“Oh.” I breathe in deeply and exhale. “There’s this research center—an oceanography one—about a thirty-minute drive”—I swallow another lungful of air—“from my hometown. They opened a research program for how our climate is affecting the pelagic ecosystem?—”
“Pelicans?”
“Okay, so,” I wheeze, “the ocean is made of”—my lungs constrict—“various and distinct environments.”
My ex-fiancé would have put a stop to this the moment I mentionedoceanography. Heck, Bell would’ve told me to stop talking nerdy to her. Then she’ll follow up with a tactical pivot of the conversation to some music festival she wants to attend.
Ethan, however, keeps asking me to explain the terms to him. It’s as if we’re back on the plane, heavily engrossed in the conversation where we talked about the most random things yet were none the wiser about who we actually are to each other.
I’m in the middle of describing the bathypelagic region when he sets me down on my feet. In a shady, secluded spot with barely any foot traffic.
“So, there’s no sunlight?” is what he asks when he turns to face me.
“That’s why it’s called the midnight zone.”
“The midnight zone,” he repeats. “Huh.” I look over while he cocks his head and meets my eyes. His gaze is searching. Gentle. “Finally learned something on this boardwalk tour.”
I stare at him for a moment before a soft chuckle breaks free from my chest. “You did. Not me.”
“I’m sure we can easily remedy that.”
The maritime museum is boring.Although the submarine we’re in is currently empty. I’d much rather ooh and ahh at the lighthouse not too far from here, but I can’t deny that I am learning some useless trivia. More importantly, I have extra fodder to provide Bell with when it comes to the mini-vacation I promised to have.
The front-facing camera on my phone, as I’ve come to discover, is terrible to work with in the limited light. After my sixth attempt at taking a selfie beside thetap signalsplaque, I flag Ethan down the second he returns from the front of the vessel.
“You all right?” he asks. “Want me to get you out of here?”
“I’m not claustrophobic,” I say, then push my phone into his hand. “I need a picture if you’re willing to help me out here.”
He takes the device and holds it up. “You’re not a people-person?”
“I’m fine around people—if they’re kind.” I take a few steps back, beaming as I pose beside the periscope. “I’ve got no patience for anyone who’s maliciously cruel or into toxic positivity.”
“What’s the latter?”
“You know Marnie from HR?”
Understanding fills his eyes. “Ahh.”
“Yeah,” I say, and I plaster on another grin. “Can you take another picture? I want to avoid sending my sister a blurry photo.”
“Just for your lack of faith, I’m taking a bunch of out-of-focus shots,” he teases, and I stick my tongue out at him in response. He brings my phone back to his eye level, and neither of us speaks while he taps at the screen twice.
A minute passes. We both remain rooted in place. Breathlessness claims me the longer I’m held under his gaze.
Is there such a thing as the mile-high club but for nautical vessels?More specifically, submarines?The league under the sea club?
There’s a clambering sound toward the back of the sub, which is my cue to stop checking him out and put an end to the idea of christening the engine room.
“Do you want me to take a picture?”
“Can you? I should send something to Mom and Lara.”
My eyebrows furrow. I understand the former. The latter, however, is something I’m having trouble comprehending.
Maybe it’s because I’d rather laugh my ass off and block my ex than send him any pictures of me, which actually happened last year when Warner drunk-texted me and asked me for nudes. After all, it was quote-unquotehis birthday.
“You’re… going to send Lara a picture?” I say slowly, wishing my words didn’t come out so flat and clipped. I’m not jealous. I’m simply nosy as fuck.
