How to Honeymoon Alone

“How’d the two of you meet?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “We haven’t had a single glass of rum yet today.”

“You haven’t? I drank four piña coladas for breakfast. You should really try the buffet. It’s incredible.”

“You didn’t, or you’d be overboard by now. Again.”

I cock my head. “Why don’t you eat at the breakfast bar? I never see you there.”

He turns to face me fully. “You’ve been looking for me?” he asks and sounds inordinately pleased by that fact.

“I watch all the guests. They’re fascinating.”

“You mean you hate-watch the honeymoon couples?”

“Yes,” I say. “Two of them fed each other chopped mango yesterday morning, and I almost committed double homicide with my grapefruit spoon.”

“Good thing you have an attorney present on the island,” he says.

I dig my teeth into my lower lip to hide my smile. “Would you take my case pro bono?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “I might ask for some form of payment.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes. Your guidebook, for one.”

My eyes widen. “My guidebook?”

“Yes. Your annotations could save me from a mediocre restaurant experience one of these nights. I’d rather have an excellent one.”

“Don’t mock the guidebook.”

“Oh, I would never,” he says. “I’m considering making it the holy text of my new religion.”

“All right, that’s it, Meyer.” I shove at his shoulder, forcing him away from me on the bench.

He lets me push him two inches before he braces himself, becoming an immovable, half-smiling statue. “This right here is violence. You just admitted to having homicidal thoughts, too. I think I should report you. You’re a danger to society, and I take my civic duty seriously.”

“I told you that in confidence! Attorney-client privilege.”

“That only applies after you’ve committed a crime,” he says. “Not before.”

“The guidebook told me all about the shipwreck we’re headed to,” I say. “I was planning on sharing that information with you, but now I won’t. I’ll just let you swim over it like an ignorant dork.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “An ignorant dork?”

“Yes. I know that sounds stupid, but I stand by it.”

“Right,” he says. “You know, I’ve never had as weird conversations as I have with you.”

“The feeling is mutual,” I say.

That’s the exact moment the boat comes to a slow standstill. We’re in the deeper blue waters off Carlisle Bay again, close to where we’d seen the sea turtles.

I know from my reading that there have been hundreds of shipwrecks over the centuries in the shallow waters surrounding the island, and six of them are in this bay. The oldest is from 1919 and the most recent happened in 2003. which was deliberately sunk to create a habitat for coral, but none of that is information I’ll share with the ignorant dork beside me.

The very handsome ignorant dork pulling off his T-shirt. He’s tanner every day I see him, and has a dark smattering of chest hair across a muscled torso that I do my very best to avoid looking at.

Our guide anchors around a buoy and helps us grab our gear. He’ll join us in the water, he says, and starts telling us all about the shipwreck we’re going to be snorkeling on.

Phillip gives me a triumphant look, his goggles in his hands. I’ll get all the info anyway, his dark-blue eyes say.

I try to narrow my eyes back at him, but I doubt he can see a thing through the thick plastic of my snorkel mask.

The water is lukewarm and soft against my skin, and so clear I can easily see the sandy bottom several feet below.

Together with the tour guide, we swim toward a large, dark shadow in the water. It’s only a little scary, but once I can look beneath the surface, my fear becomes wonder again. Just like it did the last time, with the turtles.This is the property of Nô-velDrama.Org.

There’s an entire world beneath the surface.

The shipwreck is home to a coral reef now. The boat itself is still clearly visible, resting against the sandy ocean floor as if it’s just sleeping. But in its slumber, it’s been taken over by the ocean itself, covered in coral and seaweed. I spot a school of bright yellow fish emerging out of a porthole. At the far end of the wreck, a lone sea turtle feasts on some seafood growing off the ship’s bow.

I’ll remember this for the rest of my life. It’s like looking at magic. We’re not alone at the shipwreck, but the other group of tourists from a chartered cruise keep to the other side. The ocean is large enough for us all.

Something big passes under me. I flinch on instinct before I recognize the person. Phillip. He’s swum beneath the surface and is holding something out in my direction.

Is that a…?

We both surface.

“What’s that?” I ask, treading water.

“It’s an action camera,” he says.

“Did you take a picture of me?”

“Yeah.” He hands it to me above the surface. The thing is tiny, with a string that goes around my wrist. “Press the right button… there, yes.”

I stare at him across the softly undulating waves. “I can borrow it?”

“Yeah. There’s a turtle down there. Take some pictures for your class back home.”

Delight swells up inside me, and I grin at him. “You don’t trust my cheap underwater camera, do you?”

“Not one bit,” he says.

A loud shriek echoes across the waves. We both turn towards the frantic splashing. In the distant turquoise waves, a man is flailing. His head dips beneath the surface before emerging again, spluttering and yelling. The closest tourist boat is another hundred feet away. He must have come from there.