“I’ll let Rob know you two watched these. If you could both stop by the confessional tent and shoot a few soundbites for us to cut in, it would be great. Jackson, maybe you could talk about why you think these couples matched. And Isla, maybe you could talk about why you chose the activities you did for them?”
“No problem,” I say. “I’m just so relieved things are working out for the most part.”
“Me too,” Rory says, sounding less stressed. “Will I see you at karaoke later?”
“I was planning on it,” I say.
“Will either of you guys be singing?” Rory asks.
“No,” I smile sweetly. “But I can’t wait to see who will.”
jackson
“Sometimes I wish Jackson would step back and look at the bigger picture. You can’t fix everything with logic. Nothing about falling in love makes sense. He makes me so crazy sometimes!”
~Isla Fairfax, Playing With Matches Confessionals
After I takemy turn in the confessional booth, I head straight to the pool bar. I’m relieved to see Alexis is working there, and for once, she’s alone. It seems like every other time I pass by, Owen is parked at the end of the bar on one of the stools. He’s been spending so much time there, the stool practically needs a plaque with his name on it.
“Can I talk to you for a minute?” I ask.
“Of course,” Alexis says, looking up curiously. She’s wearing a tight Peaches Resort tee that she knotted at the waist with a pair of board shorts. Her curly dark brown hair is piled on top of her head.
“How’s it going here for you?” I ask, glancing around to make sure nobody’s lurking. If I’m going to confide in her, I don’t want anyone else to be listening. I know I can trust Alexis, but at this point, I’m not sure if I can trust anyone else here. Even Isla. Especially Isla. Every time I’m around her, it’s like everything I think I know ends up in a blender. We start conversations, and I forget what I wanted to say. Every ball I’m determined to serve ends up rolling out of bounds, and the points I’m trying to make are suddenly pointless.
“It’s going okay, I guess,” Alexis sighs. “I’m in paradise, barely working for a few hours a day, so what have I got to complain about, right?” She smiles as she wipes down the bar.
“Yeah,” I agree, taking a seat. “Make any hot new friends here that you might want to talk about on the podcast?” I wink suggestively at her, trying to summon our usual show banter.
Alexis throws a bar rag at me. “Shut up, Jackson.”
“What?” I throw the rag back at her, defending myself. “Of everyone on the podcast, I’d have thought you’d be all over the whole vacation fling thing. You’re the one always telling everyone else that one-night stands are the way to go.”
“Well, talking about it on the podcast is one thing. Doing it in real life is another,” Alexis looks wounded. “I’d have thought you would have known that about me by now.”
I consider this for a moment. I’ve just always assumed that there’s some fact to the promiscuous act that Alexis brings to the show.
“So you’renotinto one-night stands?” I ask.
“No, Jackson. I have never had a one-night stand.” A shadow crosses her face. “At least, not intentionally.”
“Okay,” I drum my fingers on the bar, considering this. “That’s good to know. I guess I just thought….”
“It’s better for theLit Loverspodcast, right? You and me talking about how we’re just motivated by sex? It balances out Emily and Chelsea’s romanticism and primness - no offense to your sister.”
“None taken,” I glanced at her, smiling gently. But now I’m curious. I can’t believe I had to come to the Caribbean to learn something new about someone who has been in my close friend group for years. I do my best to reframe reality. “So you’re not into casual sex then? I mean, I thought we were on the same page about the whole romance thing. You aren’t going to tell me you’re actually into all that mushy magical BS now are you?”
Alexis fixes me with a look of disgust like I’ve just tried to pass off dog food as filet mignon.
“Enough with your bullshit, Jackson Porter. Everyone knows you’re the biggest romantic of us all. Out of everyone on theLit Loverspodcast,you’rethe sappiest one.”
“Come again?”
“You heard me. I said what I said. I think it’s time for an Alexis exclusive. ‘Truth bomb.’” Alexis pulls out a bottle of tequila and then scrabbles in a cabinet, pulling out a bottle of absinthe. She measures two shots of each into a shaker, shakes it with some ice, and then pours the vaguely green liquid into four tiny shot glasses.
“So what did you want to talk to me about?” She shoves one of the glasses at me.
I slam the shot, which is scandalously awful. The licorice edge of the absinthe doesn’t play nice with tequila at all. But it distracts me for a moment as it goes down. Much pleasanter once it gets past my tastebuds. It coats my eel-infested innards. I can’t get the image of Marco serenading Isla out of my head.
