Still chewing on the sweet, fruity confection, I start with the bed, gathering all the petals into a small pile and sliding them right into the bedroom trash can.
Todd was not really the romantic gesture type. He bought me flowers on my birthday every year, and we went out to dinner on our anniversary. He would buy me really practical gifts at Christmas—socks or a kitchen appliance. The toaster I have is from our Christmas together.
Did he click the box that said “honeymoon add-on” when he booked this because he genuinely thought it would be romantic, or because he believed it was hisdutyas a husband to do something romantic?
On my hands and knees, picking up silk rose petals by the handful, I have to wonder how romantic this kind of gesture is. It’s a bit generic. I don’t even like roses all that much. I prefer daisies and snapdragons to roses, but I don’t know if Todd even knew that.
Now that I’m thinking about it, all the flowers he ever brought me were red roses.
I destroy another strawberry after clearing the rose petals from the room.
Some fiancé.
Once the room is spotless, I can practically feel my blood pressure dropping. The trash can full of discarded flowers is tucked away against a wall.
Better.
But I have time to kill before dinner and I want to stay in the air conditioning for a bit to avoid a migraine. My mind goes to the one place that has always helped me relax or escape.
My sketchbook.
I didn’t have time to buy a new one before the trip, so I dusted off an old one that had plenty of pages left and promised myself I’d spend at least fifteen minutes every day sketching or doodling.
I can’t remember a time in my life before teaching that I didn’t have a crayon, pencil, marker, or pen in hand. Even pictures of me as a kid show me coloring, drawing, or painting. And even though art class was my favorite, it wasn’t teaching I wanted to do; it was art.
It wasn’t until college that I pivoted and decided to teach.
I prop up my pillows for a comfortable spot to draw. During the school year, time is at a premium, so I was always squeezing in late-night sketching sessions and falling asleep seconds after my pencil connected to paper, but I’m awake now and I have time, and instead of falling asleep, as my pencil drags across the fresh sheet of paper, the world falls away.
I draw for so long that I lose track of time, and by the time I’ve got a half-sketched ocean—the view from my chair this morning—it’s been almost two hours and my mouth feels like sandpaper.
I check the time—nearly 6:00. I meant to get an earlier dinner so I could get to sleep early, but I’m an hour past when I wanted to leave.
I jump off my bed and rush around to get ready, but stop myself halfway through a frantic dive through the drawers. I’m on vacation. There’s no hurry and the whole point of this trip is to calm my nervous system, not to continue as I have been for months.
A half-hour later, I’ve got on my white and navy striped sundress, my hair is brushed back into a neat ponytail, and my e-reader is in hand, ready for my solo dinner. I can’t stop thinking about how good a margarita sounds, so I beeline for the Mexican restaurant. The reviews said this was the best restaurant at the resort. Might as well start with a bang.
It’s a beautiful, if humid, night out. The sun has started its descent and golden hour is near. The heat of the day is bleeding out of the resort, and I imagine the shaded areas might feel nice if the thick air didn’t make my skin so sticky.
The restaurant is easy enough to find, its terrace scattered with tables for outdoor seating, tea lights on the tables and string lights overhead setting a romantic mood. The view is generous as the restaurant overlooks the ocean. Behind the softly playing, themed music, it’s easy enough to hear the ocean waves kissing the sand. Once the sun starts to properly set, it will be an ideal spot to watch the sky change color.
Lovely as it is, I think I will opt for the air conditioning tonight.
“Abby?”
A familiar voice stops me in my tracks before I make it to the restaurant door. Seated on the half-filled terrace, a dark-haired, dark-eyed man I used to love is waving me down.
I guess this resort isn’t as big as I’d hoped it would be.
His table is right by the aisle, so I have no real excuse but to stop. There’s a waiter with him, so I figure I can just say hi real quick and then go.
“Hi, Miles.”
“Are you here for dinner?”
“I am, I’m just…” I point to the door and start moving again, but he stops me with a gentle touch. It’s just his hand on my arm. It’s just the bare skin of his hand on the bare skin of my arm. It’s just his skin branding mine, heat generating wherewe’re connected, like a small fire is going to start up and burn us both to ash. My own breath and the beat of my heart drown out the conversations happening nearby, the clank of silverware on dishware, the distant sound of the waves. All of it is so far away now.
I direct my gaze to where his hand is touching me and only half hear him say to the waiter, “…a frozen margarita for her.”
