Here Today, Gone to Maui (33 page)

“I’m working as an event coordinator for a catering company,” I told Michael.

“I know,” he said simply. When he saw my confusion, he explained: “I Googled you.”

My mouth dropped open. “You crazy stalker.”

He grinned. “Do you like it?”

“You stalking me? It’s okay.” I liked it. “Oh! The job? Yeah, I do, actually. It’s an offshoot of a Korean restaurant. They hired me to help expand their Anglo customer base. The money’s not great, but it combines food and organizing, so it’s a good fit. Plus, I get all the kimchi I can eat.”

Michael and I said good-bye when my dive instructor—a six-foot-tall woman named Sonia who scared the crap out of me—ushered our class of eight to the gangway. Once on board the big, square-hulled boat, I stowed my gear on a bunk bed belowdecks and came back up to the galley for some breakfast: a cup of coffee, scrambled eggs, and a piece of toast. Tran, my dive buddy, motioned me over to his table. We smiled at each other and looked out the window. Tran was from Vietnam, but his limited English had never been an issue since we couldn’t talk underwater, anyway.

A couple of other people from our class joined us. Others stayed in the bunks below, preferring to sleep through the two-hour ride to Catalina. If not for Michael, I probably would have done the same: the rolling of the waves made the boat feel like a big cradle. Instead, I kept my eyes on the galley door, swallowing with disappointment every time it opened and Michael didn’t come in.

When the island loomed into view, I went out to the deck to get my wetsuit out of my new dive bag. It was a beautiful day, a sharp, clear blue. It was a nice temperature, too—about seventy degrees.

There were a lot of people out on the decks. Michael was near the front of the boat, leaning against the rail. I made my way over piles of bags until I reached him.

“Hey,” I said.

He glanced at me briefly before returning his eyes to the horizon. “I saw you go into the galley. I was wondering when you’d come out.”

Suddenly, my pleasure at seeing him turned to irritation. I was done playing games. “You were welcome to come in at any time,” I snapped.

He shook his head, still not looking at me. “Can’t.”

“The breakfast is for everyone,” I said. “Not just the students. There was coffee, bacon, eggs—”

“No!” he said. “Stop!”

“What?” He’d seemed so normal back on the dock.

“You’re going to make me throw up.”

“Excuse me?”
And then I got it. “You’re seasick!” I probably shouldn’t have sounded so happy.

He nodded miserably.

“Does this happen every time?”

He nodded again. “Though usually not this bad. Some boats are steadier. And the waves aren’t usually this big. As long as I stay outside and stare at the horizon, I’ll be okay. And I’ll be fine once I’m off the boat. Just, please. Don’t talk about food.”

I leaned my arms on the railing next to him. Farther back, I could see other ill-looking passengers. “Why do you do this, then—if it makes you sick?”

He shrugged. “Sometimes you have to suffer for what you love.” He shot me a side glance. “And I do a lot of beach dives, even though they’re usually not as good.”

About twelve feet below us, the water foamed white where it met the hull. Soon, I’d be going overboard. “Where’s the platform?” I asked.

“What platform?”

“Where you get off the boat?”

He motioned to a hinged spot in the railing a little way down from us. “There.”

“We have to jump from all the way up here?” I said, panic creeping into my voice.

“You don’t jump in,” he said. “You just take a big step. Didn’t you practice that in the pool?”

“Yeah, but that was a one-foot drop.” I peered back down. Maybe it wasn’t twelve feet. Maybe it was fifteen. Or twenty. It was a really long way down.

“You’ll be fine,” he said. “With the wetsuit on, there’s no slapping or anything. It doesn’t hurt at all.”

The rest of my class appeared from the various corners of the boat. We dragged our bags to the open stern, where we sat on benches and wiggled into our wetsuits. Across the deck, Michael yanked on a suit with three different shades of blue for the arms, legs, and torso. I looked away before he could catch me staring.

The students were first in the water. Waddling over to my place in line (my tank was so heavy I couldn’t stand up straight), I caught Michael’s eye. “How come your clothes are all black but your wetsuits are colored? Isn’t it usually the other way around?”

“That’s the idea,” he said, attaching his tank to his BCD and checking the valves. “When I first went into business, I figured that if I wore black when I went on sales calls, the wetsuits would pop even more. Eventually all I owned was black clothes. I guess I can buy colored stuff now, huh?”

“You don’t have to. You look good in black.” I pulled my mask up over my face so he couldn’t see me blush.

He stood up and shrugged the BCD onto his back as if it weighed nothing. “Here.” He put a hand under my tank, taking some of the weight.

“Thanks,” I said, straightening.

“It’s your turn,” he said, looking toward the water.

And it was (so much for relief). Sonia, my dive instructor, stood at the railing, motioning me forward. The gate now open, there was only one small step between me and the icy Pacific.

“Fins on! Mouthpiece in! One hand over the mask, one hand over your chest!” Sonia barked.

I moved toward the edge, equally terrified of Sonia and the enormous drop. Michael held my elbow while I yanked on my flippers, and then he helped me up to the step. My flippers stuck out over the edge. My heart pounded. Without Michael holding it, the tank weighed heavily against my shoulders. I imagined losing my balance and tumbling face-first into the waves.

“One big step, and keep your tips up,” Sonia said. “Just like we did in class.”

I nodded shakily, mask and mouthpiece hiding my terror.

Michael stood at the railing right next to me. I gave him one last slightly desperate look. His mask hung around his neck, the copper ring around his brown eyes glinting in the early morning sun. Now that we were in a protected cove, the sea was calmer, and color had returned to his face.

“You were right, you know,” he said, a little smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. It was a nice mouth: wide and well defined, entirely masculine.

“Huh?” I asked through the mouthpiece, trying to read his expression and maintain my precarious balance at the same time.

“I was attracted to you. I still am.”

At that, I lost my footing. The bottom dropped out and the ocean tumbled up until sea and sky met in a flash of blue and white. But my feet stayed down, and my head stayed up—and you know what?

It didn’t hurt at all.