I turn away from my phobia and follow him.
According to Adam, Hawaii has very strict laws about how close you can get to a sea turtle. But you can get near enough to see him blink his eyes, to see his leathery skin, to guess how many decades he’s been swimming these waters. As if sensing my curiosity, one of them swims within ten feet of me, letting me take a closer look. He’s majestic. Just like Adam described.
I start to swim closer to him, but Nick tugs on my arm, reminding me that Adam is watching us. “So those tiny fish back there freaked you out, but this huge guy is making you smile? In fact”—he motions toward my mouth—“I think that one might actually be real—not that shitty fake one you’ve been giving me since we met.”
He’s right. It doesn’t make any sense that I was scared of the fish, but not of the Chelonia mydas, or green adult sea turtle, which Adam explained is about forty inches long and nearly two hundred pounds. But our fears rarely make sense, right? Isn’t that the point? That they’re irrational? I reward his insight with my shitty fake smile, and he laughs.
“That’s Bob Marley.” Adam swims up beside us. “The coolest, most laid-back sea turtle in these parts. And he loves the attention he gets from the people we bring through here. And in case you’re wondering, because most people do, he got his name because he always looks like he just smoked a doobie!” Adam laughs. “Check out those glassy eyes!”
Something about Adam’s words snaps me back to reality. And I remember why we’re here. That James and Dylan probably swam in this same spot, hearing the same story about the Jamaican sea turtle. I look at Nick, who nods. It’s time.
“So, Adam, some friends of ours told us about this tour. They said you were the best guide. You might remember them? Just a couple of months ago?” Nick says.
Adam smiles, revealing a row of perfect white teeth. “I take a lot of people out here, so . . .”
Adam must see my face fall because he quickly adds, “But maybe? You never know! What were their names?”
“James and Dylan,” I say quickly.
Adam’s eyes light up. “James and Dylan! Loved those two. James was my Costa Rican brotha from another motha! Newlyweds, right?”
Nick and I share a look, and I mouth, What the fuck? Because this, we were not prepared for.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
JACKS—AFTER
Nick and I settle into the back row of the shuttle, and I try to tune out the group’s chatter, especially the intermittent high-pitched squeals from Ms. Yellow Bikini as she looks at the unbelievable shots on her camera. I just need to think. To figure out why my husband and his mistress said they were married. Because there was no way it was true. James had many questionable qualities—one of them obviously being a cheater with no regard for his marriage vows—but I knew even he would draw the line at polygamy. It would be too messy. Too much work. Too far beneath him. It must have been the thrill—playing the part of husband and wife. Out here on this island, they didn’t have to hide. They could be together, in the open.
Or there’s another scenario, but one I don’t really want to consider: they were planning to leave us and get married.
“What’s going on in there?” Nick points to my head after we arrive back at the hotel and step off the shuttle.
“You don’t want to know.” I fiddle with my wedding band, which I’m still wearing. But that is a whole other Oprah. And I’m grateful Nick pretends not to notice me doing it.
“Oh, I have a feeling I already do. It’s probably exactly what I was thinking the whole ride back here.” Nick rolls his eyes in Ms. Yellow Bikini’s direction. “If only her cackling had been just a little louder, then it could’ve drowned out my thoughts.”
“So annoying,” I mutter. “How can anyone be that excited about sea turtles? I mean, it was cool, but c’mon.”
“Well, aren’t we surly?” Nick laughs as we walk inside the lobby. “How dare people have fun while on vacation in Maui!”
“I know. I’m being a bitch.”
“No, you’re not. You’re just upset. But for what it’s worth, Adam said they weren’t wearing rings—that they’d just laughed and nodded when he called them newlyweds. And I think we can both agree that guy’s not the sharpest tool in the shed, so his understanding of the situation is probably way off. They probably agreed with what he said so they didn’t bring attention to themselves. It doesn’t mean he actually wanted to marry her, Jacks,” Nick says. Then before I can respond, he adds, “Or that she wanted to marry him.” His clenched jaw betrays him—the feeling of denial he’s obviously trying to bury coming to the surface.
“Maybe,” I say, more to appease him than anything else. I imagine James touching Dylan the way you do when it’s new. When your hands are like magnets—drawn to each other in a way you can’t control. I imagine her flushed cheeks, the glow that must have radiated off Dylan as she basked in his adoration. The way they were acting had made Adam assume they’d just exchanged vows, that there was no way they’d been tainted yet by the real life and problems that eventually wear away the shiny veneer of marriage.
“Want to drink away our sorrows?” Nick finally breaks our silence and looks out to the pool. Happy hour is in full effect, and the buzz from the conversations of the barflies carries over to us as we walk near the pool.
I shake my head. “I’m mentally exhausted. Consuming alcohol would be the worst thing I could do right now. I need to call it a night.”
Nick checks his phone. “It’s only four o’clock.”
I shrug. “It’s seven in California. And I think I’m just ready for this day to be over.”
Nick looks at me for another beat, no doubt realizing I’m not going to change my mind. “So I’ll see you bright and early again tomorrow—six a.m. sharp, right?” he says.
I nod and turn toward the elevator, feeling his eyes on my back as I walk away.
I immediately change into my pajamas when I get inside my room and flop down on the bed. But my mind refuses to let sleep take over—I keep thinking about the way Adam had described James and Dylan. Finally, after tossing and turning for an hour, I call Beth and fill her in.
“That bastard!” The old Beth comes out, guns blazing, and we both laugh. That’s Beth’s favorite word. Everyone has been called it at some point, including her husband and even her nine-year-old son. Probably me too, when I jumped on a plane and came here. And now James.
“I’ve missed you,” I say as the tears fall.
“I’ve been here the whole time, hon. And I’d be lying right next to you if you’d just let me come help.”
“No, I mean the old you. The one who wasn’t afraid to say what she’s thinking—even if it’s calling her son a bastard.”
Beth chuckles. “Remember, we promised never to speak of that again.”
“He deserved it.” I smile, thinking of how he’d taken her phone and bought a hundred dollars’ worth of jewels for some godforsaken app on his iPad.
“He really did, didn’t he? Well, I’m glad you like bitchy, inappropriate Beth. The goody-goody one was killing me.” She pauses. “Oh, God, I’m so sorry. That word, I shouldn’t have used it.”
“It’s okay. You’d be surprised how often we say died or killed in our everyday vocabulary. Believe me, I notice every single one now. I’ve even caught myself doing it.”
“Well, I shouldn’t have said it, and I’m sorry.”
“Seriously, don’t be. I love you. And I need you. The one thing I’ve learned is that no one is doing me any favors by coloring the truth.”
“Everyone just wants to protect you from any more pain. You’d do the same thing for me.”
“Do you think I deserved this? Like it’s some sort of karmic payback for not being a good enough wife?”