Page 12 of How to Say I Do
Sunlight streamed through the cracks between the overhanging branches, scattering light in a fan of rays. Branches wider than my head and palms twice as tall as Wyatt arched overhead. Flowering vines caught the light and filled the air with jewel-toned splashes of color. Weeping vines wiggled as monkeys dashed to and fro.
I'd almost missed this.
Wyatt kicked off a boot and stuck his toes into the lagoon. “It's warm. Feels like a bath.” Our eyes met. “Wanna get in?”
We dumped our boots and flip-flops and shirts—and his hat—in a pile and leaped in. Warmth closed over my head as I broke the surface. Down I went, plunging, until I realized the bottom of this swimming hole wasmuchfarther down than Wyatt or I had guessed from the shore. I unfolded from my cannonball and kicked, and broke the surface at the same time as Wyatt.
“Holy shit, that's deep!” I gasped.
“I thought I was gonna go down forever!”
My toes curled. Thoughts of what could be hidden in the depths of a bottomless hole in a secret jungle lagoon slammed into my mind. How far were we,exactly, from the resort? Within screaming distance? Surely a five-star resort wouldn't be home to a creature from dark waters that ate tourists. If a celebrity got eaten, the press would be insurmountable. But maybethat'swhy we had to check out before we left on this hike, so they could send out a search party if we were eaten.
By unspoken agreement, Wyatt and I swam for the shallows, scooting away from the drop off until we could both stand. The water was glass-clear, shimmering all the way down our legs. Golden veins of light slipped beneath the surface and stroked across Wyatt's muscled chest and his thick quads where his board shorts had ridden up.
We lazed in the warm waters as the heat worked deep into our skin. We pointed out butterflies and dragonflies and groaned as long-held tensions melted out of our shoulders and our backs. He told me the last time he'd floated anywhere, he was in the Frio River with his high school buddies, his butt inside the donut of an inner tube. I told him my last time was in a zero-gravity spa in New York after a deep tissue massage that had made every muscle ache worse.
“Did it help at all?” Wyatt asked, once he was done laughing at the mental image of me struggling to lift my Starbucks cup in a two-handed curl, my thin arms shaking as I valiantly struggled for my caffeine.
“Not like this.”
There was nothing like this. A monkey called for his friend somewhere in the preserve. Wings flapped as a bird dipped toward the water, then veered off and disappeared behind a cluster of flame-bright African tulips when it saw the two of us. I was flat on my back, and I rolled my head to the side and smiled at Wyatt, who was floating beside me.
Wyatt smiled back.
And then he splashed me in the face.
It wason. I dove for him, but he was taller, stronger, and he had better splash technique. He was able to fend me off as I tried and failed to soak him from afar. My only choice was to come in close. I lunged for his waist, and as we wrestled, we toppled backward into that giant emerald hole, tumbling in waters suspended over nothing.
When we popped up, we both swam back to the shallows, and thenthatbecame the unofficial game: wrestling each other over the edge of the drop-off.
Wyatt, I learned, was ticklish. He’d giggle like a child if I managed to get near his armpits. Of course, if I got that close, he usually managed to wrap me up and hurl me into the deep waters. I tried to stay slippery and keep his hands from closing around my hips while I speared his thighs with my toes and tickled his ribs.
We were breathless, heaving in huge gulps of oxygen, and too tired to hurl or tickle when Wyatt said, “Let's check out the waterfall.”
Wyatt, of course, beat me across the lagoon.
There was a niche behind the waterfall, an indent in the rock where water had worn away stone for thousands of years. It was just large enough to squeeze in ten New Yorkers on the subway, strap-hanging nose-to-armpit style. Wyatt and I perched on the rocky ledge and dangled our feet into the softly-lapping pool of ink-dark water behind the falls. The light there was dim, with only scattered hints splintering through the mist, leaving the alcove in a perpetual twilight.
Everything sounded different. Deeper, like we were inside of a drum. The falls rushed down in a rhythmic way, every few seconds shuttling a larger surge over the top of the boulder.
Wyatt tipped his head back and exhaled. I stole a look, and then let my eyes linger when I saw his were closed. Every part of him seemed at peace. The squint around his eyes and the furrows worn into the sun-kissed gold of his forehead had melted away. He was as boneless and satiated as a cat in a circle of sunlight. He was so warm it was like sunlight lived beneath his skin, and he smelled like what I imagined Texas was like.
He brought to mind saddle leather and gravel roads, oak trees painted by a setting sun, and the smell of the air after a hard rain, things I only ever caught glimpses of when I had to travel upstate or out to Long Island, or,God, to Connecticut.
I tried to emulate him, breathing in and holding the damp air in my lungs. Everybody who was anybody in Manhattan did yoga, and when I’d still had a spare hour in my weekends several years back, I’d tried to dedicate myself to that urban religion, too.Exhale, and let your thoughts ride out on your breath. Watch them dissipate. Imagine them vaporizing.All I'd thought during my one-and-only yoga class was that it had been twenty-six minutes since I'd checked my phone.
This wasn't Manhattan. And I didn't have my cell phone. Ditching it into a baby's diaper on the plane had been a monumentally stupid decision, but it was also, perhaps, the best thing I could have done for myself. Given the choice between facing my romantic itinerary for two alone or holing up in my villa with the never-ending work Icouldbe doing? No contest. I'd be nose-deep in my iPhone right now, if only it weren't covered in baby poo.
As it was, I had nothing to do this week… except be with myself.
Which was a gut-shrivelingly terrifying thought.
“Whatcha thinkin’ about?” Wyatt’s voice was so deep. It should have startled me, but all I wanted to do was lean myself into him. I was thinking too many things. Did I still have a job? Afterthatembarrassment? What was everyonesaying? Gossip in New York was meant to reach the ears of whomever it was about, and the more vicious and cutting, the faster it traveled. As Jenna's star had climbed, the whispers around her and me grew to outright jeers: what is shedoingwithhim? Well, everyone had their answers now.
Wyatt tilted into my side. His deltoid easily eclipsed mine, thick as a softball and bronzed from the sun. I was slender not by choice or effort, but because there weren't enough hours in a day to work and feed myself.
“This place is beautiful, huh?” he said.
