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I stare at her in disbelief. And then, I sit back down. The flight has less than two hours remaining. My jeans have dried a little. I’m tired, but falling asleep is out of the question. If I’m lucky, she’ll sleep until we land and I can get off the plane without having to speak to her again.
2
Lilly
One Week Later
"You're such a fucking liar," I whisper to the face staring back at me from the mirrored glass of the bar. I force myself to hold my own gaze as I speak the only words that hold any truth for me.
I scan my reflection. Lit by the elegant chandeliers that litter the ceiling of the restaurant, I know the people looking at me see a beautiful woman. It’s not vanity. I hear it all the time. “Oh, your skin, your eyes, all that hair.” But I know it’s a façade. What lies beneath my appearance is ugly and ruined. When I look at myself, all I see is the fatigue, the fear, the loathing, etched into every single angle of my face.
Pretending is exhausting. Years of doing it has bankrupted me in every way that matters. I'm ready to move past it. I need to move past it, I want my life back. I've been running for five years. Running toward nothing. Running from everything.
I want to try and reconnect with myself again. I couldn’t do it in Miami, there were too many painful memories. And I couldn’t go home to my parents because I needed to do some of these things alone and I knew that once I told them everything, they wouldn’t give me the space I was going to need. I have some family here and they know me well enough to take me in, but not well enough to interfere in my personal life.
I almost ruined the trip before it started. I groan as I remember my drunken stupidity on the plane. I can’t believe I did that. I can’t believe he turned me down. I was mortified in a way that even my inebriation couldn’t dull. When we landed, I pretended to be asleep when everyone began to deplane and I waited as long as I could before I got off. I didn’t see him in customs or baggage claim and when I walked out of the arrivals section, I was swept away by the driver my aunt had sent for me before I could even think to look around.
It’s not that I haven’t had random hook ups. In fact, they’re the only kind I engage in - Random, anonymous, easy.
I’m usually much better at reading the men I pick up. All of those vodka sodas clouded my judgment. The conflict on his face when he stopped my hand…I groan at the memory.
This trip is meant to be a new beginning. No more of that kind of shit. I’ve already sworn off alcohol for the remainder of the trip.
Ghana, is where my mother was born and raised. But, I haven't been here since I was a teenager. And before that, our trips to Ghana were sporadic at best. But my cousin, Porsha and I have really hit it off. She’s a few years younger than me, but a lot of fun.
"If you're finished staring at yourself, madam, they told me on my way back from the loo that our table's finally ready," Porsha drawls sarcastically as she comes to stand behind me at the bar. I glance up at the mirror and when I see her beautiful, frowning reflection I can’t help but smile. She’s very impatient, and she’s been complaining about our wait since we arrived. “You keep smiling, I’m going to sit down,” she snaps over her shoulder as she walks in the direction of the main dining room.
I glance around the bar. Its white stucco walls are punctuated by large half-moon shaped holes that showcase the beautiful view the resort is famous for.
When I decided to spend a few weeks at the beach to escape Accra, Ghana’s bustling capital city, Porsha insisted that we stay in the house that had been in our family for years. The entire area has been experiencing long stretches of power outages for the last two days. So today, instead of sitting in the sweltering house, we came to the resort where the backup generators promised comfort. We spent the day enjoying the decadence of air conditioning and glasses of water full of ice.
After a leisurely afternoon swim, we’d run home to change and now we’re back for dinner. Porsha’s determined to hook up with one of the “rich” expatriates that make up most of the guest population at the hotel. I’m just looking forward to having a delicious meal and maybe a walk on the beach.
I look around the restaurant. It’s lushly furnished but otherwise very sparsely decorated. Large, dark stained wooden beams form a criss-cross pattern on the ceiling, and dozens of clear blown glass chandeliers dangle from the ceiling, lighting up the space, leaving just enough shadow to create a romantic ambience.
I look around the bar and out into the restaurant. The place is vibrating with the conversations of the patrons. Unlike most restaurants in the United States, no one here is bothered about whispering their conversations. Well, except for the couples that dot the room. They are all sitting close, heads together, fingers skimming faces, touching, tangling. Their hushed whispers and seductive chuckles, all painting the tableau of what lovers in paradise should look like. The people who are in larger groups are laughing raucously, hands animated as they trade stories and boasts.
My spirits lift, glad that I decided to come. The change of scenery will do me good. And having Porsha here will force me out of my room when all I want to do is be alone.
I pick up my unfinished lemonade, drop some currency notes on the bar as a tip and turn to leave. I look back at the bar to make sure I haven't left anything when a large, heavy body crashes into me, sending me flying backward. I land hard on my backside. My drink, clutched tightly in my hand, splashes up and soaks my hair and face.
My black maxi dress is covered in something wet and icy. I sit on the floor, momentarily frozen in disbelief as the cold liquid trails down my chest, my stomach, then my thighs and down my calves. It settles into the soles of my very expensive, leather ballet flats.
Without any warning, a huge, damp hand closes over my elbow and pulls me to my feet in one fast and effortless motion.
The glass that’s already dangling from my hand, slips and lands with a loud crack on the terra-cotta tiled floor, splintering into a thousand tiny shards. And spilling whatever remaining drink was in it, down the front of my skirt.
I’m horrified as I survey the mess and then my head whips to the left to look at the offending appendage still holding my arm and then up at the body it's attached to.
"What in the world is the matter with you?" I hiss. My glare travels up a very tanned, very well-muscled forearm, up a very defined bicep. It strains against the black cotton of his polo shirt and my eyes travel the rest of the way up his shoulders and then land on his face.
My stomach sinks and I flush hot all over as mortification and shock flood my senses.
“You,” I whisper, as I stare into the face of the man I’d just been thinking about. I look down at my wet dress and the empty glass in his hand.
“You did that on purpose.” I accuse.
“Lovely to see you, too. And, it was an accident," he clips out. Maybe it’s his British accent, but he doesn’t sound sorry at all. And the look in his eyes resembles something closer to disdain than contrition.
