Page 13 of How to Say I Do
“It is.”
“Are you here?” His gaze dug into mine.
“I'm… trying to be.”
“Let's swim again.” Wyatt hopped off the ledge effortlessly. I followed, less elegantly, and he waited for me behind the falls, squinting one eye closed while spray soaked half of his face. “Race you to the other side?”
“You're on.”
Halfway across the lagoon, Wyatt pretended to be eaten by an alligator.
I panicked, not getting in the first five seconds of his death throes that this was play, make-believe. I raced to him as he flailed and roared that “it was getting him.”
Whatever I thought I could do about “it”, I didn't know, but there I was, screeching and tugging on his wrist as I tried to pull him out of harm’s way while he splashed me in the face before finally dissolving into laughs. He had to haul me into a bear hug before I got it, and I cursed him a Manhattan blue streak and slapped his broad chest. He kept grinning, holding me in the circle of his arms as he treaded water for both of us because I was so mad I’d forgotten we were still right over that bottomless hole.
I dunked him in revenge, shoving him underwater as I told him he could go get eaten for real this time. He grabbed my ankles and tipped me backward, and in under a minute, we were wrestling again. Eventually, we cramped up—too much laughter—and then we couldn’t do a single thing other than float on our backs and gasp for breath.
We spent the next hour drifting. Our heads were side by side, and we lay like spokes on a wheel, circling the same little current, our temples brushing, then parting, then brushing again. Whenever he spoke, I felt his voice moving through the water. My thoughts fell out of me. All of the anxieties I'd stoked behind the waterfall faded away.
We talked about nothing: which was better, Grey Goose or Tito's? Wyatt voted for Tito's, and though I had sampled both, I didn't quite remember Tito's enough to make a claim. “We'll have to try again,” I told him.
We debated the best way to barbecue. Not that I'd ever worked a grill a day in my life, but I had dined at restaurants that served Michelin-starred barbecue, and I regaled him with tales of sauce-drenched ribs as big as my forearm, pork smothered in tangy mustard seasoning, and fusion dishes melded with Middle Eastern or Asian cuisine. He groaned like I was physically hurting him.
“How doyoubarbecue then, cowboy?”
“Low and slow. Take a brisket, and all you put on it is some salt and pepper. Maybe use a sugar rub, but salt and pepper will do you just fine. Use oak wood to get a beautiful smoke ring, or applewood for some added flavor. I used peach once. Damn fine.” He grinned, rolling his head and sending a little wave from his cheek to mine.
“I'll take your word for it.”
He asked me if I'd ever driven a pickup truck. I told him I hadn't driven a car in seven years, not since I had to rush an emergency hundred gallons of homemade almond milk to Long Island for a Gwyneth Paltrow party after the caterer miscalculated and we ran out of the only acceptable organic almond milk in the tri-state area.Thathad been a terrifying day of turnpikes and bridges, and I'd driven those hundred gallons packed into the trunk of a borrowed Prius like they were the Queen's crown jewels. By the time I was finished telling Wyatt the whole story, he was lying flat on a sun-warmed rock and struggling to breathe in between his belly laughs.
“I'm serious,” I told him, with all the haughtiness I could muster. Which was quite a lot; I'd learned from the best, after all. “We had bartenders making Gwyneth’s daily smoothie from scratch. Homemade almond milk was theleastfussy ingredient. It cost two hundred dollars every time one of the bartenders hitWhip.”
“Howisalmond milk made?”
“I don't know.” I flopped down on the rock beside him. “And I don't want to know. I just don’t want to drive it anywhere ever again.”
Darkness fell faster in the jungle, and when our shadows started to elongate, we reluctantly climbed out of the warm waters. Wyatt gallantly offered me his boots to wear for the hike back, but I stayed true, if itchy, to my flip-flops. Once again, Wyatt led the way, guiding back branches and vines and toeing away creepy-crawlies that came to investigate my unguarded ankles.
Wyatt paused at the same hibiscus tree on our way back. He seemed to be hunting for another bloom, and, after a lean and a stretch, he plucked a fire-colored flower and held it out to me.
“You don’t have a hat for it, but you should get one. That sunburn on the back of your neck is gonna be a beauty.” He twisted a little, showing off his covered neck. “A hat would do you right.”
“We've been in the shade all day. I'm sure I’m fine.”
“Mmm.”
He took the lead again, and I followed him all the way back to the smooth path that edged the golf course. We walked side by side the rest of the way, talking about this or that as I twirled the flower he’d given me by its stem.
We checked in with the concierge—no eaten tourists today—and then the attendant asked us where we'd like to eat for dinner.
I drew a blank, and so did Wyatt. Dinnertogether? We hadn’t parted all day. Hehadto want a break from me and my neurosis by now.
But, no. Apparently not, because Wyatt asked for a table at the El Amanecerfor two.
“Si, señor. No problem. Reservations are set for you and youramor.”
We had enough time to head back to our rooms and change, which, thank God. I reeked of hike and sweat and lagoon, and there was still a lingering vodka stench emanating from my pores. I needed a shower, and then I needed to debate which of my resort-branded shirts worked best with my resort-branded shorts.
