Page 127 of Better When Shared
Meanwhile, between our laughter and our wheezing, Enzo and I were barely managing to stay upright. My competitive streak, sofierce just minutes ago, was rapidly being overwhelmed by the reality of how spectacularly bad at running I actually was.
"Fuck this," Enzo gasped, slowing to a walk. "I'm calling it. He wins."
We collapsed onto the sand like marionettes whose strings had been cut, both of us gasping and laughing in equal measure. The hot granules stuck to my sweat-slicked skin, gritty and uncomfortable, but I couldn't bring myself to care. Enzo landed beside me with considerably less grace, his chest heaving as he stared up at the cloudless Spanish sky.
"That was humiliating," I wheezed, pushing damp hair back from my forehead.
"Speak for yourself, Gem. I lasted at least thirty seconds longer than you did."
"You did not."
"Did too. I saw you slow down first."
"Do you think we could spend the rest of the cruise training, then redeem ourselves?”
Enzo snorted. “I thought you were catching a flight to Valencia tomorrow?”
“Perhaps I’ll stay a tiny bit longer, to recover my dignity.” I turned my head to glare at him, which was a mistake because it gave me a clear view of how the run had affected him. His dark curls were damp with sweat, clinging to his forehead in a way that made my fingers itch to brush them back. The exertion had flushed his light brown skin, and his chest rose and fell in a rhythm that drew my attention to muscles I'd been trying very hard not to notice.
Enzo's laugh was rich and warm, the kind of sound that made me want to say funny things so I could hear it again. "You know what we're going to do? We're going to walk back to that fancy beach chair thingy you rented, and when Brian comes jogging back all smug and super fit, we're going to pretend we beat him there. Act like we were so fast we had time for a leisurely drink and a nap."
The absurdity of it made me giggle, like I was sixteen instead of thirty-two. "He'll never believe that."
"Won't he, though?" Enzo pushed himself up on his elbows, his grin wicked. "Brian's polite. He won't call us liars to our faces, even if he knows we're full of shit."
We helped each other to our feet, brushing sand from places it had no business being, and started the slow walk back toward our cabana. The sun felt less brutal now that we weren't trying to run through it, and the ocean breeze carried the scent of salt and something tropical that made me think of expensive resorts and carefully curated relaxation.
"You know," I said as we found a spot to sit near the water's edge, close enough that the waves could lap at our feet, "I'm starting to think there's more to you than the charming drifter act."
Enzo settled beside me, close enough that our shoulders brushed when the breeze shifted his curls. "What gave it away? My devastating wit or my incredible athletic prowess?"
"Your complete inability to let me feel sorry for myself," I said. “I know you said this was all Imogen’s idea, but I know that’s not true. You have a good heart, Enzo.”
Something shifted in his expression, the easy confidence faltering enough to reveal the man underneath. He picked up a shell from the sand beside us — a small, spiral thing the color of sunrise — and turned it over in his hands.
"My mom used to collect these," he said. "Conch shells, when we'd go to the Jersey shore every summer. She'd line them up on the windowsill in our kitchen, said they brought the ocean home with us." His thumb traced the shell's ridges. "She died when I was eight. Cancer."
The simple words hit me with unexpected force. I'd known he'd lost his mother young - it had been mentioned in passing during some conversation with Jake - but hearing him talk about her, seeing the way his features softened with memory, made it real in a way that statistics never could.
"That must have been devastating.”
"Yeah, well." He shrugged, but I caught the way his jaw tightened. "Life happens, right? Dad did his best, but running a small business and raising a kid by yourself, that’s a lot for anyone, especially someone dealing with grief."
"Is that when the problems started? The bullying you mentioned?"
Enzo was quiet for so long I thought he might not answer. When he finally spoke, his voice had lost its usual playful edge.
"No, it was a few years later. Puberty hit me hard, and I realized pretty quickly that it wasn’t just girls that got me going. Between that and my mom… well, my teen years sucked.”
I lifted up onto an elbow, looking down at him. “I’m so sorry.”
“His name was Marcus Li.” He was still staring at the shell, turning it over in his hands. "God, I had such a crush on him. He was smart, funny, played guitar in this terrible garage band that I thought was the coolest thing ever. And I was stupid enough to think... I don't know what I thought. That maybe he looked at me the same way."
I watched his profile as he talked, noting the way vulnerability transformed his features. Without the cocky grin and easy charm, he looked younger, more uncertain. It made my chest tighten with an emotion I couldn't quite name.
"Did you tell him?" I prompted gently.
"I wrote him a note. Pathetic teenage poetry. Something about how I couldn't stop thinking about him, how maybe we could go to the movies or hang out, just the two of us. I thought I was being romantic. Turns out I was giving his friends ammunition."
