“I do not have to see it. My life is perfectly satisfactory as it is.” I thump my palm on the stack of papers. “Also, are we going to get back to this discussion sometime today, or did you just lure me here for the nachos?”

“Speaking of.” Quint points at the plate, of which he’s devoured at least two-thirds. “Are you buying? Because if not, I might need that twenty dollars back.”

I make an annoyed sound, but Quint immediately starts laughing again. “I’m joking. I’ve got this. I’ll get your banana things, too.”

“How generous. Of course, you did eat most of them.”

His eyes twinkle. “Okay. Where did we leave off?”

I try to think back to our conversation. We covered bake sales and social media …

Quint snaps his fingers. “Have you ever been snorkeling?”

I stare at him. Clearly he’s just trying to irritate me at this point.

“Snorkeling?”

“Yeah. You know, with the tube and the goggles—”

“I know what snorkeling is. And no, I haven’t. What does that have to—”

“That’s what I figured. Let’s go. Today. You probably don’t have a swimsuit with you?”

His eyes travel down the top of my dress—not in a creepy way, but still, he does seem to realize the implication and quickly snaps his focus back up to where it belongs.

“No, I don’t have a swimsuit with me, and no, I am not going snorkeling. Did I not just tell you that I’m afraid of sharks?”

He snorts. “You know what the chances are of getting attacked by a shark?”

“Twelve people die every year!” I spout, recalling the statistic from that poster at the center.

“Out of how many billion people on the planet?”

I point toward the beach. “Yeah, but how much do your odds increase when you actually go swimming in water with sharks in it?”

“Prudence, I will protect you from the sharks.”

A bellow of a laugh escapes me. “Thank you. I was, in fact, hoping for a show of chauvinism.”

His eyebrows shoot upward. “I prefer chivalry, but go on.”

“Is this because you were named after a shark hunter?”

“You’re changing the subject. I’m serious. How far away do you live? We can meet back here in … an hour?”

“No!” I’m practically shouting. “Gah. This is like biology all over again.” I pick up one of the folders and shake it at him, barely resisting the temptation to throw it in his face. “We have things to do and all you ever want is to goof off, and before long, I’m doing all the work! Please tell me this whole afternoon hasn’t just been a colossal waste of my time.”

In response, Quint reaches over and snags the folder out of my hand. “For god’s sake, Prudence, just once, could you not argue with me? Could you just trust that maybe my idea is relevant?”

“Your idea. To go snorkeling.”

“Yes! If you’re going to help the center, you need to understand what the center is all about. That means understanding the water here, the animals. And not just seals and sea lions, but all of it. It all works together. You need to see it firsthand.”

“I have seen it firsthand. At the aquarium!”

“Prudence.” He stretches his free hand across the table and settles it onto my wrist. I jolt with the unexpected touch. His palms are surprisingly warm, and surprisingly rough with calluses. “You might know business, but I know the center. And remember, this time, we’re supposed to be a team.”

I swallow. I wish he would stop throwing that back at me.

His hand doesn’t leave me the whole time I’m considering, and I try not to be unnerved by it, or the teensy little part of me that wonders how it would feel to turn my palm up and lace our fingers together. But that would be super weird. Even weirder than this moment, which is stretching on and on and …

“Fine,” I mutter.

He starts to smile. Him and his perfect teeth.

“But if I get eaten by a shark, I swear to you on my dad’s first issue of The White Album that my bloody, half-devoured corpse will haunt you until the end of time.”

TWENTY

Though I have lived next to the ocean my entire life, I have never understood people’s obsession with the water. Even when we were kids and our parents brought me and Jude and Lucy to the beach, I would get my toes wet, splash a few times, then spend the rest of our trip collecting shells and building sandcastles from the security of my Tangled-themed beach towel. I hated how the sand got into my bathing suit, itching all my unmentionable parts. I didn’t like how the water would push and tug at me if I went out too far. I didn’t like how everyone joked about sharks, even though every year there were real-life news stories about real-life shark attacks.

I’m sure people—people like Quint—think I’ve missed out on some of the most wonderful things about living here. Surfing. Bodyboarding. Diving. And, yes, snorkeling. But I figure, the water just isn’t my thing. There’s nothing wrong with that.

So I’m mystified to find myself pulling on my swimsuit, still practically brand-new even though I bought it more than two years ago, in order to go snorkeling with Quint Erickson. It feels a little bit like I’ve been tricked.

Looking in my bedroom mirror, I’m struck by a wave of doubt. I don’t give much thought to my body in general, and when I do it’s with indifference. I know that I don’t look like a cover model, and I’m okay with that. I think of my curves in lukewarm terms. They are squishy and soft and they are mine. I never think sexy, I never think voluptuous, but neither do I think fat or gross, like I’ve heard other girls talk about themselves in the locker room after gym class.

Suddenly, though, I feel self-conscious. It’s been a long time since I’ve worn a bathing suit in front of any of my peers, and the only time I ever go swimming is when I’m over at Ari’s house, since she has a pool and, again, the ocean and I just haven’t gotten along. Historically speaking.

And now I’m going snorkeling? With Quint? It’s just so weird.

As my hand traces the paneled side of my swimsuit, I find myself wondering whether his feelings toward curves are as lukewarm as mine.

The question leaves me just as quickly, replaced with mortification that I would care, that I would even hesitate to don a swimsuit now when this whole thing was his idea. What does it matter? It’s Quint.

I pull a fluttery blue dress over the suit and slip on my sandals. I grab my lipstick, through habit as much as anything, but hesitate. Is it weird to put on lipstick to go snorkeling?

Grumbling, I toss it back into my bag and leave before I can second-guess myself.

Quint is waiting at the beach, right where we agreed to meet. He’s taken off his T-shirt, but I can see now that he was wearing a gray surfing shirt underneath, and there’s a disturbing flutter of disappointment when it occurs to me that he is not going to be shirtless during this excursion.

What the heck, Prudence?

“I was beginning to think you might ditch me,” he says.

I cast a withering smile. “I did consider making you wait for an hour and a half.”

“Why didn’t you?” he asks, handing me some snorkel gear.

“Oh, you know. I value little things like punctuality. Besides, someone else already rescued all the baby otters, so I didn’t have anything better to do.”

He snorts. “You know, you’re actually kind of funny.”

I pause from inspecting the mask and mouth tube to glare at him.

Realizing he’s tiptoed too close to that nerve again, Quint takes a defensive step back. “Which is completely expected and unsurprising in every way.”

I’m still frowning, but I let it slide. “Have these been sanitized?”

He laughs, as if I were joking. “I’m glad you came. This is going to be fun.”

I can’t tell whether he’s joking or not, but I can tell that he’s completely avoided answering my question. I want to press. After all, I don’t know where these things have been. But his reaction makes me feel like it’s a ridiculous thing to be concerned about and I’m already feeling awkward enough.

“You promised this would be educational,” I say instead. “Don’t make me regret this.”

“Fun and educational,” he confirms. “I’ll show you how to use those when we get in the water. You know how to swim, right?”

“Of course I know how to swim.”

“I had to ask. You’d be amazed how many people don’t.” His eyes sweep down my dress and I feel a little kick in the base of my stomach. Is he checking me out? He looks like he’s about to say something, but then seems to think better of it as he turns away. “Come on, there’s a great place a little farther up.”

I follow him in silence, our sandals flipping up the sand. It isn’t until I see the two neatly folded beach towels stacked on a rock that I realize I forgot to bring mine. Quint, who probably notices this, too, doesn’t say anything as he kicks off his sandals and heads toward the water.

I slide my sandals off my feet and tuck them beside the towels. My heart has started to thump erratically. I realize how much I haven’t thought this through.

I’m going to be in my swimsuit. In the ocean. With Quint Erickson.

Alone.

Why is this starting to feel like a date?

It’s isn’t a date. Obviously. He hasn’t said or done anything to imply this is a romantic excursion, and … I mean, it’s pretty clear how much he dislikes me. He’s only here because I’ve basically coerced him into helping me with our project, and in turn, helping the center.

And that’s for the best, because I’m so not into him. Not in that way. Not in any way.

My mind is rambling. I struggle to shut it off.

Quint walks out into the surf until he’s shin-deep, then looks back at me, confused. “You okay?” he yells.