“What brought you to Cabo San Lucas, Mrs. Foster?” Sam asks, walking closer to my pace than what is probably comfortable for his natural stride.
I wince at Todd’s last name.
“You can call me Abby,” I say, which feels like a compromise on correcting him. He gave me a nickname to call him too. “And, um…this is my honeymoon.”
Sam cocks an eyebrow at me. It’s not a rude look. Curious, if anything, although I have a feeling he wasn’t supposed to do that because he adjusts his expression pretty quickly.
“Congratulations are in order then,” he says.
“Sorry, I should have clarified,” I say. “It was booked as my honeymoon, but I didn’t get married. Decided to come on the trip anyway! Who needs men?” I laugh too loud and Sam gives me a polite chuckle.
Oh my god, that was so weird. That’s what I get for attempting dark humor.
We walk the rest of the way to the room in silence, and thankfully it’s not far. Sam stops in front of a large, white door with a room number displayed near the top: 1078.
Sam lets us into the room, gesturing for me to go first, then following me inside and maintaining a respectful distance. True to the maître d’s word, my luggage is already in here, waiting by a dresser.
My butler gives me his spiel: how I can contact him to arrange anything at all or ask any questions. He tells me he’ll text me the activities brochure every morning, and explains the room service box. If I order anything, it gets delivered from the outside to a small box that I can open from inside my room. No human contact required.
He leaves, wishing me a pleasant stay, and I imagine that Sam is going to march right up to his manager and ask to be reassigned because I am too awkward to deal with.
That’s probably not true. He probably deals with people worse than me all the time. Well, I won’t be weird anymore. I’ll be the perfect tourist from here out.
The room is as lavish as everything else I’ve seen here. Dark wood furniture throughout the room creates a stunning contrast with the white tile floor, the pristine white sheets on the king-sized bed, and the mountains of white, fluffy pillows. The walls are white, too, save for the classy, abstract artwork above the black fabric headboard.
Todd would have loved this. He always liked it when his job would put him up in really nice hotels when he had to travel for work. He would video call me and show me the room enthusiastically, pointing out the countertops, showing me how comfy the bed was, extolling the high linen count and the view from the window.
For a split second, my chest feels tight—guilt for taking what should have beenourtrip and making itmine, even if I did pay for half. I try to swallow the feeling away, but it lodges in my chest.
I slide back the curtains, the blue sky and pristine pathways of the resort greeting me. Palm trees shade the path, and if I squint, I think I can see a small sandy path that leads to the white sands after which the resort is named.
If guilt is the price I pay to hang out in paradise for the next ten days, I think I’m willing to pay it.
A half a day of traveling hits me all at once, but if I sit down now, I’ll just lie down, and if I lie down, I’ll fall asleep. I can’t have that when there’s an empty poolside chair calling my name. But I need to unpack first. I don’t want to live out of my suitcase for a week. Not on what is supposed to be a relaxing, distraction-free vacation.
I’ve barely unzipped my suitcase when my phone starts to ring. I assume it’s my parents calling to check in on me, butthe name on the screen is “Jenny – Principal,” and my stomach flutters in the bad, anxiety kind of way.
“Jenny?” I tuck my phone between my shoulder and my ear.
“Hi, Abby, how are you?”
“I’m…good, how are you?”
I rack my brain for all the reasons she might be calling me when we’re halfway through June, my heart racing.
“Good, good. Listen, I just arrived to the school for the art camp and I see the intern—Kath?—”
“Kayla,” I correct.
“Kayla, thank you. But I am not seeing…are you here?”
My heart crawls into my throat.
I told her I wouldn’t be there for art camp. I emailed. When I booked this trip initially, we had a conversation. I said Kayla, the student teacher who had been with me all fall and would be with me all spring, would lead the camp. I’d felt bad at first, but Kayla seemed so excited, and I can’t remember the last time I was that excited about summer art camp at the school. It had been years. If anything, I felt a little relieved that I didn’t have to do it this year, but now that Jenny is asking where I am, the guilt of my absence is pressing on my chest.
“I’m in Cabo, Jenny,” I say, my voice as small and apologetic as it can be.
“Oh.”
