But… it was fun, actually. And they tasted good. We made so manybolinhos de bacalhau, they filled the freezer, and I took them as a snack for school the rest of the year.
It was one of those turning point moments in my life that I realized I didn’t care what the other kids thought of me. I was okay being a little different.
Somewhere under my ribs, it feels like the point of Pearl’s heel is grinding into me. But I’m used to that, aren’t I? I’m used to Logan being right there beside her, too.
More softly, as if she’s doing me a favor, she says, “Leave him alone, Rose. You aren’t friends. You aren’t anything. He’s notforyou. Understand?”
She doesn’t wait for an answer, she just turns and leaves, the door clicking shut behind her, and I sink down onto the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under me. I stare at the carpet.
He stayed with me out of obligation. Because he’s a doctor, and he thought I was injured. He would have done it for anyone—he said so himself. He also thinks I’m annoying, complain too much, and, apparently, that I smell bad. I sit with that for a moment, trying to internalize the embarrassment, hating that it’s so easy for me to feel this way.
I glance at the clock on the bedside table. It’s only 2PM. I have hours before the rehearsal dinner.
I look around the room, deciding I really don’t care how small it is. The bed looks inviting enough, and I’m transported back to three days ago, in my own bedroom, when I felt like hibernating was the only solution to my problem.
The difference is, this time, I’m thinking about a boy instead of the downfall of my professional life. I’m not sure if this is better or worse.
Not wanting to wallow, I get up and get dressed, throwing on a clean pair of leggings and an oversized t-shirt, making a mentalnote to find laundry services before the week is out, since I didn’t pack much.
I leave the room and find Marco at the front desk. He smiles when he sees me coming.
“Rosaria. How may I help you this afternoon?”
“Hey, I was just wondering if you could tell me what room Roger Vega is staying in? I lost my phone and haven’t been able to text him.”
“The bride and groom are in the honeymoon suite on the fourth floor, but I believe Mr. Vega is actually in the billiard room at the moment.” He’s already reaching under the counter for a small paper map, uncapping a pen. “Down this hall, past the greenhouse and the garden vista, past the indoor pool—then right at the elevators, and it’ll be on your left.” He marks the route as he speaks and slides the map across to me.
“Okay, great, thank you so much.”
“Of course, miss.”
Damn, their customer service is good. The map initially seems a little over the top, but the resort turns out to be enormous—a sprawling maze of corridors that keep opening into new spaces. Every hallway is lined with plants, and I keep getting distracted, pausing to marvel at a wall of succulents before remembering to check the map again.
Curious, I stop at the poolroom and push the door open an inch. A warm, surprisingly earthy scent rolls out. It’s like an indoor garden oasis, with an Olympic-length pool stretching along the back wall, framed by floor-to-ceiling glass, the ocean sitting just beyond it, a rolling, foggy storm whipping the waves, while we’re tucked safe inside amidst all this luxury. There’s a cedar sauna, a hot tub, an ice plunge. More plants. Dad’s assistant, Marnie, is in the hot tub with her head tipped back and a champagne flute balanced precariously in one hand, eyes closed. I let the door fall shut and keep walking.
I find the billiard room next. A little on the nose, it’s the darkest room on the property so far—forest green wallpaper, dark coffered ceilings, the smell of bourbon and cigar smoke already assaulting me at the door. The pool tables are gorgeous, royal blue felt stretched smooth. Every person in the room is a man. They stand in small clusters, bourbon glasses sweating in their hands, talking low, the occasional crack of a cue ball punctuating conversations.
I find Dad in the back corner, gesturing, deep in conversation with one of his old colleagues from Springfield General.
I wave hellos as I make my way toward him, and Dad’s face lights up when he sees me. He crosses past his friend Bill without a word, arms already open.
“Rosie, sweetheart, you made it!” He pulls me in, and he smells the same—cedar and citrus cologne. He releases me and holds me by my shoulders at arm’s length. It’s only been a couple of weeks since we last saw each other—at Johanna’s insistence—and we only spoke a few short days ago, but it still feels as if there’s distance between us. His salt and pepper hair is more salt these days, and while Dad was always fit, he looks thinner somehow. I can’t tell if I’m projecting, feeling sad about our distance, or if he really is starting to look his age.
“It was an adventure, for sure,” I say. He’s still smiling, but his hands drop from my shoulders, and we settle into the particular silence that lives between us now. His smile falters, and for a moment, we just stare at each other. Small talk is easier. Should I mention the hurricane again?
Then his eyes find my forehead, and his brows draw together. I should have just worn a sign on my t-shirt with an explanation, with the way everyone reacts when they see it.
“Sorry,” I say, moving my hand to cover my forehead. “I know it’s not going to look great in the pictures.”
“I don’t care about the pictures, sweetheart. What happened?”
“Oh, uh…” I hesitate, because I already told Pearl, and Pearl has a big mouth. “Did Logan mention there were plane troubles?”
“He did…” Dad’s thick gray brows draw together, deepening the lines on his face. He’s tan—really leaning into this vacation—at least, for the few days they were here before the storm started.
“Well—the plane went down. While we were on it. It was fine, really, more of a forced landing—“
“You were in a plane crash?” His voice booms, matching the crack of the pool cues. “And you didn’t tell me? Logan didn’t tell me? Are you alright?” His hands are already at my temples, tilting my face toward the light.
