An hour later, I was in the SUV wearing the teal bikini under a white cover-up, giant sunglasses hiding half my face, and a birthday attitude that could best be described as suspicious but moisturized.
Regan sat beside me, tapping on her phone like she was coordinating a military extraction instead of a birthday outing. Which, knowing Regan, might have been the same thing.
“You know something,” I said.
“I know many things.”
“You know birthday things.”
“I know dolphin things.”
“You do not know dolphin things.”
“I watched a video.”
“That makes you dangerous.”
Regan smiled without looking up. “No one discuss the plan.”
“The plan?” I leaned forward. “There’s a plan?”
“There is always a plan.”
“That’s not comforting.”
“It is to the adults.”
“I’m an adult now.”
Regan glanced over her sunglasses. “That is under review.”
I should have been annoyed, but the truth was I was trying not to smile. The SUV rolled through Cabo’s bright morning streets, past hotels and shops and tourists already pink from the sun. Everything smelled like salt and gasoline and breakfast frying somewhere nearby. The world looked normal in a way that made me feel like I was watching it through glass. People walked around holding iced coffees and beach bags while back home, people were trying to decide whether my name meant victim, villain, or headline.
I looked out the window and tried not to think about Dylan.
That lasted approximately six seconds.
He hadn’t come down that morning. Nate hadn’t either. Regan said they were “busy,” which was the kind of vague answer people used when they were telling the truth and hiding all the pieces that mattered. I told myself I was glad. Dylan had been giving me space. I understood why. I even respected it.
I hated it.
The marina was already alive when we pulled in. Boats rocked in their slips, ropes creaking, flags snapping in the wind. Crew members in polos loaded coolers and towels. Tourists laughed too loud. Someone was playing music with a beat that made my foot want to move before my brain approved.
I stepped out of the SUV and immediately scanned the docks before I could stop myself. Men. Women. Crew. Families. A couple taking selfies. Two boys arguing over a fishing rod. A man with a camera around his neck who looked at every boat except ours, which made him more interesting than if he’d stared directly.
Regan touched my elbow. “Safe.”
“I wasn’t?—”
“You were.”
I sighed.
She didn’t scold me. She just guided me toward the dock, staying close without making it obvious.
The catamaran waited near the end of the pier, big and white and gleaming under the sun, with blue towels rolled on every seat and snorkel gear stacked in neat piles. It looked like something from an expensive travel ad, not something meant for me. There were balloons tied to the rail, silver and teal, bobbing in the wind. One said EIGHTEEN in huge glittering letters.
I stopped dead.
