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“Shhh…ow, my head.” Kiera winced as she waded out.
“I hear you. Three Advil and a gallon of water later and my head is still pounding. What was in those drinks?”
“Kevin says it’s the shitty local rum.”
“Kevin? Local boy? Did you let him speak English or are you fluent in Papiamento now?”
“I let him speak English this morning.” She gave me her bad girl grin. “Just before I sent him on his way. He wanted to stay with us today, said he’d be a tour guide.” She made a “psht” noise and shook her head. "I told him I don’t want a boyfriend or a tour guide."
“I’m not sure I’m up for touring anyway.” I wasn’t sure I’d ever leave the water. It felt so good to be floating there in the sun.
“Nooo. This is a hanging around the beach day. I intend to give this hangover until noon and then I’m going to the pool bar.”
“I think it’s a sober day for me. Maybe I’ll lay on one of those chairs with a sunshade and read.”
“Wait!” Kiera’s head popped up off her tube and she took of her sunglasses. "How was your night? Last I saw, you left with that man with the porn body and the shirt that didn’t close."
“Dylan. We’re having dinner tonight.”
"But what about last night? Did you bring him back to the room?"
“Nah, I left not long after I went outside.” I sighed. “I wanted to hook up with him. I really did. But I kept thinking about Walker and I just felt…sad.”
We floated in silence for a few moments. Then Kiera said, “Okay. Forgetting about him isn’t working. So try to just accept it. Tell yourself, ‘I met this man, I thought something was going to come of it, but it didn’t. And that’s
okay. I’m sad, and that’s okay.’ Like, see your sadness and accept it. And let it go.”
“Kiera, have you been listening to NPR again?”
She laughed and splashed me. “As a matter of fact, that is from some mindfulness meditation bullshit I heard about. Here, I’ll put it how our mothers would: Let go and let God. Walker is out of your hands, out of your life. You don’t have to forget about him, you can remember those few days fondly if you want, but you can’t cling to them as a thing you can bring back.” She paused and paddled then added, “It’s like a dead puppy.”
“What?!”
“Like a dead puppy–it was cute and nice and fun, but it wasn’t around very long and all the crying in the world won’t bring it back to life. Go get a new dog.”
“Holy crap, Kiera, I am so glad you didn’t become a therapist.” And yet…that actually made sense. Walker was my dead puppy. And I just needed to go back to the poun
