The resort brochure called it a "Scenic Reef Adventure."
Translation: three hours trapped on a boat with strangers who thought sunscreen was optional and alcohol at ten in the morning was a golden idea.
I didn't want to go. Obviously. But my boss's little "mandatory wellness" schedule had it written in bold under Tuesday. Group excursion, "optional but recommended." The front desk girl basically winked when she handed me the ticket. Optional my ass.
So, there I was on the dock, barefoot, my sunglasses clamped too tight to my face, and the sun already cooking my scalp. I had my laptop bag slung over my shoulder because… yeah, no way was I leaving it in the room after last night. After her hearing. After… no. Don't think about that.
The boat wasn't huge, it more like a glorified party barge with peeling paint. A cluster of tourists chattered near the railing, laughing too loud. Someone's kid already dropped a soda can into the water and started crying like it was a funeral.
And then she showed up.
Charlotte.
Her hair, pulled back in some lazy braid that somehow made her look like she belonged on a magazine cover. A blue bikini under a sheer white wrap, sunglasses dangling from her fingers like she didn't need them, laughing at something the tour guide said. She was already fitting herself into the group like she'd been born to entertain them. Of course, she was.
Of course, she picked today to look like the sun loved her personally.
I shifted back, considering bailing. Just walk away. But then she spotted me.
"Wow," she said, loud enough that at least three people turned. "You actually came. I thought boats weren't on the list of things your personality allows."
The group laughed. A few chuckled, some nodded, like we were part of some inside joke. My chest went hot.
"Mandatory wellness," I muttered, forcing a smile that didn't stick.
She smirked and walked right past me, stepping onto the boat like she owned it. She sat dead center, leaving the spot beside her empty. An invitation? A trap? Didn't matter. I stayed near the railing.
The guide gave the usual speech—life jackets, reef rules, don't touch the coral, don't pee in the water (nervous laughter sprouted from the crowd). I barely listened. My focus was her. Always her.
And she wasn't looking at me. She was leaning toward some other guy in a floppy hat, realtor voice on full blast. Charming, animated, laughing like everything he said deserved applause. He wasn't even funny. But she laughed anyway, tossing her braid over her shoulder like a reflex.
My stomach tightened.
The boat pulled away from the dock. The sound of the engine sputtering was loud enough to drown thought. Salt spray hit my face, sharp and clean. Everyone else whooped, clapped, already buzzing from the open bar cooler in the corner. I stayed with my arms crossed, watching Charlotte hold court like she was auditioning for queen of the damn sea.
The hat guy leaned in closer. She didn't move back.
I gripped the railing hard enough my knuckles went white.
Snorkeling time. Masks and fins handed out like party favors. People stumbling around, laughing at how dumb they looked. I tried to disappear into the edge of the group, but Charlotte, of course, ended up next to me at the side rail, adjusting her mask.
She glanced at me, quick and sharp. "Don't drown," she said.
"I'll try not to inconvenience the fishes," I muttered back.
Her mouth twitched like she wanted to smile, but she didn't. She just pulled the strap tight and jumped in first, slicing the water like she belonged there too.
I went after, getting my nose flooded with salt instantly, burning. I hated it. It was too bright and too loud, and too many fins were kicking near my face. I tried to focus on the reef below, the bright flashes of blue and yellow fish, coral like melted sculptures. Beautiful, sure. Didn't matter. My mind kept circling back to her.
She was ahead of me, her body stretched long in the water, with her braid floating loose. Other people swam close, but she moved easy, smooth, like she'd been built for it. And she didn't look back once.
I wanted her to.
God! I hated myself for that.
Back on the boat, dripping wet, everyone was buzzing about what they saw. Turtles, clownfish, "Nemo!" jokes. Drinks passed around again, and some idiot was blasting music from a speaker.
Charlotte wrapped herself in her white cover-up and sat in the sun to dry, her legs stretched out like she didn't have a care in the world. The hat guy sat beside her again. Too close. Their knees almost touched.
I tried not to watch, but I failed.
Someone yelled, "Neighbors!" and I froze. But they weren't talking about us. Some couple in matching swimsuits waved. Apparently, they lived three streets apart back home. Everyone laughed, clapped, and clinked glasses.
But the word "Neighbors." stuck.
Because that's what we were. Thin wall, shared balcony, shared silence.
I caught her looking at me then. Just a flicker. Her eyes slid over. It was sharp and unreadable. And for half a second, it was like we were the only two people on the boat. Everything else faded. The sun, waves, laughter. Just her stare, burning.
Then she looked away, back to floppy-hat idiot, and laughed at something he said. Louder this time. Too loud.
I swallowed the burn that was trying to crawl up my throat.
Lunch was served on the boat. Sandwiches wrapped in plastic, fruit skewers, cheap beer. I wasn't hungry, but I sat anyway. I sat across the aisle from her table. Every word she said was pointed away from me, but every laugh felt like it was aimed straight at my chest.
People joked, asked about jobs. Someone asked me what I did. "Web development," I said flat. The response was the usual "Oh, so you're a tech guy, huh?" followed by bad IT jokes. I forced smiles, nodded. But then someone asked Charlotte.
"Real estate," she said, all charm, all polish. "I sell dreams by the square foot."
They laughed, and clapped, and she winked.
And I hated it. Hated how she could own a room, how she didn't need me, didn't even see me.
I wanted to leave, but I couldn't. I was stuck on a floating circus with nowhere to run.
On the ride back, sunburn setting in, beer gone warm, everyone draped lazy across the benches. I stayed by the railing again, as I watched the waves slapping against the hull. My skin itched with salt, my head was buzzing, not from alcohol but from her. Always her.
She leaned back in her seat, her sunglasses were on now, and her mouth was curved in some secret smile I couldn't read. The hat guy talked, gesturing big, but she wasn't even looking at him anymore. She was staring straight ahead. Maybe at nothing. Maybe at me.
The boat hit a wave, jolted. Everyone laughed. I stumbled, caught myself on the rail. She tilted her head a little bit, just enough for me to catch it.
One look. One second.
Then gone.
Back on the dock, people shuffled off, chattering about dinner plans, swapping numbers. Charlotte walked ahead, wrap swaying, not looking back. Not once.
I thought about calling her name. Thought about catching up, saying something, anything.
But, I didn't.
Because what the hell would I even say?
That night, lying on my bed, I could still feel the sun burning my shoulders. I could still hear her laugh cutting across the boat. I could still see her braid drifting underwater like a rope pulling me under.
I wanted to hate her. I really did. But all I could think was how much I wanted her to look back. Just once.
And she didn't.
Not today.