“You should go,” Phoebe says to Deiss. “We need coffee.”
“There’s some on the table.”
“The instant packets? Those didn’t pass for coffee at the hotel in Spain, and they still don’t here. We need the real stuff, Deiss, and you’ve been nominated to find it for us.”
Deiss sighs and leans forward. “Fine.”
His white t-shirt is so threadbare, it’s almost see-through. My eyes catch on the muscles that pop out beneath it as he pushes himself up. I force myself to turn to Phoebe, but she’s busy watching the show.
“You sleep in shorts?” she asks, scanning the length of him.
I breathe a sigh of relief at the confirmation of real clothes on his bottom half. If it had turned out I’d cuddled a boxer-clad Deiss—or, worse, a Deiss in briefs—I’m not sure I ever could’ve looked him in the eyes again.
“When I’m sharing the bed with Liv, I do,” he says. “What time do we board the boat?”
I look over in surprise, but Deiss is looking down at the floor, shuffling into a pair of low-profile white trainers. “Boat?”
“We’ve got the wildlife cruise today. I already called, and they confirmed there’s space for you.” Phoebe glances over at Deiss. “It leaves at ten. So, you’d better get on that coffee.”
“Aye, aye, Cap,” he says dryly, grabbing his phone. As he strolls out the door, he glances at me and says, “Told you she was bossy on vacation.”
I don’t defend her because I’m already reaching for my phone to check the time. It’s 8:37, and I’m guessing the boat doesn’t depart from the lobby. We’ll have to get to a dock, which means I probably have less than an hour before we leave. It’s not enough time. Waterproof mascara always takes longer to apply, and I’ll need to do a Google search on boat hairstyles that are flattering but will prevent me from ending up with a mouthful of honey-blond highlights. Thank goodness I took care of shaving last night.
“Can you do me a huge favor?” I get out of bed and head toward my suitcase. “I need to find somewhere else to stay tonight, but I also have to get ready. Would you mind searching some options?”
“But I have so much to tell you. And this might be our only time alone all day. Plus, we have a patio!” Phoebe darts to the door on the other side of the cabana and flings it open, gesturing outside like the assistant on a game show.
Her smile is so wide that I feel my mouth mirroring hers. Unfortunately, I don’t have the luxury of sitting around and catching up. I have new accommodations to find. More importantly, I don’t go out into the world without my armor on. As much as I love Phoebe, she should know me well enough to understand this. When we were at school and half the girls on campus were wandering around in pajama pants and sweatshirts, I was swapping out purses to better accessorize my outfits. As my mother always told me, if you look like a mess, people will assume they can mess with you.
“It’s fine,” I say. “I can figure out a place to stay after I get ready. Why don’t you go on the patio and I’ll be out as soon as I’m done.”
“No.” Phoebe’s shoulders slump, but to her credit, she manages to hold onto her smile. “That’s okay. I want to help. I’ll sit on the bed so I can talk to you while you’re in the bathroom.”
Her tone carries no judgment, but her words provoke a mental image that makes me cringe. There’s nothing wrong with choosing to get ready for the day if that’s what I want to do. But is it? Do I really want to spend my morning staring into a mirror when I could be on a patio with my best friend?
No.
The realization makes my breathing speed up. I know it shouldn’t, but the thought of being around people all day with a bare face and a poorly thought-out outfit feels like the equivalent of going into public with my breasts out and a fig leaf between my legs. It’s not vanity. It’s protection. But should I really have to protect myself against the people I love most in the world?
Again, the answer is no.
I look down at the t-shirt I dragged out of my bag last night and am shocked to discover words on it. On principle alone, I don’t wear novelty tees. The idea that I’d own one is ridiculous. I can’t imagine where Elena and I found it.
The thought of her name solves the mystery. The shirt was given to me the year she was my Secret Santa at work. I can’t believe I’ve forgotten. She laughed so hard she snorted when I opened it and read the words If you can read this, you’re standing too close. She tried to make me put it on, but I refused. It smelled like the plastic it had been shipped in. If I’m going to say no to prioritizing appearance over experience, I suppose her gift is the most apt uniform for my rebellion.