Exposed or Protected

The salt spray kissed my face, a stark contrast to the stale, recycled air of the newsroom I’d so desperately fled. Here, under the relentless Mexican sun, with a mai tai sweating in my hand and the endless Pacific stretching before me, I was supposed to find peace. Relaxation. A complete and utter disconnect from the adrenaline-fueled chaos that had become my unintended specialty. But peace, it seemed, was a fickle mistress, and she’d clearly forgotten to send me her itinerary.

The first sign that my escape was already on borrowed time came in the form of a laugh, a cascade of pure, unadulterated joy that cut through the gentle murmur of the waves and the distant thrum of music. It drew my gaze, as if a spotlight had suddenly found its mark. There, perched on a sun-bleached lounge chair, her silhouette framed by the vibrant bougainvillea cascading over a nearby trellis, was Claudia.

She was talking to someone, her head tilted back, her dark hair catching the light like spun obsidian. Even from this distance, I could feel the magnetic pull, the same electric current that had sparked between us on that first, fateful night. It was a dangerous current, I knew, capable of frying circuits and shorting out even the most well-intentioned plans. And my plan, in case anyone was keeping score, was to do precisely nothing but soak up sun and forget I was an investigative reporter intern.