Page 14 of Hunter

“I know itfeelslike that,” she’d said, trying to pull me into a hug. “But I promise, you will get over him with time.”

“I don’t want to get over him!” I’d screamed, pushing her away. “You don’t understand! You don’t understand anything! It was magic! It is love!We are in love, and if you keep us apart, that makes you anassassinof love!”

I’d withdrawn for weeks, lying in my bed, glued to WhatsApp, trying to keep the magic Santos and I had shared alive. In their great wisdom, my parents gave me the time and space to process my feelings and heal from my first great love. Sure enough, little by little, his vibrancy faded. My girlfriends, McKenna especially, cajoled me from my bedroom to the movies, to the beach, to the mall. I’d miss a call from Santos and promise myself I would call him back in the morning. But he’d already be at work, so I’d text instead, and he wouldn’t write back until the next day. We lost closeness. We lost touch. Our love started the journey from vibrantly alive to faded memory.

By the time I started my junior year in high school that September, I was mostly over Santos. Sure, part of me would always love him, but I’d let him go. And in the end, even I had to admit it was probably for the best.

But most importantly of all, I’d learned some life lessons that would protect my heart in the future.

The first was that if something felt like “magic?” Beware. It wasn’t magic. Magic didn’t exist. Attraction existed. Heatexisted. Great sex existed. And all encouraged the mirage of “true love.” But, if you gave the illusions of magic and true love enough time, they were like silver left out in a storm. They tarnished. They lost their sparkle. They became dull, soft metal, useless and sad.

I’d also learned something seminal about long-distance relationships: no matter how captivating and possible a long-distance relationship mayseemwhen you’re physically with the other person, they’re rarely viable once you’re apart. You must build the road that leads to your happy ending where you live. Not in Mexico and certainly not in Alaska. If you make your life where you live, you’ll be a much happier—and much less disappointed—human.

The lessons I’d learned with Santos had played a decisive role in my decision to break up with Hunter last August. Except...I didn’t forget Hunter as quickly as I forgot Santos. I expected to. I wanted to. But I didn’t.

With tons of friends demanding to set me up, and a dozen interfering aunties all trying to marry me off to a nice Mexican American boy, I went on a bunch of dates throughout the fall and into the winter. But after each, I’d find myself comparing them to Hunter; their senses of humor, their conversation, the way they looked at me, and how they made me feel. None of them could hold a candle to Hunter.

I went to McKenna’s wedding at Christmastime believing—or at leasthoping—that my attraction to Hunter had become fantasized and inflated over time. I fervently prayed that the second I saw him, I’d know, beyond any shadow of doubt, that whatever we’d shared last summer had been a one-time fling, and I’d made the right decision by letting him go. But thatisn’twhat happened.

If anything, beingnearhim, but not able tohavehim, was incredibly painful, compounded by the fact that his disdain forme was so sharp and acidic, I could practicallytastehis scorn when I was near him.

I’d dumped Hunter Stewart, and he hated me for it, but by some brutal twist of fate, my interest in him was stronger than ever.

A weekend of wedding festivities gave me a front row seat to the dynamics of the Stewart family, and reminded me of how funny he was, and how devoted to his family. He was a good man—smart and kind and devastatingly handsome. I watched the way other women stared at him, wanting to punch their lights out, and couldn’t help but wonder if a choice I’d made on the grounds of ‘smart and sound,’ would turn out to be the worst decision I’d ever made.

My body is strawberry-red from the pounding hot water, so I turn off the shower and wrap myself in a thin, scratchy motel towel. Stepping into the quiet bedroom, I note that Beto isn’t back yet, but I figure the last thing he needs is for me to mother-hen him home from a bar.

Putting on my pajamas, I try watching TV, but my heart isn’t into it. I turn off the lights and stare up at the water stain on the ceiling that vaguely resembles the face of a woman with regrets.

I feel you, sister.

My heart swells with complicated feelings when I remind myself that I’m going to see Hunter again in two days. McKenna mentioned that the show was a business opportunity for the Stewarts, but I can’t help but wonder if he signed onto the show just to be near me. I hate how much the possibility excites me...because I’m positive that Hunter Stewart has nothing good planned for me, but I want to see him all the same.

Chapter 3

Hunter

I walk up the gangplank with two boxes of lettuce on my shoulder, headed for the galley.

“Hunter! You helping out again?”

I wink at Marisol, the head of ship hospitality, who’s setting tables in the dining room with her small crew of stews.

“I can’t sit still,” I tell her with a grin. “Saw these boxes on the dock and decided to bring them up.”

I breeze into the galley and place the produce on the counter, giving a high five to the chef and waving at the rest of the galley staff.

“Thanks, Hunter.”

“You got it, chef.”

“Try this soup.”

I take a slurp of something creamy and wonderful. “Chowder?”

“Any good?”

“Fantastic,” I tell him. “Save me a big bowl for later!”

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