Beyond Me by Jennifer Probst Page B

out in public.”
    She relaxed and laughed with me. And I kept my promise.
    I showed her everything. We walked around Hemingway’s house with a bunch of other tourists, and enjoyed the lush greenery, open balcony, and numerous cats prowling around the property and peering through bushes. Quinn listened intently to the tour guide, seemingly processing the endless information about Hemingway’s hobbies, love interests, and extraordinary writing skills. I’d been there many times before, but this time I saw everything through Quinn’s eyes. The architecture and presence of such a powerful legend permeated through the space, making me appreciate things I’d never seen.
    We listened to Jimmy Buffett’s endless loop of his famous song “Margaritaville,” but I learned Quinn was tone deaf and could barely hum the familiar bars without my wincing. She punched my arm and threatened me with her rendition of Adele, so I surrendered and bought her a frozen margarita instead of her usual Sex on the Beach. We feasted on salsa and chips, mozzarella sticks, and fried conch fritters, then moved on to book a reservation for glass-bottom boating.
    “Are we going to see lots of fish?” she asked, craning her neck around the plates of glass set up on the bottom of the boat.
    “Should be decent. I’ll point out some to you when we get started.”
    I tried not to laugh as she fought off some stranglers who tried to squeeze in her viewing space, until a child wobbled by and gave her a toothy grin. She melted on sight, and ended up helping the baby sit down and cooing at him. She laughed with the mom, and chattered easily. She knew her place in the world at only twenty-one, and radiated an inner light I wished would spill into my own dark soul. But it didn’t work that way. My chest tightened with pain, so I excused myself to get a beer and tried to get my shit together.
    The boat slowed and the speaker boomed with information on what types of fish they were currently looking at. I sipped my Coors Light, brooding a bit about our differences, and noticed Quinn was holding her stomach.
    I put the bottle on the bar and walked over. The baby was banging on the glass, distracting the mother, but one look at Quinn told me what the problem was. She was pure green.
    Seasick.
    I gently helped her to her feet and she swayed. “James. I don’t feel so good.”
    “Aww, baby, you’re seasick. Let’s go out on the deck so you can get fresh air.”
    “I don’t get sick,” she insisted, but she held tight to my arms and allowed me to lead her out the doors.
    “Take deep breaths, slow and easy. Damn, I should’ve thought of making you take some anti-nausea medicine.”
    “I don’t get sick,” she said again, but her voice grew faint, and she moaned.
    “Sure, you don’t. Probably too busy taking care of everyone else. Let me get you some water. Can you stay here? I’ll be right back.”
    She leaned over the rail. “Not going anywhere.”
    I hid a grin and got water and a bunch of napkins from the bartender. By the time I got back, she was clenching the rails with a death grip. Her jaw worked as if trying madly to hold back from hurling. “Babe, drink some of this. Look out way in the distance, as far as you can see. And breathe deep.”
    “Think I’m gonna vomit,” she said miserably. “You gotta go.”
    “I’m not going anywhere. Drink.”
    She gulped in a breath and took a sip of water. Then creased her brows in a fierce frown as she concentrated on the horizon. I stroked her hair and rubbed her back, waiting it out. Finally, her muscles relaxed. “I feel a little better.”
    “Good. It should be over soon. I wouldn’t advise going back in there. Something about looking at the bottom of the boat as it moves makes a lot of people nauseous.”
    She drank some more water and leaned into me. My arms slid around her stomach, and I rested my chin on the top of her head. We finished the boat ride in comfortable silence, until the