1
ABBY
I should not be on my honeymoon alone. I should not be at the White Sands Resort in Cabo San Lucas, Mexico, on a random Tuesday in June by myself.
But I am.
“Hello, madam, welcome to White Sands Resort.”
A tall, bald man in a white shirt, black suit pants, and purple vest greets me as I step out of the airport shuttle, a silver tray stacked with rolled-up white cloths held on his arm as he offers me one clutched in a small pair of tongs.
He looks past me into the van, in which I arrived alone.
“Just you, ma’am?”
“Just me.”
Reminding myself that he didn’t mean anything by the question—he’s just doing his job—I dab my face with the cool cloth, which both distracts me from his comment and provides instant, if temporary, relief from the humidity as the driver drops my bags next to me.
Heaven.
It’s not just the cloth that’s heavenly; I’ve stepped one foot onto this resort, and already the otherworldliness has me rooted in place. It started on the drive—the long, landscaped drivewaywas overflowing with local plants and flowers, boasting of the extravagance that awaited me at the end.
I knew this place would be nice. My ex-fiancé chose it, and he had refined tastes.
I hand off my now-lukewarm cloth, and the gentleman who offered it to me ushers me to a podium off to my left at the top of a set of elegant, marble-looking stairs. Whether they are actually marble is beyond my skills of recognition, but god, they are fancy.
The lobby beyond where I’m standing is grandiose, an open cathedral of decadence with cushioned wicker couches and chairs for arriving and leaving travelers to rest and wait. Waiters in matching purple vests mill about, offering pre-prepared drinks to guests. Large ceiling fans swirl in lazy circles overhead, pushing just enough air around that it doesn’t feel stale in here.
It’s the most sumptuous place I’ve ever been, and this is just the lobby.
I feel out of place here, and not just because I’m supposed to be here with the man I was supposed to marry. The last time I went on a real vacation, I was in college, and my best friend Hazel and I were hostel-hopping around Europe. There was nothing luxurious about it, so luxury to this degree has me wondering if someone is going to stop me and ask if I belong here.
I’m asking myself that question.
“I swear to god, if you don’t go on this vacation, I will personally escort you to the airport and get you buckled into a plane seat,”Hazel had said to me while she helped me pack yesterday.“You need it.”
I shouldn’t have been packing so last-minute, but after the year I had teaching, especially the end of the year, it kept getting bumped down on my to-do list until I called Hazel panicking yesterday and begged her to help me pack.
And she’s right. I do need this vacation.
Even if this vacation was supposed to be my honeymoon.
“The name on the reservation, ma’am?” A tall, wiry man with a head full of black, curly hair and a bright white smile addresses me.
“Foster.” I swallow hard. It’s not my last name—it’s Todd’s, but I never got around to changing it on the reservation. When Todd left me, he said I could go on the trip as if he was offering me some kind of weird consolation prize for having my heart broken. I looked into cancelling, but the booking email reminded me this was non-refundable. Between that and Hazel’s insistence, I couldn’t say no.
At the very least, I’m hoping this trip will revive me for another year of teaching. Or…give me the space to figure out if teaching is really what I want to keep doing.
“Ah, yes, Mrs. Foster, I have you here in our system. It says you and Mr. Foster are here for ten days. Is Mr. Foster arriving today as well?”
It’s a polite way of asking why I’m alone, and my cheeks heat again, a distinct warmth from the oppressive temperature here in Cabo.
“Um, no, it’s actually just going to be me. And?—”
The maître d’ leans in, as if I’m not speaking loudly enough. I feel like I’m yelling.
“One more time, miss?”
