Roatan Plunge | Love Travels #2

Thirteen - Lorena

This is the worst idea I've ever had.

'It's a safe way to go snorkeling if you don't like swimming,' they said. 'It'll be fun,' they said.

Yeah, fuck that. No job is worth this. I will spend the rest of my days living with my actual mother if it means I can get the hell off this boat.

When I heard the term 'glass bottom boat', I imagined a nice above water vessel where I could safely see shore the entire time, completely ignoring the glass floor that would let the other guests see into the water.

Yeah. Ha!

This boat has me down a whole flight of stairs, trapped in some sort of bunker. Or, it would be a bunker if it weren't for the fact that there is glass. Everywhere. There is nowhere to look that isn't either glass or small space.

Claustrophobia and whatever you call a fear of sea creatures are crushing in on me before I even reach the bottom of the stairs, but Óscar's standing there holding out his hand with a smug smile, helping me over the benches and down to my seat.

I'd been really smug about the whole thing about ten minutes ago, too. Because I managed to get the captain's number for an exclusive interview about her life. Which is exactly what I was hoping to achieve today. But the further I get into the boat, the worse I feel.

Deep breathing is only getting me so far and I focus on Óscar's hand on my arm.

"What did you get up to over our break? Ready to concede defeat yet?" Óscar asks as the boat slowly fills with Enrique and Bianca's guests.

"What I did or do is none of your business. Soon I'll be winning this bet and you'll be out of my hair for good."

"Until the wedding," he reminds me with a smirk. "I am the best man after all."

"Well, you'll be out of my hair while I'm planning, at least. I find it very relaxing organizing things."

I want to say more, but I accidentally glance up and see a school of fish swim by. They are the smallest little silvery-yellow things but I still jump half out of my seat, somehow managing to suppress the yelp that wants to escape.

I don't realize how much I actually jumped until I land with a hard thud against the metal seat.

"You really have to stop falling down," Óscar points out, popping a candy or something into his mouth. Where does he get these things?

"Yeah, I'll get right on that."

But he doesn't reply. And his conversation seems to have been the only thing keeping me from a full on meltdown here in front of everyone.

"Tell me about your life," I say suddenly, and probably louder than necessary—I can't tell.

"What?"

"Just tell me something about your life," I say again, pulling myself back from panic that I know to be irrational. "Tell me about your work."

A bitter laugh fills the room and I'm sure heads spin toward us.

"I'm serious." I can't keep my voice from shaking, and it comes out in a low whisper.

Marcia shoves her elbow into his ribs and gives him the eyes which I'm guessing are supposed to convey, 'Hey, you're supposed to be pretending to work together' or 'Remember she's scared of the ocean like an infant?'

I'm not sure which.

Neither, apparently, is Óscar. But he turns toward me anyway. "Well, the story of how I became a fútbol player is—"