“Oh, just … nothing. Whales.”
He smiles at me indulgently. “You’re cute. Want to go back to the room?”
I glance longingly at my phone, but Seb’s already pulling me out of my chair.
The rest of the evening goes by predictably. We have sex in the shower. We eat sushi. (Sashimi for him, a twelve-course omakase for me, because it’s important to live, even if your boyfriend is mortally afraid of carbs.) We go back to the room and have sex again.
I never thought one could grow so weary of fabulous sex.
I set my alarm and wake up early. Sebastian is gone—no doubt already at the gym. I grab a bacon torta at the breakfast cantina and head to the lobby to meet my tour group.
There are six of us: me and a family of five from Cincinnati. The parents are nice, but the children—three adolescent girls—look at me like I’m creepy for being alone.
“I’m here with my boyfriend, but he gets seasick,” I explain to the mother, who has not asked.
“Oh, that’s a shame. Too seasick for whales?”
“I know.” I sigh. “I should probably break up with him.”
She gives me a confused look.
“Just kidding!” I say.
She laughs politely and busies herself doling out sunscreen to her children.
We are led down to the beach, where a speedboat awaits us. The tour guide introduces himself and distributes life vests. Two men push us out into the surf, and then we’re off.
I sit near the bow of the boat with the guide. “They’re just a few miles off the coast today,” he tells me. “It’s a good day. Calm. They’re feeding.”
I nod and let the wind whip through my hair and the salt spray my face. Boating on the Pacific is different from the calm Gulf bays and intercoastals by my mom’s house. This is more fun. I feel like Tom Cruise in a Michael Bay movie. I find myself grinning. Genuinely enjoying myself.
How novel.
The guide leaps to his feet. “Over there. Ten o’clock.”
We all turn our heads to see a massive blue whale rise out of the water. She disappears, and then her tail breaks through the surf with a splash.
“Look, two more,” one of the girls cries.
I whirl around to see them duck out of the water in tandem—one big, one small.
“It’s a mama and her baby!” another tween cries.
We all grab our phones and wildly snap photos.
Then I stop, and just watch them—let the moment wash over me.
The guide grabs the wheel and turns the boat, and we spend the next hour finding whale after whale. Some of them approach us, curious. A baby shows off with a flip out of the water as her mother circles her protectively.
They splash us. They squirt water out of their blowholes. They do every single thing you could desire of a whale.
The family and I laugh and take pictures and by the time the hour is up even the daughters seem to like me. I can’t remember the last time something felt so exhilarating.
I loved doing it for myself, but part of me wishes there had been someone to share it with aside from a family of strangers.
I tip the guide handsomely, say goodbye to the family, and walk toward the pool on wobbly, seafaring legs. I grab a chair, order a margarita, and collapse back to examine my haul of photos.
They are beautiful, and I open Instagram to post a few.
The first post I see is from @sethrubes.
He’s sitting next to his gorgeous blond girlfriend in a park. They are holding hands, and there is a giant, sparkling ring on her finger.
It’s captioned @Sarah_LT just made me the luckiest man in Chicago. No, wait, the world.
It has 563 likes, and the first comment beneath it is from the @Sarah_LT in question. Can’t wait to be your wife.
I close the app, stricken, abandon my margarita, and fumble my way back to my suite to find Seb.
“Are you crying, babe?” he asks, emerging from the shower in all his glistening glory.
“It’s nothing,” I say. “I think I’m about to start my period.”
“Aww. Come here and let me kiss it better,” he says.
I bury myself in his chest and, for a minute, just let myself cry.
He wipes the tears from under my eyes and kisses me on both cheeks.
