Page 30 of Hunter

I sit back on the bench, face the sun and close my eyes.

I’ve been angry at Isabella for so long, wanting answers as to why she ended things so abruptly, and wishing that she hadn’t. But after last night’s conversation, I’m accepting the fact that maybe she reallyisn’tlooking for something serious. It surprises me that coming to terms with that reality is going a long way in staunching my bitterness. Sure, I wish things could’ve been different between us. But accepting that it simply isn’t going to happen—and knowing that her reasons for breaking things off had very little to do with me—is more mollifying than I could have guessed.

Is it possible that I could change my mindset where she’s concerned? Just for the short-term? If she was game, could I engage in something fun and casual with no strings attached, no expectations, and no hope for something more serious? Because if I could, and if she was interested, we could have a mind-blowing fling before we parted ways in three weeks.

I mull this over as I fold my laundry, reminding myself that I’ve been advised against “fraternization of an intimate nature between crew and contestants.” But fuck that. We’re legal adults. If we keep things quiet, no one will ever find out.

As I walk back to the ship with my clean laundry slung over my back, I’m astounded by how quickly I’ve been able to change gears. But between my talk with Isabella last night and Harper this morning, I have so much more clarity.

I also decide that Harper is right about something else: I was behaving like a sexist jerk. I can’t count the number of casual romps I’ve had with summer workers, cruise personnel, and tourists. Why can’t I believe thatIwas that sort of a casual romp for Isabella? Just because I’m at a point in my life when I’m starting to yearn for something more serious doesn’t mean she’s on the same page. Hell, I’m thirty-one, and she’s twenty-six. It could be years until she meets her “perfectly suitable partner.” It could be forever.

By the time I get back to the ship, I only have thirty minutes left until I need to report to the large, open-air theater that hosts the Great Alaskan Lumberjack Show, but I’m feeling lighter and better about my love life than I’ve felt in months. Isabella didn’t dump me because she didn’t like me; she broke things off because we want different things, and that truth takes all of the sting out of the burn.

But in the short term, during which long-distance isn’t an issue, we could let the chemistry we shared—the blistering heat we both acknowledged—burn as brightly as ever.

If she’s game? Well, hell…I think I am, too.

***

Isabella

What. A. Fucking. Disaster.

What have I gotten myself into?

The words circle around and around in my head as I sit—huddled, wet and shivering—on a slick fiberglass bench while the woman next to me—one of the Barbies—vomits again and again into a plastic bag. As she raises her head from the depths of her puke, another blast of Arctic-cold sea water blasts us in the face. The Barbie beside her gasps from the sharp cold, trying to push stringy blonde strands of hair from her face, back under the soaked hood of her raincoat. Next to her, half of Team Mom and Pop, an older lady who’d been bragging about her fishing skills, looks green around the gills. On a bench adjacent to ours, Team Newlywed huddles together in a state of similar misery, and down below, Team Brady, consisting of a brother-sister pairing named Marcia and Greg, have been vomiting since the challenge ended an hour ago.

Meanwhile, Beto and Pop, the only contestants who seem to be enjoying themselves, stand like salty dogs at the front railing of the little ship, cheering with glee every time a massive wave rolls over the crabbing boat, clobbering them both.

The crabs we caught have been tagged with our team names and placed in onboard holding tanks. They’ll be weighed when we reach the harbor, and a winner from each boat will be declared. Immediately following that, we’ll open envelopes holding the details of our detour challenge and be off again. Only after we complete the detour and check in at the pit stop can we go back to the cruise ship for a rest. Except, I feel like I could sleep for hours right now. I’m wet, cold, achy, and exhausted. I’d give anything for a hot shower and a soft bed.

Another wall of icy water breaks over my face.

Suck it up, Isabella, I tell myself, gasping from the cold.

“Oh m-my g-god, I h-h-hate th-this.” The Barbie beside me shivers, a string of mucus-y vomit hanging from the corner of her mouth.

A cameraman wearing a bright orange rain suit with his camera covered in plastic, zooms in on her. “Barbie, how do you think you did on the challenge?”

She looks up at him, horror taking over her expression as she realizes that her humiliation is being filmed. “Um…uh…”

None of us are accustomed to the cameras yet, and this challenge is a brutal baptism by fire.

“I don’t think she’s feeling well,” I tell him sharply. “Be decent, huh? Give her some space.”

“Okay. Fine.” He turns the camera to me. “How do you thinkyoudid, Prima Izzy?”

“My cousin Beto worked on crabbing boats last summer,” I say, aware that I probably look just as rough as Barbie, but at least I’m not sick. I reach up and try to tuck my unruly curls back under my sopping rain hat. “He threw our first four catches back in the water and held out for a big one. I think we’ll do okay. I hope so.”

“So, Team Primos has an advantage! What do you think of that, Team Newlyweds?” he asks the couple sitting kitty-corner to me.

“Huh?” The young wife blinks at the cameraman, like she’s surprised to suddenly find herself on camera.

I feel you, sister.

“How do you think you two did on the challenge?” he asks her.

As the cameraman interviews the shivering young couple, the boat turns slightly, and I catch sight of Ketchikan’s harbor in the not-so-far distance.Thank God we’re almost there.

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