Page 38 of Sucker For You

“A ring pop?”

“You never know, do you?” He gestured for her to join him in hiking back up through the sand and shells to the bungalow.

Could there really be a ring pop in a cereal box? Something sweet and lucky hidden away just for her?

Maybe.

She followed him.

Maybe, somehow, it would be all right.

8

“Damn.” There were no rings, candy or otherwise, in the Grocery Outlet cereal. Wes stuffed a crinkling bag of store-brand flakes back into its box. He shrugged at Isabel and at the plastic Pixar figurine they’d unearthed, then retrieved her napkin of spousal immigration interview questions. “No luck there. But this does bring up another item for the list. What’s our favorite guilty pleasure movie?”

“The Princess Bride.”

She spoke without thinking. She had to quickly occupy herself by the reef tank, concealing the fresh heat in her face by stooping to study the oyster.

Wes. Westley.

“As you wish.” He joined her at the aquarium. One thumb scraped at a thin crust of algae caked above the waterline. “Why’s that our favorite?”

She couldn’t admit the obvious answer. “It’s a good film.”

“A solid choice, yeah.” His grin brightened in her peripheral vision. “But you went diving in Monterey Bay at night, so you must be a better swimmer than Buttercup. Those shrieking eels wouldn’t be a problem for you.”

“No eel species preys on humans.”

“You don’t think they exist.” The smile broadened.

It was a joke.

She answered seriously, “If one does really exist, its feedinghabits likely won’t be its most interesting characteristic. Moray eels have two sets of jaws. And both morays and hagfish secrete so much slime that they tie their own bodies into knots to squeeze off the excess mucus. Otherwise, they’d suffocate.”

“Like rolling up a tube of toothpaste?”

“Yes.”

“Bizarre. . . I didn’t know that. I do have experience with morays, though. I got bitten when I was photographing the Maldives reefs. But I guess I should count myself lucky that the eel didn’t slime me like something fromGhostbusters, too. Insult, meet injury! Which reminds me.” When he nodded back at her list, he rucked up the hem of his shirt to rub at a scar branded over his hip beside the red veins of jellyfish blisters; her breath caught and the oyster was fascinating again. “What’s your toothpaste brand?”

“Oh.”

She exhaled, relieved. The list was safe. Facts were safe. She gave him the answer, learning in exchange that he lived off a rotation of free dentist samples—and that beyond generic mint, his tastes leaned toward golden oldies and acoustic rock for singalong radio.

“Don’t worry, I won’t play guitar at you. Or—maybe I should? It’d give us something to fight about.”

Again:joking.

An involuntary stumble still bumped her into the credenza.

“Fine, fine, no guitar. I left my last one in the Socorro Islands anyhow. I didn’t want to, but. . . airline weight restrictions.” Wes raised his hands in surrender. “I guess we could have regular arguments about the toilet seat instead. Don’t most couples? Or the correct way to load the dishwasher, even if we both know you’re right. Or your ring?”

“No. No arguments. No fights. I—I don’t want. . .”

“No? All right, we won’t fight. We’ll be one ofthosecouples.” The pump bubbled between them for a moment, soothing to her ears. Then Wes continued with another smile emerging, though quietly, “But Iwillfind you a ring. A real one.”

“I don’t care about that.”