Well, if you can’t conquer the fear, feel the fear.
Our guide soon takes us on a behind-the-scenes tour, where we learn what it takes to care for and feed the many different types of sharks who call this home. We also get the opportunity to feed cownose rays and target feed trained bonnethead sharks.
Next, we are on to the main event: the big shark tank.
Okay, so we don’t scuba-dive into the huge tank filled with blacktip and whitetip reef sharks, and sand tiger sharks. What are we—mental?
Instead, we go to the shallow holding area (also knows as the husbandry area), off to the side of the large tank, which is about waist deep in water.
First, our guide puts out fish to try and coax a particular zebra shark into visiting us, and we watch a blacktip shark swim through, grab the food, and swim out. Eventually, a spotted shark slowly ambles in.
As the shark slowly swims around her, our guide closes the gate between the big tank and the holding area, then invites us to come in.
The zebra shark is actually spotted, not striped. If I had to guess, I would have called her a leopard shark, and I would be right. Scientists originally gave zebra sharks their name because when they are babies, they have stripes. Eventually, as they mature, their stripes disappear and spots begin to appear. Hence the confusion.
For the most part, zebra sharks are not dangerous to humans. There has only ever been one case of an unprovoked attack. These are odds I am willing to chance as Joe and I step in.
“Take a quick swim now,” Joe jokes, as the water is only waist deep. I kneel and mock-swim over to my guide.
And now, despite my fear, I have officially swum with sharks.
We are soon allowed to feed the shark (a female) with the help of light blue tongs holding larger pieces of fish that she seems to slurp in like a vacuum.
I ask Joe if he wants to take a turn feeding the shark, but he is too busy with his GoPro. “Come on,” I prod. “Are you going to live your life or film your life?”
“Fine,” he says, handing me the camera so I can film him feeding her. Our guide then turns the shark over and Joe rubs her belly (the shark’s, not the guide’s).
The tour is soon over (boo…). We thank our guide and head to our respective locker rooms for showers.
Half an hour later, I am practically dancing as we pass an aquarium of otters. “I can’t believe we did that!” I tell Joe. “I can’t believe you knew how to do that!”
“What can I say? I’m a man of many surprises.”
“I just realized,” I say as I watch an otter flip out of the water and onto a pile of ice cubes, “I never asked you: If you knew you couldn’t fail, what’s the one thing you would do?”
Joe watches a mother holding a baby at her side and being pulled by an excited toddler in a bright red dress. “Not sure. I think I’ve tried all of the things that are really important to me. Workwise, anyway.”
“What about in your personal life? Somewhere you’re dying to travel to?”
He gives me a weird look. “Actually, I want that,” he says, pointing to the mother.
“Pretty sure she’s taken,” I joke.
He raises his eyebrows as if to say, Oh, well. You win some, you lose some. But we both know what he meant.
“So kids,” I say. “Good for you. Have a number in mind?”
“I used to want all boys. Now I think I’d like to have a boy and then a girl. But I’m the oldest, with a younger sister, so that probably just shows a complete lack of imagination on my part. You?”
“I’ve always wanted three. I grew up an only child, and I always wished I had a sister.”
He nods. “Two girls and a boy, or all three girls?”
“My dad used to say, ‘I never cared. I just didn’t want a seven-pound foot.’”
“You had a very wise dad.”
“I guess I did,” I say proudly, but with a teeny bit of sadness washing over me. Which is a shame, because I’m having such a good day. “He’d have liked you,” I tell Joe. “You remind me a little of him.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” I say. Then quickly add, “But not the bald part. I like that you have hair.”
“I like that I have hair too,” he says, then stands up and puts out his hand to help me up. “You know what we should have for lunch? Ice cream.”
“They have ice cream here?”
“They do. Let’s grab some and keep walking.”
So we have ice cream for lunch and then see a room full of jellyfish, tanks and tanks of tropical fish, and a tunnel that goes through the seal tank. There is nothing more soothing than watching a seal glide past you on an easygoing Sunday.
Soon we have to leave. Sad emoticon.
On the trip back, I stare contentedly into space, listening to my music and being very happy to find such a cool new friend.
And then a song comes on that I recognize but can’t quite place. The song from the diner by…? What did Joe call them? The Arctic Monkeys?
As the song continues, I realize he is ever so quietly singing along. “I’m sorry to interrupt, it’s just I’m constantly on the cusp of try-ing to kiss you. But I don’t know if you feel the same as I do.”
He looks over to see me watching him, and smiles.
Then he stops singing.
“You can keep singing, you know,” I tell him.
“Nah. It just sort of slipped out. I don’t really sing.”
“Okay,” I say pleasantly, smiling and looking at L.A.’s downtown skyline ahead.
Twenty minutes later, Joe is dropping me off at the bar. “I had an amazing time today,” I tell him as I grab my bag filled with the change of clothes I need for work. “Do you have time to come in for a drink?”
“I actually have an eight-hour workday ahead of me,” he says (apologetically?) “I’m in preproduction and probably should not have taken today off. But they only do the tour on Sundays, and I couldn’t wait to bring you.”
Rats.
“Okay, well…” Hmmm … Should I kiss him good-bye? “Are we still on for dinner tomorrow night?”
He nods. “Absolutely. I’ll pick you up at seven.”
“And I’m buying, right?”
He smiles. “We’ll talk about it after dinner.”
“I’m buying!” I repeat.
“I’ll think about it.”
“Don’t make me call my new friends the sharks to convince you.”
He laughs. “Okay, fine. You can buy me dinner.”
I stare at him, hoping he’ll be able to read my thoughts and kiss me.
He just stares back.
Finally, I give up. “Okay, bye,” I say, giving him a quick peck on the cheek, then quickly getting out of his car. He watches me use my key to go in the back way. I turn and wave to him, and watch him pull away.
Less than five minutes later, I use Jessie’s computer to download the song “Do I Wanna Know?” by the Arctic Monkeys.
It’s on our (now almost) all-girl playlist five minutes after that.
Sunday night, I play it over and over again until I fall asleep.
Chapter Forty-four
NAT
Sundays are our early days, and we decide to open at three instead of five, and close at eleven instead of one. Holly wasn’t scheduled to come in until four (her new “we-are-so-not-dating” beau asked if she could come in late). So it’s just Jessie and me.
Chris never shows up. Which is fine. The end of last night probably put him on alert as much as it did me. I mean, we didn’t do anything. I have nothing to feel guilty about. But maybe there was something there? If he had leaned in to kiss me, what would I have …
Nothing. I would have done nothing.
When Holly comes in at four, we have all of six customers in the place. I don’t know if it’s because it’s a Sunday afternoon or because we’re new, but it’s kind of nice not to have to zoom around all day.
“You know, we might be able to get away with only two b
artenders on Sundays,” I suggest to Jessie, who’s hyperfocused on her phone.
I seem to startle her, and she throws the phone into the air a bit, then catches it. “What?” she stammers. “Oh, well, uh, it’ll probably pick up later in the evening.” She looks around. “If it’s okay with you though, since Holly’s here now, I’d love to get some accounting work done in the back until it gets busy.”
“Sure. Go for it.”
An hour later, Chris comes in, carrying his laptop.
I suddenly remember that today was another wedding day with his sister! He wasn’t ignoring me. He was with his family. I walk up to him and ask, “The usual?”
“Not yet. Do you have coffee?”
“We do. And I won’t even ask you how you like your coffee.”
I pour him a cup of black coffee, drop in two sugar cubes, stir, and bring the cup and spoon to him. He looks at the cup. “Do you have any—”
“I already put two cubes in and stirred,” I interrupt.
“Oh. Thanks,” he says, looking confused for a brief second, then returning to his work.
Yeah, moron! I remember how you take your coffee from twelve years ago! Don’t I get points?
I wait.
Nope—no points.
* * *
By around six, we have a few more customers, and things are picking up. Holly and Jess both have full tables, we got a little Adele playing in the background. Things are good.
Except for the guy at the corner of the bar, who is antagonizing me by, well, ignoring me.
I mean, I don’t care if Chris is ignoring me: It’s certainly better than him engaging me in a heated debate over fake boobs, or enlightening me on his theories about the battle of the sexes. But he seems to be working, and I don’t understand why he’s come to a relatively loud bar on a Sunday night just to work.
I want to ask him, but I also don’t want to engage. So every few minutes I glance over at him, nursing his coffee and working very studiously on his laptop. When his cup is empty, I mosey up to him.
“Refill?” I ask.
He looks up. “Hm? Oh, yeah. Thanks.” Then he focuses on his work again.
I grab two sugar cubes, toss them into the cup, pour coffee over them, stir, and place the cup next to his computer.
The sight of me doesn’t register.
“Okay, fine. You win. I’m intrigued. What are you doing here?”
Chris looks up from his computer, not seeming to understand the question. “Working.”
“I see that. Why here?”
“I like it here.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “Plus I said I’d see you today, so…” He wiggles his fingers in a wave. “Hi.”
Then he goes back to typing.
Seriously, I can’t get a read on this guy at all. Every night he has been here, he has baited me with conjectures on flowers, weddings, and my fear of intimacy. The first night, after not seeing me in over ten years, he greeted me with an insult. And now, here he is, doing … what exactly?
“So does Giovanni feel like going to a Lakers game with me tomorrow?” Chris asks without looking up from his screen.
“No. He’s going to the opera that night.”
Chris looks up at me, surprised. “Since when do you like the opera?”
“What is that supposed to mean? You don’t think I’m cultured enough to like the opera?”
“Sorry. So who’s your favorite soprano?”
“That would be Tony,” I answer, only half kidding. “Actually, Giovanni’s going with Jessie.”
“Oh. Well, then, would you like to go to the Lakers game with me?”
“I have a”—oops, I almost said “date”—“previous engagement.”
He narrows his eyes at me. “I see. That previous engagement wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain floral aficionado, would it?”
“What a bizarre question. No.”
He shrugs. “Okay. Well, if that engagement falls through, or you change your mind for some reason, they’re really good seats.”
Jessie walks behind the bar, texting Kevin. I make my way over to her. “Hey, do you think…”
Once again, she nervously pops her phone out of her hands. I try to catch it, but when I do, I accidentally hit a glass, which shatters all over my hand.
Before I can even figure out what happened, Jessie is screaming, and there’s blood everywhere.
Shit. My blood.
Oh, crap. My hand is split open like a canned ham. From my wrist to my thumb.
“What happened?” Holly asks, running up to us.
“Nat’s bleeding. Call nine-one-one!” Jessie screams.
“Do not call nine-one-one,” I say firmly as I quickly wrap a white towel over my hand. “It’s just a little blood. I’ll be fine.”
Chris has already closed his laptop and started walking behind the bar. “Let me see.”
The white towel immediately begins to blossom red. I raise my hand because I read once that that slows down bleeding. “I’m fine.”
As Jessie runs to the back room, Chris takes my hand and slowly unwraps the towel. “Let me take a look.”
The towel only partially comes off before I spurt blood. “Shit!” Holly says. “You need stitches.”
“I’m fine,” I repeat as Jessie dashes out of the back office with my purse. “Chris, you have to take her to the emergency room.”
“We’re on our way,” he says, holding up my left arm with his left hand, and wrapping his right hand around my waist to guide me out of the bar.
“Maybe we should just wait a few minutes and see if the bleeding stops,” I suggest.
“You can wait a few minutes while we drive to the hospital,” Chris counters. “If the bleeding stops by the time we get to the ER, I’ll be happy to admit you were right and I was wrong. Bye, guys! We’ll keep you posted.”
Appearing to be outvoted, I grudgingly go with Chris to his car.
Within fifteen minutes, the bleeding has not stopped, and we are at the local emergency room, with Chris filling out forms for me.
“Name,” he begins. “Natasha Lila Osorio. Address?”
“I’m right-handed. I can do it.”
“Your adrenaline is pumping like crazy, and your hands are shaking. Let me do it. Address?”
I look down at my hands. Which are shaking like San Francisco in 1906. Damn it. I give him my address and various other information. For my emergency contact, I list Holly.
He looks up. “Holly?”
“Yes. She’s my roommate. Why?”
He shakes his head slowly. “Just a little surprised is all. I need your insurance card.”
“It’s in my wallet,” I tell him.
He waits for me. “What?” I ask with a note of irritation.
“Don’t you want to get it out?” Chris asks.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I snap. “I’m doing my best impression of Captain Hook right now. Maybe a little help?”
“I just didn’t want to invade your privacy,” he says, taking my purse and opening it. “Most women don’t want you rifling through their purse.”
“There’s nothing in there that would embarrass me,” I tell him as he pulls out my wallet, which unfortunately has two condoms stuck to it. He looks over at me.
“What?” I repeat in the same irked tone.
Chris puts up the palms of his hands as if to plead No contest. He takes my insurance card and my driver’s license from my wallet, then brings them and the clipboard over to the receptionist.
I look down at my red-clothed hand. That is going to leave a mark.
My phone texts. Crap. I grab the phone with my good hand and read:
Jessie told me you’re in the hospital. Should I come back early?
I start typing back with one hand.
No, I’m fine. She’s overreacting. I’m only here because she and Holly made me go.
Chris walks back to me and takes a seat, telling me, “She said they’ll see you soon.”
; “Sir,” the receptionist says, “you forgot your wife’s insurance card.”
“Thanks,” he says to her as he walks back to retrieve my card.
My phone beeps again.
She said you’re bleeding like a stuck pig.
Chris comes back. “Can you do me a favor and type a text for me?” I ask him.
“Sure,” he says, taking my phone.
“Type, ‘Jessie doesn’t even know what a stuck pig is.’”
Chris looks up. “I’m sorry?”
“Read what she told Giovanni. I am not bleeding like a stuck pig.”
Chris reads the text. “How about if I tell him everything’s going to be fine, you’re at the ER with me. No need to panic, we will keep him posted.”
“And I’m not a pig,” I add.
He looks up, sighs, then returns to typing, “How about all of what I just said, and you’re not a pig.” After typing, he asks, “Do you want me to tell him you love him?”
“Give me the phone,” I say, putting out my good hand.
“Now what did I say wrong?”
“Just give me the phone.”
He does. I hit Send—without the “I love you.” “Thank you for your help.”
The doctor calls us in. Long story short, I needed six stitches, and it could have been a lot worse. Why do doctors always say that?
As we’re making our way out of the hospital and through the parking lot, I click my speed dial and get Holly. “Okay, everything’s good. Just needed a few stitches. I’ll be back in about fifteen minutes.”
I hear her say, “Wrong. Go home. What did they give you for pain meds?” at the same time Chris says, “No. You need to get your antibiotics and your Vicodin and go to bed.”
I put up my stump to shush him as I say to Holly, “Wait, what did you say?”
“I said go home. What did Chris say?”
“That I’m totally fine,” I say, but the phone disappears from my ear.
Chris took it away from me to tell Holly, “She’s not fine. She’s had stitches and she’s hyped up on adrenaline. Any minute now, she’s going to have an adrenaline crash and be in hideous pain.”
“You guys are being ridiculous. I…” This time he shushes me, answering Holly. “Yes. Vicodin … I have both prescriptions, she also needs an antibiotic. We’re going to the pharmacy now.”
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