Page 54 of Ex Marks the Spot

She quietly studies me, then says, “The teaching thing suits you. Maybe it’s time you considered making it permanent.”

“I’m only helping out because the district is short staffed.”

“You just don’t want to admit I was right that night I kidnapped you from the library.”

Ah, yes. Behavioral Neuroscience and Dr. Crespo, the asshole professor who taught it. From day one of my junior year, he made it clear that I was in his crosshairs. It’s not my fault his daughter couldn’t take “No thank you, I’m not interested” for an answer when we were sophomores, or that he couldn’tseparate her personal life from his academic career. I swear that guy had an entirely separate grading scale for my assignments.

By the time first semester finals rolled around, my GPA was dangerously close to dropping below the minimum for my scholarship. On my fourth straight night of holing up in the library to study, Hartley dragged me out under the threat of burning my backpack, then confiscated my vending machine snacks and cooked a real meal for me. While we ate, we played a game of backup plan, where we came up with alternate careers if I needed to switch majors to save my scholarship. After I tossed out a bunch of nonsense jobs, Hartley said it was time to suck it up and face the fact that I’d make an excellent teacher.

“I guess teachingisbetter than being a rectal thermometer tester...although some days it feels the same.”

Her head falls back with laughter I haven’t heard in years. It hits me like a full blast from the sun, but it’s the sight of her exposed throat that sets my skin on fire. Rather than look away, I relish the burn and allow my eyes to linger on that little space just below her ear that always made her moan when I kissed it.

Would she still make the same sound now?

Is someone else the cause of that sound now?

The intruding thought reminds me once again that I know nothing about Hartley’s life today. We still haven’t talked much aside from our short conversation in the jump pod and she certainly hasn’t shared any details with the other competitors.

Steering the discussion into safer territory, I say, “Thanks for taking the lead at the airport. That was a great idea.”

Her jaw hinges open as she blinks back at me. “I’m sorry, did you just admit my amazing decision-making skills are the sole reason we’re in first place?”

I swallow a laugh. “Not in so many words, but sure.”

“Well in that case, you’re welcome.”

CHAPTER 11

HARTLEY

Day 9—China

Iknew going into Xtreme Quest that I’d live in a weird state of isolation for three weeks, where I’d have the world at my fingertips but no contact with anyone back home. To be honest, I’d been looking forward to every second of my time away from North Carolina, my well-meaning parents, and a business I said I loved but secretly resented.

Mom was the only one who teared up when they dropped me off at the airport. I tried to summon a few of my own for her sake but couldn’t stop smiling long enough to make it happen.

And now I’m crying over a boat.

Let me explain.

Since the existence of my dad’s and my personal Xtreme Quest itinerary, China has been my dad’s number one country on our list. He’d take a ton of notes any time the show came here and even talked about learning some Mandarin to make our trip easier.

Naturally, when I saw we were stopping here for leg five, I felt a one-two punch of excitement and guilt for experiencing it without him. But rather than marinating in the negative, I focused on my continuing plan of revising our itinerary with wheelchair-friendly options. (Side note: Did you know there’s anaccessible bungee jump location not too far from where I jumped in Queenstown? How cool is that?)

Anyway, our clue at Yuantong Temple sent us to Green Lake Park in search of marked boats. This is where the tears kicked in because these boats? They’re pedal-operated. And my body? Utterly exhausted, slightly dehydrated, and likely in need of some fresh vegetables. In other words, primed for a momentary breakdown over the unfairness of my dad losing all function of his legs at the age of forty-six because a careless driver fell asleep at the wheel.

I manage to hide my first few sniffles and eye swipes as we set off, but Court quickly catches on and stops peddling in favor of assessing my physical state.

“You okay? Did you hurt yourself?” He cranes his neck in front of and behind my seat, then runs his hand along the guardrail at my side for good measure.

“I’m fine. Just overly emotional and feeling a little homesick. It’s dumb, really,” I add, embarrassment warming my damp cheeks.

Two days ago, I would’ve expected laughter or a snide retort. Instead, he waits until I give him my eyes to say, “Being homesick isn’t dumb.”

His earnest words and reassuring smile catch me off guard and damned if that doesn’t take another little chunk out of the wall around my heart. What’s even more alarming is that this has happened three other times since we left New Zealand.

The first was on the flight to Japan when I’d woken up to find a bottle of water and airplane snacks arranged on the middle seat-back tray. Court was asleep, but he’d writtenFor youon the napkin tucked under the water bottle. Given that no one was sitting in the middle seat, the process of elimination was easy. The second time was during our layover in Haneda Airport when we’d sprawled out on the floor and he’d loaned me his balled-up fleece jacket to use as a pillow. The third was when he complimented me in the taxi for coming up with our escape plan from the airport in Kunming.

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