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But it was. Blue-green water and I could see my feet, even in water to my shoulders. In Ocean City? You’re lucky to see your feet in water to your ankles. Also, on this side of the island, the waves were gentle, so for the past two mornings, we’d gone out with our inner tubes and just bobbed along, enjoying the swells when a boat’s wake rippled toward the beach. Yeah, the hotel had a pool, but I can get in a pool in Washington.
“Hey,” Kiera called from a few feet away. I looked over to see her head draped back on the tube, face toward the sun. The first day, she’d worn a swim cap to protect her hair, but I convinced her a good rinse would be just as effective. I swim at the Y all the time and I haven’t gone bald yet. And if a cap looks dumb with my sporty cut bathing suit, it looked ridiculous with her string bikini. “Want to try snorkeling today?”
"Sure, I’ve got no plans. Mrs. Alex–a client told me to try Baby Beach."
Kiera lowered her sunglasses to the tip of her nose and looked at me over them. I’d been warned–no more talk about Walker Alexander. I was never going to get over him if I kept bringing him up. But while not speaking a name might work at keeping Voldemort or Beetlejuice away, it wasn’t doing much to keep those green gold eyes and boyish smile out of my mind.
It was stupid. In spite of his apparently being a hotshot billionaire and local celebrity, I’d never even heard of Walker until last week. When he talked me into cooking for his mother every day, twice a day, I just figured he was some spoiled rich man, used to getting his way. I tried to shake him off by doubling my usual fee, but he hadn’t even tried to bargain. Now I knew it was just a pocket change to him, but at the time, I’d been impressed enough to make it work with my schedule. You want to build up a clientele of big spenders.
But, of course, it hadn’t been that simple. Walker was gorgeous, sure, but that wasn’t it. There’d been something…electric between us. In spite of my fondness for romantic comedies, I don’t believe in love at first sight. But there was something.
That’s what made this whole thing so awful, so hard to just forget. There had been some undeniable attraction between us. Even before he took my shirt off on the couch, before he rolled my nipples in his mouth…
Shit. Sorry.
I tried to convince myself that what I’d overheard–if I can use that word for Celia’s shouting into the phone–was a misunderstanding. But I couldn’t spin it no matter how I tried. She was clearly talking about Walker–making a booty call after he left me, and agreeing to marry her. The booty call I could maybe work my way past. Maybe not. But marriage is still kind of a big deal, you know? Makes me think that what I’d seen as so meaningful, so emotional, had just been a game to him.
He’s a man used to getting what he wants and apparently he wanted the chef, if only for a little while. So first he used money, and then he used charm. But I’m not willing to be that girl.
I’ll just forget about him. Him and his poison-cakes.
No problem, right?
As we walked back up the beach to our hotel, Kiera put her arm around my shoulders. “Dre, I brought you here to have fun. I wanted you with me because you make me laugh and because you deserve to just mess around for a while. We’re in the islands! We’re young and hot! Let’s act like it!”
She steered me toward the poolside bar. “Two pina coladas, please, charge it to Room 1650.”
“Is drinking and snorkeling really the best idea?”
"It’s one drink and by the time we get there, even that will have worn off. They are not pouring with a heavy hand. Lighten up, Doc."
I rolled my eyes and took a sip. Mmm…artificial flavors and cheap rum. “Delish! like frozen hair oil!”
“Shut up and drink your medicine. This is a week free of Walker Alexander AND food snobbery. Let’s go. ”
So I faked it. Kiera was paying my way, which was very generous. She made good money to only be three years out of law school, but money still mattered to her. The least I could do was be a good friend. And it’s not like it’s hard to be happy in Aruba–sun warm but not too hot, breezy but not windy, and a whole island dedicated to keeping tourists coming back. All I had to do was pretend like the emptiness I felt was just hunger and keep filling it with food and frozen drinks.
When we got back from snorkeling late that afternoon, I was nearly desperate for a nap, but Kiera was in go-go-go mode.
“You can sleep in Washington. Tonight, we are going to Lambada Joe’s.”
“Sounds classy, what is it?”
“Just what it sounds like, a touristy dance club full of strong drinks and loud reggae. With luck, it will also be full of hot men. It’s time to get you liquored up and laid.”
“Maybe I can just be your designated driver?”
“Walking distance from the hotel. Nice try, Doc. Look, meaningless sex with a man you’ll never see again will do you a world of good. Would I prescribe a treatment I wouldn’t take myself?”
I laughed. “Okay, okay, let’s do it.”
“Good girl. Here, wear this.” Kiera fished a dress out of the closet, a white sheath that looked way too small.
“Girl, that will fit you, but not me. I’m flattered, but no.”
"It has spandex, it stretches, you will look fine in this."
"Can’t I wear something that suggests a man might have to at least try?"
"Andrea," she pronounced it like my mom, onDRAYuh, but shoved the dress back into the stuffed closet and pulled out another. It was a jersey knit maxi–certain to also hug my curves, but at least bigger than a cocktail napkin.
“Fine,” I said taking it, “but I’m not wearing heels.”
She rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Of course not, Dre, this isn’t Miami.”
When I put on the dress, the mirror reflected a lot more curve than I was quite ready to display. The chevron stripes seemed to be saying “Here are her big ol’ titties! Here is her waist! Here’s dat ass!” I’m generally a Netflix-on-the-couch partier, but when I do go out, I tend toward more…coverage. The neckline on the dress was deep and wide and had the urge to pull it together in front. But, I had to admit, I did look good.
“Ooo, girl!” exclaimed Kiera when I came out of my room into our sitting area. “I just knew there was a sexy thing in there! Come here and let me braid your hair, you aren’t going to waste this look on an old ponytail.”
I sat on the floor while Kiera pulled my hair into braids that wrapped around my head. It’s funny how something like that can make you feel all peaceful. By the time she was done, my scalp was tender (it had been a long time since my own Mama fought my hair into braids for school), but I felt calm and ready to face the evening.
Bring it on.
As we walked up the beach, I could hear the music thudding out of Lambada Joe’s. There were people all around outside, drinking and talking in the light of the tiki torches. My calm started to recede, but I decided I could just pretend to be the sort of girl that goes to nightclubs. Good old Andrea could just rest comfortably. I’d send Drea into the noisy crowd.
Kiera took my hand as we wove through the room to get to the bar. While she ordered, I looked around. It was packed with people, mostly around our age. A lot of blonde girls in bikini tops and sarongs. I thought of Celia in her sports bra and my stomach tightened up. No, Drea is not going to be thinking of some rich boy. Drea is here to find a new man.
Kiera handed me a drink. “Mojito!” she shouted over the music. “Drink up!”
I downed it in just a few drinks. It was strong, but I was a woman on a mission. It was just going to take more than one rum drink to get me ready.
I was on my third when a tall muscular man came up to me. I assumed he was coming up to Kiera–all the others had been–but when I glanced her way, I saw that she was gone. Off on the dance floor.
“Hey there, beautiful, why are you all alone?” He had a deep, rumbly voice that carried well, he didn’t need to shout.
“My friend is out there, dancing,” I said, p
ointing toward Kiera, currently grinding against her partner.
“Are you here to dance, too? C’mon,” he said, without waiting for a reply, taking my drink and setting it aside.
I let him take my hand and lead me onto the floor. He was good looking, like the evil preppy from a 1980s movie–sandy hair cut so that a sun-bleached lock kept falling over grey eye. When he smiled, his teeth were perfect and white. And he was built like a football player. I’m not going to lie, he looked good. His Hawaiian print shirt was open in front, revealing a smooth chest with perfect definition, the kind you only get if you really work at it. Andrea thought it probably meant he was vain and shallow, but Drea? She wanted to run her fingers along those ridges, trace that six pack. What the hell, right? It’s vacation.
“I’m Dylan,” he said, “what’s your name?”
“Drea,” I told him.
Dylan danced closer. He wasn’t a very good dancer, but you don’t need to be when you look like that. He didn’t quite have the beat and mostly kept his feet planted, swaying his hips and arms, but I wasn’t looking for a partner for “So You Think You Can Dance.” I came in close, too, close enough that I could smell his sunscreen-shampoo-and-cigarettes scent.
Maybe it was just the rum talking, or the constant Bob Marley, but I thought, “Everything’s gonna be alright.”
When the band took a break, we sat down at a table.
“So, how long have you been here?” asked Dylan.
“Two days,” I said. My ears felt like there was cotton in them, but it was certainly easier to hear than when the band was playing. “You?”
“I live here.” He smiled.
“Wow, that must be nice.”
