sticky rum. She and her gaggle burst into near hysterics.
Here we go.
“Stella,” Matthew says. He points to the blonde and her nearly indistinguishable, spray-tan addict friends. “This is Helen, Rita, and Liz. They’re from Sydney.”
“Hi Stella,” Rita or Liz greets me, beaming her unnaturally white teeth. “Want a shot?”
“No thanks,” I tell her. “Not really a shot girl.”
“Me neither,” Helen slurs as she wipes alcohol off her chest. “Wanna colada? They’re soooo yummy.”
“Doubt it,” Matthew smirks, and it sounds very much like a challenge. “Something tells me Professor Olsen is very much on the wagon.”
Matthew may be an ass, but he’s not entirely wrong. I don’t even remember the last time I had a drink that didn’t accompany a two-hour cry sesh. Maybe, just maybe, it won’t kill me to actually let my guard down and enjoy myself.
That, and there’s no way I’m going to let him have the last word.
“Screw it,” I announce. “Iwillhave a colada.”
Matthew’s eyebrows look like they’re about to jump off his forehead. His lazy grin turns into a full smile.
