I rent a chair under one of the hotel beach umbrellas and settle in to read a few eclipse articles. But I end up drifting off instead—probably thanks to the mai tai earlier, or the jet lag, or else the mental breakdown I’m fighting off.
When I wake up an hour or so later, the afternoon sun is glittering off the sea. Everything is cast in peachy-pink light. And there, head crowned in a halolike glow, is Jamie once again. I rub my eyes, convinced for a second that I’m still dreaming, but no.
His hair is wet again, this time with seawater, and his rash guard is plastered to his chest. He’s got a surfboard tucked under his arm—since when doesJamiesurf?—as he emerges from the sea like a Greek god and makes his way up the beach.
As in, straight toward me.
I slump down to hide my face but overestimate the width of the chair and end up sprawled in the sand.Dear lord.
For a moment, I seriously consider just staying here and “owning my space and my stance,” as Gwendolyn would say, but the thought of faking my way through another painfully awkward interaction with Jamie has me back on my knees,stuffing my sunscreen into my tote and jamming my straw hat onto my head.
When I make it up from the beach, I make a beeline for the lobby lounge, figuring Jamie’s headed toward the elevators at the opposite end of the atrium to return to his room and shower off. He looks good sandy, but I have clear memories of the fact that he does not like tostaysandy.
But I’m wrong.
I no sooner step inside the marbled foyer than I spot him passing through one of the many arched entrances. He’s bypassing the elevator bank and heading straight for the lobby bar. I don’t think, I just act. Seconds later, I’ve ducked behind the bar, crouching beside a pair of very practical sneakers.
Above me, the bartender, an early-thirties chick with olive skin and a shaved head, doesn’t even pause wiping down a highball glass. She just glances down at me and says, “Can I help you find something?”
“My dignity?”
Her lips quirk up in a smile, but she doesn’t say anything as she reaches for another glass to dry.
“I’m trying to avoid my ex-fiancé,” I explain, looking up at her. “He’s here with his new girlfriend.”
She pauses and cocks her head at me. “How did you and your ex end up at the same hotel?”
“Ominous lunar energy? Or maybe just simple bad luck?”
Her eyebrows (both pierced) shoot up, but the smile doesn’t leave her face. “I’m not sure I want you behind my bar if you’re trailing luck that bad.”
“I don’t blame you.” I pull at the ribbon on my hat. “Ipromise to leave and take my doomed vibes with me in a sec. I just can’t seem to find anywhere in this hotel where heisn’t.”
Just then a man’s Boston-accented voice comes over the bar. “Can I have a piña colada?”
“Of course.” The bartender starts making the drink, and then I hear the man’s voice again.
“How about you guys? Pat? Gary? Fellas? What can I get ya?” There’s a cacophony of responses, and I peer out from behind the bar to see a mass of middle-aged men in Hawaiian shirts and name tags. “Okay, yes. We’ll do three piñas, two mai tais, four lava flows, a hibiscus daiquiri, and three Coronas. With lime.”
From my spot on the floor, I can see the bartender’s stricken face. She’s trying to hide it—no doubt her managers having drilled into her that at an upscale place like Halia Falls, the customer is always right—but I can tell she’s a little overwhelmed by the large order. Seems like they only have one person on duty down here before five p.m., and these guys are ready to hit the afternoon like it’s Vegas.
Not even pausing to consider if Jamie might still be in the lobby, I whip off my straw hat and pop up from my hiding spot, startling a balding white guy in a guayabera who jerks back and nearly knocks over a barstool.
“All right, who had the Coronas?” A couple hands shoot up, and I quickly locate the mini fridge that contains the beers and start pulling out bottles. “Got an opener?” I say to the bartender. She looks at me dumbfounded but pulls a bottle opener from her apron and hands it to me. I pop off the caps and top each bottle with a wedge of lime from a container of fruit garnish in front of me, then start handing the beers off. Besideme, the bartender is mixing punch, piña coladas, and mai tais at record speed. I pass off each drink as it’s completed. “Oh, Gary, youwouldbe a daiquiri guy,” I say with a grin, handing the beverage to the man I’d heard that other guy call Gary. He’s short with small round spectacles and graying hair at his temples—and little-to-no hair on his crown—and he looks surprised, but pleased, that I somehow know his name.
“What makes you say that?” he asks.
“Because daiquiri guys are the most fun, obviously!”
The mood of the crowd brightens as I continue to hand out drinks, all with cocktail umbrellas and bright decorative flowers floating on top, making playful banter with each customer as I go. And then, in just a few minutes, everyone’s got their orders, the bartender is swiping a credit card, and the group is heading off.
When they’re gone, the woman leans her lower back against the bar and looks at me. “So much for bad luck.” She flings a white towel over her shoulder. “What are you, some kind of guardian angel?”
“No, but I worked for a wedding caterer one summer.” I pick my hat up off the floor. “Pure hell. Don’t know how you do it.”
The bartender grins. “I’m Dani, by the way.”
“Sybil.”
