The Shippers(35)

“I’m so much worse than I thought I was,” I said, when the rest of our team had rounded the sandcastle and we’d lost visual contact again.

“It’s those heels,” he said. “They’re messing with your depth perception.”

“I can’t believe Finn didn’t remember me,” I said next.

“Big kids never remember little kids.”

“He remembered everybody else.”

“Maybe he was playing it cool.”

“Did you see him squint at me like he’d never seen me before? I totally froze.”

“You did fine,” Cooper said.

“But I didn’t say anything,” I argued. “He’s going to think I have no personality.”

“Guess what?” Cooper said, in an effort to be kind. “In that dress, you don’t need a personality.”



* * *



THANKS TO COOPER and me, we came in last place. Very last place. So very last place that when Finn saw our score, he threw his club down like a golfy John McEnroe having a tantrum.

But that wasn’t the worst of it.

The worst of it happened after the game. After everyone had returned their putters to the rental desk, and after Brody had removed his one weird golf glove and tucked it into his pocket, and after Finn and Brody had tried to get Cooper and me retroactively kicked off their team—as we were all walking over toward the buffet.

The irony is that I was actually getting the hang of the whole walking-in-heels thing. When I’d first started practicing, I’d mostly hobbled around on tiptoe like a kangaroo. But now, almost like a lovely little apology from the universe, as I crossed the sports deck, I could tell I had the motion down. The wind blew my hair. The sun shined affectionately. Heel-toe. Heel-toe.

I’ve got this, I thought. Could somebody hit “slo-mo”?

That short walk across the sports deck did a beautiful job of raising my spirits, in fact. I might be destined for the mini-golf Hall of Shame, but at least, as of this moment, I could officially walk in heels.

A much more valuable skill.

I decided to enjoy it. I was even considering throwing in a hip bump or two.

And then?

I hit a slick patch.

I went heel-toe, heel-toe, heel—splat.

My legs flew out ahead of me—just exactly like a cartoon character slipping on a banana peel—and I landed smack on my tailbone.

Which is even more painful than it is humiliating.

And it’s pretty frigging humiliating.

I must have made a loud noise—because every single wedding guest turned to look, and for a moment, I was suspended in time in the birthing position with my unicorn underpants on full display, Sharon Stone style.

A moment that lasted a thousand years.

Next, Cooper arrived behind me and hoisted me to my feet—but as soon as I tried to turn around, he yanked me back and clamped my backside to his front.

I tried to turn again—but he clamped me tighter.

“What’s going on, Cooper?”

“You are having,” Cooper said then, “a wardrobe malfunction.”

I squeezed my eyes closed. “Is it the dress?”

“Yes.”

“Did it split?”

“Yes.”

“Can everybody see my…”

“Unicorns. Yes.”

At that, I sighed in a way that felt more like a cave-in.

“If I let go of you,” Cooper said, “will you stop trying to turn around?”

Like a hostage, I nodded.

“Okay,” Cooper said, slowly loosening his clamped arms. “Stay.”

I stayed.

Next, I felt some air between us, and then I heard a rustle of fabric. And then, from behind, he reached for my hand, threading it into the sleeve of his suit jacket before shifting sides to do the same thing to the other.

This dress really must have been short—and Cooper must have been taller than I realized—because Cooper’s jacket grazed my mid-thighs as he turned me around to button it.

“There,” he said, looking pleased, like everything was fixed.

But nothing was fixed.

He read my face as it all started hitting me.

“No, no,” Cooper said, clamping me into a hug.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“I’m distracting you,” Cooper said. “So you don’t start crying.”

“I’m not about to start—” I started. But then I realized he was right.

“And now I’m giving you a pep talk,” he went on, still hugging.

“I don’t need a pep talk,” I said. “I just need to go back to your fancy cabin and not leave for the rest of the cruise.”

“You’re not doing that,” Cooper said. “You’re coming with me to the welcome lunch.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s your sister’s wedding,” Cooper said. “But also because you are unstoppable.”

At that, my head shook itself. “I’m pretty stoppable, actually.”

But Cooper disagreed. “Maybe you just took the most humiliating pratfall I’ve ever seen in real life. Maybe this day hasn’t gone at all how you planned. Maybe Brody and his Michael Jackson glove were total douchebags all through the game. But … you’re JoJo. You’re the best person here. You look genuinely hot in that dress—and those underpants are the sexiest thing about it, by the way. You’re not going to scuttle away and hide. You’re going to come eat lunch, and sit with me, and I’m going to bring you all the desserts until you completely forget to be unhappy.”