look inside me. “I’m sure he’s fine, Z. And I’m sure he’ll be happy to see you.”
After a moment, I whisper, “Then why hasn’t he contacted me?”
It’s the first time I’ve spoken the question aloud. Wendell knows the facts: My father has my email address. I check my account daily, just in case this will be the day the email comes. But day after day, there’s nothing.
Wendell pulls me close. “I don’t know, Z. But there’s still hope.”
“Maybe,” I concede.
“I read a story about a sea turtle,” Wendell says under his breath. His arm tightens around me; his lips graze my ear. “A Native American myth.”
“Tell me,” I murmur, keeping my gaze fixed on the creature.
“Ages ago,” he says, “nothing existed but darkness and sea, so Turtle dove far down into the water to retrieve the Earth. He disappeared for many years, swimming all the way to the bottom. By the time he resurfaced, all the Earth had washed away except for a tiny bit of mud under his toenail. But it was enough. Once the speck of mud was placed on Turtle’s back, it grew and grew and grew and became our Earth.”
After a pause, I say, “So you think my father’s just taking his time? That he’s out there somewhere?”
Wendell nods. “Maybe he’s holding on to a muddy little piece of hope.”
“Hope for what?”
Wendell thinks. “A new life, Z. One with you in it.”
I watch this enormous creature, imagining the depths it’s come from. It’s so hopeful, so slow and persistent, dragging its body up the beach to find the perfect nesting spot. I close my eyes and send a message to my father, wherever he is. Tell him to hang on to that sticky speck of hope.
“Good luck,” I whisper to the turtle.
I lean into Wendell, appreciating the way his body fits mine perfectly. At least he’s a sure thing in my future. I don’t have to worry about him leaving and returning. He’s with me, and he’ll stay with me. The most essential ingredient in my paradise.
Once we start walking back along the beach, I realize I’m utterly exhausted. It’s the deepest middle of night, and my eyelids are drooping, my legs heavy. Soon we leave the stretch of sand and enter a path that winds through a hillside of jungle, heading back to our cabanas.
A noise rumbles through my grogginess. I jump, thinking of the strange jungle sound. Then I catch a glimpse of headlights through the trees and my muscles relax. It’s just the roar of a truck engine. Now hip-hop salsa beats, heavy in the bass, are pounding through the night.
Wendell turns his head too, then gives me a puzzled look. “Weird,” he says, rubbing his eyes. “The road’s a dead end. Who’d be coming here at this time of night?”
I yawn. “Probably tourists looking for a new place to party.”
Wendell stares a moment longer, his eyebrows furrowed. “They’re over near the turtles. Maybe we should warn them about the nests, tell them to stay away.”
Walking all the way back there seems entirely unappealing. I tug on his hand, pulling him toward the cabanas. “Come on, let’s get a little sleep before sunrise. Remember my plan? Just enjoy paradise.”
Taking one last, reluctant glance in the direction of the music, he turns to follow me.
After a drawn-out kiss good night, Wendell disappears into his cabana—a small, octagonal wooden structure with giant windows and a palm-frond roof. I head into my own cabana, just past his. They’re nearly identical except for the starfish painted on the door of mine, the iguana on Wendell’s. His parents’ one condition for his staying here was that we have separate cabanas. At first I rolled my eyes, but now I’m secretly glad. I love having my own space, an entire little house to myself, even if it is just a room and bathroom. I’ve always had to share tiny spaces with Layla, put up with her propensity to throw silk scarves over everything—windows, lampshades, toilet tanks—but I get to decorate this place
After a moment, I whisper, “Then why hasn’t he contacted me?”
It’s the first time I’ve spoken the question aloud. Wendell knows the facts: My father has my email address. I check my account daily, just in case this will be the day the email comes. But day after day, there’s nothing.
Wendell pulls me close. “I don’t know, Z. But there’s still hope.”
“Maybe,” I concede.
“I read a story about a sea turtle,” Wendell says under his breath. His arm tightens around me; his lips graze my ear. “A Native American myth.”
“Tell me,” I murmur, keeping my gaze fixed on the creature.
“Ages ago,” he says, “nothing existed but darkness and sea, so Turtle dove far down into the water to retrieve the Earth. He disappeared for many years, swimming all the way to the bottom. By the time he resurfaced, all the Earth had washed away except for a tiny bit of mud under his toenail. But it was enough. Once the speck of mud was placed on Turtle’s back, it grew and grew and grew and became our Earth.”
After a pause, I say, “So you think my father’s just taking his time? That he’s out there somewhere?”
Wendell nods. “Maybe he’s holding on to a muddy little piece of hope.”
“Hope for what?”
Wendell thinks. “A new life, Z. One with you in it.”
I watch this enormous creature, imagining the depths it’s come from. It’s so hopeful, so slow and persistent, dragging its body up the beach to find the perfect nesting spot. I close my eyes and send a message to my father, wherever he is. Tell him to hang on to that sticky speck of hope.
“Good luck,” I whisper to the turtle.
I lean into Wendell, appreciating the way his body fits mine perfectly. At least he’s a sure thing in my future. I don’t have to worry about him leaving and returning. He’s with me, and he’ll stay with me. The most essential ingredient in my paradise.
Once we start walking back along the beach, I realize I’m utterly exhausted. It’s the deepest middle of night, and my eyelids are drooping, my legs heavy. Soon we leave the stretch of sand and enter a path that winds through a hillside of jungle, heading back to our cabanas.
A noise rumbles through my grogginess. I jump, thinking of the strange jungle sound. Then I catch a glimpse of headlights through the trees and my muscles relax. It’s just the roar of a truck engine. Now hip-hop salsa beats, heavy in the bass, are pounding through the night.
Wendell turns his head too, then gives me a puzzled look. “Weird,” he says, rubbing his eyes. “The road’s a dead end. Who’d be coming here at this time of night?”
I yawn. “Probably tourists looking for a new place to party.”
Wendell stares a moment longer, his eyebrows furrowed. “They’re over near the turtles. Maybe we should warn them about the nests, tell them to stay away.”
Walking all the way back there seems entirely unappealing. I tug on his hand, pulling him toward the cabanas. “Come on, let’s get a little sleep before sunrise. Remember my plan? Just enjoy paradise.”
Taking one last, reluctant glance in the direction of the music, he turns to follow me.
After a drawn-out kiss good night, Wendell disappears into his cabana—a small, octagonal wooden structure with giant windows and a palm-frond roof. I head into my own cabana, just past his. They’re nearly identical except for the starfish painted on the door of mine, the iguana on Wendell’s. His parents’ one condition for his staying here was that we have separate cabanas. At first I rolled my eyes, but now I’m secretly glad. I love having my own space, an entire little house to myself, even if it is just a room and bathroom. I’ve always had to share tiny spaces with Layla, put up with her propensity to throw silk scarves over everything—windows, lampshades, toilet tanks—but I get to decorate this place
Similar Books
The Fell Sword
Miles Cameron
Studio Showdown
Samantha-Ellen Bound
Twice Tempted by a Rogue
Tessa Dare
Becoming a Man of Unwavering Faith
John Osteen
Water to Burn
Katharine Kerr
Mara
Lisette van de Heg
Blood Red
Vivi Anna
Deliver Us
Lynn Kelling
Soul Catcher
E. L. Todd
