Page 8 of The Twelve-Hour Rule
“It was incredible,” I say honestly. And that smile creeps up on me again. “Best thing I’ve done this year.”
“That’s wonderful.” The concierge—Juan, as his name tag reads—starts typing again. “Are you switching hotels for the Christmas holiday?”
“Just flying home tonight, sadly.”
He freezes. Looks up. “¿En avión?”
“Uh—yes?”
He stares at me like I just confessed a crime. “And you dove today?”
“Yes. Just got back about two hours ago.”
“Oh, no, no, no.” He flutters his hands in alarm. “You can’t fly today,señora! Didn’t your instructor tell you? It’s very dangerous. You need at least twelve hours—sometimes more—after diving to decompress properly.”
My smile falters. “Wait, what?”
Juan launches into a speech about nitrogen bubbles and cabin pressure, his hands moving faster than my brain. “It could be very bad for your health, ma’am. I’m very surprised they didn’t warn you about this, they usually do. You could get decompression sickness—terrible thing,señora, very terrible.”
I blink at him. Of course I knew this. It was part of the course I took years ago to get certified as a recreational scuba diver, but it’s been such a long time that it slipped my mind. “So… I can’t fly tonight?”
He shakes his head emphatically. “Absolutely not. No flying tonight.”
There’s a couple standing behind me in line pretending not to listen, and my ears are suddenly hot. “Okay. Um. I guess I’ll… reschedule?”
“Yes, yes. We’ll help you.” He calls another staff member over, and suddenly two people are on phones, whispering rapidly in Spanish and glancing back at me like I’m a high-riskpatient. By the time they finish, I’m equal parts mortified and exhausted.
“Good news,” the concierge says cheerfully. “We were able to extend your stay one night, same room. But just for one night—we’re at full capacity for Christmas.”
“Perfect,” I say weakly. “I’ll be out of your hair by then.”
He claps his hands together. “Enjoy another day in paradise!”
I mutter, “Yeah, paradise with a side of humiliation,” and roll my suitcase back toward the elevators on the far side of the lobby.
Back in the room, I flop face-first onto the bed.
The A/C hums but still, in the cool room, my wet hair sticks to my neck. For a second, I close my eyes and let out a groan. The silence is louder now that the girls are gone—they’re headed back to Buenos Aires, probably halfway there by now, and my flight didn’t leave until later this evening. I said my goodbyes before the dive, thinking I’d be gone soon too, and now it’s just me, the hum of the air conditioner, and the echo of their laughter still clinging to the walls.
Then I grab my phone and call Camila, my best friend in New York.
She answers on the second ring, video already on. “Sol! Tell me everything. Did you survive the bachelorette chaos?”
“Barely,” I say. “But that’s not even the problem right now.”
She grins. “You sound too dramatic for someone who just spent a whole week wearing the least amount of clothes possible and soaking up the sun.”
“Well, that’s not… I’m in a little bit of a crisis.”
That makes her laugh, loud and delighted. “Oh no, what now?”
“I’m stuck here.”
Her eyebrows lift. “You say that like it’s bad.”
“I can’t fly home today. I went diving, and apparently that means I’d explode midair or something.”
Camila cackles. One of my favorite things about her is how she’s a total badass but at the same time, she doesn’t take things too seriously. “You’re telling me the universe just gave you an extra night at a Caribbean resort and your first instinct is to bemadabout it?”
