“Actually, I’m going to back to Texas.”
“Pardon?” She blinks rapidly, like she’s struggling to process my words.
“I’m going to book the afternoon flight back to Houston. Departing tomorrow at 1:30.”
“Oh.”
More blinking.
And I can’t tell if my words are just so unexpected or if maybe she’s having some kind of seizure.
“You’re… you’re… leaving?”
“Yes.”
“But… your trip doesn’t end for another three nights. And your company pre-paid. And I don’t think we can authorize a refund. And—”
“I don’t need a refund. I just need to leave.”
I swear to God, this chick looks at me like she’s about to burst into tears.
“You’re leaving?” she repeats with the same devastated sincerity a wife might use it if her husband of forty years was chucking it all to attend clown school.
And I’m struck with the inexplicable urge to comfort her.
“Yes, it’s a…” I mentally flail around trying to think of a suitable excuse. “A family emergency.”
“Oh, I understand.” She visibly relaxes. “So it wasn’t something the resort it? Your stay here was fine.”
“Yes,” I say through clenched teeth, because I’m starting to think that word is cursed for me. “It was completely fine.”
“Then you’ll need transport for you and your boyfriend.”
“Actually, he’s not my—” I break off, suddenly unsure how to finish that sentence. That’s the problem, isn’t it? I don’t know how to describe Nick. He’s my friend. The guy I slept with. The guy who makes me laugh. The guy who rocked my world last night. The guy I don’t know a word for, but who wants to apply words to our relationship. But if words were so fucking important to him, then where is he now? “It’s complicated.”
“Complicated?”
“Yes. And the transportation will be just for me. He left already.”
She’s frowning now and looking a little worried. “He left?”
“Yes. He left. This morning.”
“He left this morning? From an island with only one boat? With only one way on and off? And he left this morning? When our one boat has been in dock all day?”
“Yes.” Again, I have to push the word through my clenched teeth. Is this what it feels like to be deposed?
“Am I going to end up being interviewed for a true crime documentary a year from now that’s investigating how you murdered your boyfriend and dumped his body into the sea overnight?”
“Oh my God. No. It’s nothing like that.”
“Then how could he have left my island? He could’ve just gotten in the water and swam away. He’s not a Navy SEAL.”
“Actually, he is a Navy SEAL. But he didn’t swim. At least I don’t think so. It’s like an hour to the next island by boat. I think he must’ve called his friend—”
Before I can get the word out, she says it for me. Muttering it like a curse.
“Jonah.”
