“Oh, just the classic mid-life crisis ones. Work and relationships and just being an adult.”
The waiter drops our food in front of us, and we dig in. I’m thankful for the interruption, but Ben doesn’t talk. Instead, he continues to watch me, hoping I’ll keep going.
I tear off a piece of tortilla and dip into the salsa, mostly to have something to do with my hands. Somewhere behind us, a blender roars to life, loud enough to drown out a few seconds of silence.
“Being an adult,” he says after a while, like it’s a foreign concept and he’s trying to make sense of it. “Sounds overrated.”
“It is.” I glance up, and the corner of his mouth lifts. “Do you ever feel like you’re just… improvising? Like everyone else got a manual that you missed.”
Ben leans back in his chair, the wood creaking under him. “Every day.”
That makes me smile. “Good. I was starting to think I was the only one.”
He shrugs, picks up his drink. The ice clinks softly against the glass. “Especially living in New York. I feel like everyone has it together all the time and sometimes I just feel like moping on the subway is the only acceptable reaction to a shitty day.”
“You live in New York?”
“Yeah,” he says, surprised I didn’t already know. “Upper West Side. Although I’m mostly only there on the weekends. Work keeps me moving for like three-quarters of the year.”
Something in my chest stutters. It’s small, fleeting.
New York.
Of course he lives there. Out of all the people I could’ve met on this island, the one man who makes me forget, even for a second, how tired I am of everything… happens to be from the same city I ran away from.
“That’s funny,” I say, a little too fast. I chase it with a sip of my drink, the lime stinging the back of my throat. “Me too.”
His brows lift. “Really?”
“West Village.”
He laughs, and the sound pulls something warm and unfamiliar in my chest—the kind of laugh that reminds me what it feels like to actually enjoy myself without thinking about tomorrow. “Well, that’s practically next door. Small world.”
When lunch ends, neither of us mentions parting ways. We simply drift toward the pool like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
The water’s cool against my skin when we slide in, and the afternoon sun hits the surface in a thousand scattered reflections. The main pool is crowded, so we swim to one of the quiet corners, half-hidden behind a row of palms.
It’s almost peaceful.
Until he floats closer and my pulse picks up at the sight of him. There’s a moment—that micro second before it happens—when I could turn, swim away, say something light and harmless to keep my distance. But I don’t, because I’m itching to touch him again. Hoping against hope that he reaches for me and pulls me against his warm body.
His hand brushes the water beside my hip, deliberate but careful. “You keep doing that,” he says softly.
“Doing what?”
“Pretending you’re not having a good time.”
I glance down at the water. My arms are crossed over my chest, shoulder still tense even here. I’ve been smiling, sure, but it’s the polite, controlled kind I wear in work meetings or at parties where I don’t know anyone.
“I’m not pretending,” I say, even though I probably am.
He moves closer, slow enough that I should stop him, but I don’t. His voice drops lower, warm with humor. “Then prove it.”
I laugh, and that’s when he kisses me.
It’s gentle at first—cautious, almost—but then I kiss him back, and something unravels between us. The heat of the sun, the cool of the water, his hands finding my body like they belong there. We’re half-submerged, half-weightless, and it feels like being suspended between two decisions: stop this before it means something, or go all in.
When we finally pull apart, I’m breathless and smiling. His forehead rests against mine, and all I can manage is a whisper. “We should probably stop.”
