Page 44 of Hunter

“They lived in Guadalajara. Near the beach. They’re in Seattle now. They were the last of my family to come north. I…” My voice trails off.

“You what?”

I look up at him, at his blue eyes shining in the lavender light. When we’re naked together, he’s demanding, but he never hurts me. I feel safe with him.

“I met a boy that summer.”

What are you doing?I never talk about Santos. I never talk about that summer.

“First love?” asks Hunter.

“Yeah.”

“So, he was pretty important to you?”

I gulp, then nod. Like most things that end badly, they’re best left in the past. What’s the point in dwelling on things you can’t change? I’m annoyed with myself that I’m telling him about this, but I can’t seem to help myself.

“It must have been hard to go home,” he says, “after making an intense connection like that.”

“It was.”

“Did you try to—”

“What? Stay together?” I stare at him for a second before wiggling my hand away from his. “He lived in Guadalajara, and I lived in Seattle. We were kids. It was impossible.”

“Sure. But he was important to you,” says Hunter, his voice gentle, his eyes searching mine. “A lot.”

“That didn’t matter.” I look back down at the ship’s wake. “I had to go home, and he had to stay there.”

“So that was it? You never saw him again? Never talked to him again?”

“We stayed in touch over text for a few weeks after I got home, but it was too hard. It hurt too much to stay in touch. My life was in Seattle. My friends. My family…”

“Right,” says Hunter, nodding at me. “But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t traumatic. Losing my mom when I was fifteen? It was the most traumatic experience of my life. And no, you didn’t lose a parent, but the love you feel at sixteen is…is…” He shakes his head. “It’s so real, so alive, so fierce…it imprints on you. Losing it would scar you…would be…”

“Terrible,” I whisper.

“Terrible,” he echoes. “I’m sorry, Bella.”

I blink at him, realizing for the first time that I must have tears in my eyes because he’s blurry. In the same instant, I realize that comparing the loss of my teenage boyfriend to the loss of his mother is totally unfair.

“Losing your mom was worse,” I say, swiping at the tears on my cheeks. “Way worse. Mine was only a teenage—”

“Don’t do that,” he says, cupping my cheek gently. “It’s not a competition. Being forced to give him up hurt you. Losing my mom hurt me. I think that losing someone you love at that age changes you. No matter who it is. No matter what kind of love you feel. The loss is agony, and that pain changes you. That’s all I’m saying.”

I don’t like it that I’m crying in front of him—I don’t want to talk about this anymore, but I also feel so close to him right now, so tender toward him, so overwhelmed by the patient way he’s trying to understand me, by the sweet sympathy and compassion he’s offering with his words, with the warmth of his palm against my skin.

I lean forward and press my lips urgently to his.

His other hand reaches up to cup my jaw, and I wrap my arms around his waist, pulling him closer. I moan softly as histongue slides against mine. A building ache throbs deep inside of me, and I pull at his polo shirt.

“Baby,” he says against my lips, his voice low, “we can’t fuck here.”

“Why not?” I ask, biting his bottom lip with my teeth. “We’re all alone. I want you.”

“We’re not alone,” he says. “There are people just inside. Anyone could come out here.”

The breath I draw is jagged. My pussy has its own heartbeat.

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