Page 2 of Ripe & Ready
But sure. Totally chill. Practically a Hilton.
Derek has always been this way. Reckless in a magnetic, spunky way. He’s somehow both a human golden retriever and the reason I have recurring dreams about falling off cliffs.
That fearless energy is the whole reason we met.
We were nine, maybe ten, at this grimy waterpark in the Outer Banks with half-functioning wave pools and one main attraction: a stupidly tall waterslide that twisted like a death trap. My older sister Jennifer somehow convinced me to climb it with her, even though heights made me cry and the idea of water pressure shooting into my sinuses didn’t exactly scream fun.
We made it almost to the top before I froze. Full meltdown, snot and tears, clutching the rusted railing like I was on the edge of a skyscraper. Jennifer, ever the motivator, turned and told me, flatly, “It’s too late. You can’t go back down. The only way is the slide.”
Which, okay, rude. Possibly illegal.
And suddenly, he was there. A boy my age, waiting a few steps below, wearing these ridiculous purple board shorts and enough sunscreen to qualify as a reflective surface. He looked like a marshmallow with attitude.
He didn’t flinch at my crying. He smirked and said, “What’s there to be sad about? My dad says the feeling of falling is half the thrill.”
That was it. No judgment. No teasing. Pure confidence, like he couldn’t imagine not wanting to throw yourself down a plastic chute at 30 miles per hour.
Somehow, in that moment, I felt invincible. Like maybe I could be brave, too. I wiped away my tears, scooted my bony ass into the rushing water, looked back at him, still beaming, still waiting, still so sure, and nodded before launching myself down the slide like I had something to prove.
It was awful. Water up my nose, slide burns on my elbows, a wedgie of biblical proportions. I came out coughing and flailing and completely sure I’d made a mistake.
But I’d done it.
Something in me had shifted.
Derek came down after me cracking up, face lit like the sun, and we were already best friends.
That was fifteen years ago and the thrill is still there.
Now it’s less slide and more emotional cliff. Because somewhere along the way I stopped wanting to impress Derek and started loving him. The real, messy, terrifying kind. The kind where every glance feels like a maybe, and every maybe feels like a setup for a real fall.
One that ensures I’ve been falling ever since.
Derek takes the key and swings open the wooden door to our hut, and okay, fine… he was right. For being smack in the middle of the actual jungle, it’s... weirdly nice? Like, way nicer than I was expecting for something built out of palm panels and hope.
He gestures for me to go in first, but I pause.
“You go,” I say.
He sighs. “I don’t think this is about you being a gentleman.”
“It’s definitely not,” I admit. “I thought maybe you could test the floorboards in case they collapse.”
His eyes go wide, but he flashes me a crooked smile. “You were gonna sacrifice me?”
“I would've gotten help. Very quickly.”
He gives a mock-disapproving shake of his head, still charmed despite himself. “Unbelievable.”
“Efficient,” I correct.
The space is oval-shaped, warm-toned wood everywhere, with brass accents and flickers of filtered sunlight pouring in through screened windows that let a breeze cut through the sticky heat. There’s even an en suite bathroom. An actual shower. It smells like eucalyptus and something citrusy and expensive, and for a second I think maybe I won’t die here after all.
Then I see it.
The bed.
Not the mosquito net, though it does fall gracefully from the ceiling like something out of a honeymoon brochure, soft and gauzy and infuriatingly romantic, even though its actual purpose is to keep death bugs from burrowing into our skin.
