AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Almost immediately, I hear Neil shout in my direction, and a wave of relief crashes over me.
“Brooke! Come and join us!” he yells with a wide smile.
I watch the rest of the heads turn in my direction, and as if on cue, Cass hurries toward me.
“Congratulations!” I say a touch too loudly as she wraps her arms around me.
“Thank you so much for coming,” Cass says into my ear, her voice a tad higher pitched than usual. She smells as she usually does, of tropical flowers and an undefinable sweetness that seems to perfectly reflect her persona, and I lean into her hug. Once she pulls away, I notice a glassy sheen covering her eyes. I wonder how much she’s had to drink.
I grab the bottle I’ve carried with me here in my backpack, a strand of red ribbon looped around its neck, and hold it toward her. “Figured this was as good a time as ever to pop some bubbly,” I explain.
I may be imagining it—it is quite dark where we stand in the street, after all—but it looks as if Cass flinches at the sight of the bottle. I wait for her to respond, to explain, but she says nothing at first.
“Wow,” she says eventually, her voice slow and measured. “Where did you manage to find champagne on the island?”
“That place, the Sunset Restaurant,” I say, referring to the nicest hilltop restaurant on the island, uncreatively named for its unbeatable view of the sunset over Koh Sang. “I noticed they had a few bottles there. It’s not much to split among six people, but I mean, what’s an engagement party without champagne?” I don’t mention that I could barely afford the one bottle, let alone more. My wallet seems to issue a silent scream every time I open it now. But I didn’t hesitate to buy the champagne, as overpriced as it was. Cass deserves this.
“Thank you, Brooke. You really didn’t need to go out of your way like that. That’s really sweet of you,” Cass says, apparently regaining her composure. I consider asking her about it, but before I can, she grabs my arm, leading me toward the others, and everything is back to normal, any discomfort immediately forgotten. “You remember everyone, right?” Cass asks as we approach the palapa.
I follow her, impressed by how comfortable she seems around these people, all of whom turn to look at her with expressions of genuine fondness on their faces. I look at her at that moment as well, seeing what they do. Her dark eyes, glassy but warm, her face painted in her usual sweet smile, reflecting her appeasing nature. Their little wallflower.
Despite my having met everyone several times by now, she starts the round of reintroductions.
“You know Neil, of course,” she says, setting the champagne bottle on the bar. She raises her eyebrows suggestively, and I nod. Subtle. She must have seen us earlier at the Tiki Palms. “And then there’s the resort’s professional yogi, Greta,” Cass says, motioning toward the sinewy, blond Swede sitting on the stool to Neil’s right.
Apparently, Cass goes to Greta’s yoga class every Monday. She’s tried several times to drag me along, but yoga’s never been my thing—the trailer park I grew up in surprisingly didn’t offer many opportunities for savasanas or namastes. Even so, I’ve spotted Greta leading classes as I walked by the fitness center on the north side of the resort. She seems like she’s in her element at the front of the studio, always warm and relaxed. But the few times I’ve spoken to her, once at Frangipani and once in the Tiki Palms, I’ve sensed a coldness running just below the surface. Even now, she waves at me with a smile that seems just a touch forced.
Cass has told me a bit about her, how Greta has been on the island forever, at least for a few years before any of the other Permanents arrived, running the resort’s fitness center. And how Greta had lived in apparent bliss with her girlfriend, Alice, who had left her and the island seemingly out of the blue a few days before I got here. I suppose that’s as good a reason as any for Greta to keep her distance.
“And the island’s resident playboy, Doug,” Cass continues.
The face of the guy she motions to is a long, rugged landscape of jutting-out features. He has the nose of a rugby player, one that must have been broken so frequently that it never had a chance to heal correctly. His hair is matted against his head in mock white man dreadlocks, and he’s wearing what I’ve gathered is his usual uniform of swim trunks and a Koh Sang Dive Resort tank that accentuates his impressive biceps.
“She’s only saying that because I’m her boss,” Doug says with a wink. “How ya going, Brooke?”
He glides his eyes languidly up and down my body—stopping pointedly at two areas specifically—and even though I feel everyone of my muscles tighten, I force the polite smile to stay glued to my face. I’ve met him once or twice, and each time he makes my skin crawl. Cass always speaks highly of him, how effective he is at running the dive shop. And despite his creepiness, he seems relatively harmless with his whole easygoing Aussie vibe. But he reminds me of too many guys from my past. The ones who think they’re owed something.
“And Logan, of course,” Cass says with a smile, heading back behind the bar to wrap her arms around his waist.
As if on cue, both Greta and Doug hold up their plastic cups in his direction. He smiles, and I understand what Cass sees in him. He’s easily over six feet and built. His shoulder-length curly hair is pulled back in a man bun tonight, and I’m sure his charming Scottish brogue doesn’t hurt him in the tips department. Cass has been pretty silent on his past other than a generic explanation that he moved here from Aberdeen about five years ago to avoid being forced into taking over the family carpentry company.
“Congratulations, Logan!” I say with a forced cheeriness.
“Thanks. Glad you could make it,” he says, although his tone suggests anything but. He looks at me briefly, his eyes seemingly wary, before turning away. As usual when I’m around him, I can’t shake the feeling that something about me, about my friendship with Cass, bothers him.
It’s not that surprising; I’ve met plenty of guys like him since I started @BrookeaTrip. Men who are quick to poke fun at my career, eager to puff up their own ego by pointing out how little skill my job takes, despite having absolutely no idea how much work it requires. Condescension fills their eyes whenever I mention landing a new campaign or securing a new sponsor. It’s certainly notmy dream job, but it’s the best I can do under the circumstances. Circumstances Logan can’t even begin to imagine.
“Certainly took the man long enough, didn’t it?” Greta says with a wink. I temper down my irritation and force my attention back to the group’s conversation.
“Hey,” Doug responds, barely pausing. “He was just nervous. How many drinks did you have before you finally pulled the trigger and asked the question, mate? We’re dying to know.”
“Well, if he made them himself, then he’d at least need double digits. I’ve never met a bartender who pours such weak drinks,” Neil jabs.
And just like that, it’s like I’m not even there. I watch the friends banter back and forth, and for a moment, I’m flushed with a feeling of emptiness. It takes me a second to recognize what it is. Nostalgia, for a time and people I never had. I stand there transfixed at how easy it is for them, how they all seem to mold into one another like corresponding puzzle pieces.
“Well, what are we waiting for?” Greta’s singsong accent cuts through the noise. “This is an engagement party after all. We need a champagne toast!”
All of us turn to Logan, the resident bartender, who raises his hands as if in surrender. “I’m on it, I’m on it,” he says, grabbing the neck of the bottle.
