Page 102 of Good at Being Alive
His hand, currently resting on my hip, stills. I wait for him to deny it, to tell me something has changed, and when he doesn’t, I try to pretend I don’t mind.
But why, when this thing between us is as good as it is, does he care so much about keeping it a secret?
I know how Baby Makes Three would answer that question.
Theo
I wake in the middle ofthe night to a drunken text from Bryce. I ignore it because there’s no reasoning with him when he’s half cut. But it’s going to be a problem. There’s another in the morning, as we get dressed to run, and I ignore that too.
Today’s our longest run yet: twenty miles, but twenty of the most scenic miles anyone could hope for. Madeira has endless oldlevadas—irrigation ditches created to transport water from one end of the island to the other—and along them they’ve built walking paths. We run past rivers and waterfalls, through dense forests and tunnels.
“Maplewood won’t be quite this scenic,” Bex pants as we run, “but it’ll be a lot less humid.”
Though it’s clearly difficult for her, and I’m not running as fast as I would on my own, she is keeping up admirably. It’s hard to believe she’s the same girl who barely managed four miles in Amsterdam. Then again, the one consistent thing about Bex is that she’ll impress the hell out of you when she decidesto.
I love that, more and more, she’s decidingto.
Lars has promised us a relatively easy afternoon, given howtired we are by the time we’re done. We shower, change into swimsuits, and are taken to Porto Moniz, where there are natural pools formed by volcanic rock. It would be amazing if it weren’t for the fucking cameras and microphones.
And if it weren’t for the texts coming from London, warning me that it’s all about to go titsup.
“There’s nothing like a twenty-mile run to make you appreciate lying flat on your back,” Bex says, stretching out in the poolside chair beside mine.
I have the scratches on my arse to prove she appreciated lying flat on her back last night, too, but I can’t say this with the entire crew listeningin.
“You know how I’d respond if we weren’t being recorded,” I murmur.
She raises her sunglasses to grin at me. “No clue. Whisper it.”
I know she has a clue, simply by the way her eyes gleam.
“I’ll tell you later,” I reply. “I’ll tell yourepeatedly.”
She bites her lip, thoughts similar to my own clearly etched across her face. My phone, in the pocket of my swim trunks, vibrates with another text, ruining the moment.
This trip with her is a small taste of what my life could have been if I were someone else. And it might be the last taste I get.
“I have an idea,” she says, pushing up to her feet with a groan—stiffness from the run setting in—and walks over to this little hut selling pool toys and sunscreen.
Her suit is cut high on her perfect bum. Every man she passes turns to watch.
All mine,I want to growl.
For now,warns a voice in my head.
She buys something at the stand and returns with a wide grin and two deflated rafts. Those eyes are still on her as she walks back, and I can’t fault any of them. The sun has put streaksof caramel in her hair and her skin is tanned from a summer spent outside. Her eyes gleam and though she’s still slender, she has a softness to her curves that wasn’t there when she was so broken last winter. I don’t want to look at anything but her anymore.
“You have the most amazing eyes,” I tell her. I’m being recorded and I just don’t care. Time is ticking away, and I might not get the chance to tell her later. “They’re the first thing I noticed about you.”
She blushes, fighting a pleased smile. “Are you just saying that to get out of helping me inflate the rafts?”
I shake my head. “No. But do you have any idea how long it’s going to take to blow these up?”
“Not for me.” She winks. “I’m good at blowing things.”
It’s a shot right to my groin. I glance from her to LJ, standing five feet away with the camera trained on us. “Rebecca.”
“Sorry,” she says with a cheeky grin, sounding not at all sorry, and my stomach squeezes again.
